


Feel the Future in Our Lungs

by EbonyKitty552



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alcohol Withdrawal, All the characters who went into Exile are a little messed up in the head, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Attempted Sexual Assault, Based on a Musical, Courting Rituals, Cousin Incest, Cunnilingus, Depression, Dysfunctional Family, Espionage, F/M, Falling In Love, Flower Language, Forced Prostitution, Hand Jobs, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Lots of unpleasant stuff happened in the past, Major Original Character(s), Marriage, Marriage Proposal, Marriage of Convenience, Mental Health Issues, Not LaCE compliant, Not quite a Fusion, Oral Sex, Original Character-centric, Redemption, Self-Harm, Seven Brides for Seven Brothers - Freeform, Strangers to Lovers, Suicidal Thoughts, Unrequited Love, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-08
Updated: 2019-05-30
Packaged: 2019-09-14 07:59:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 80
Words: 679,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16909188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EbonyKitty552/pseuds/EbonyKitty552
Summary: “It is time you finally married, my daughter.”Those dreaded words.It would be a lie if she said that she had hoped these words would never come.---Caught in undesirable circumstances, trapped into a marriage with one of her father's brown-nosing courtiers, Istelindë of Alqualondë has little choice but to accept her fate or take drastic measures to escape.Drastic measures meaning getting married.  To someone else.  Who happens to also be a Kinslayer.All she wanted out of this marriage was freedom.  She didn't expect it to result in love.  And she didn't expect it to come with six new siblings she can't help but want to see happy and content.  And married.  Some sisters and nieces and nephews would be nice.Marrying off six more Kinslayers, though... That's going to be a challenge.





	1. A Husband (Of My Own Choosing)

**Author's Note:**

> This is a wholly self-indulgent piece of fanfiction that I had to create because I am both addicted to the Silmarillion and because I watched Seven Brides for Seven Brothers too many times as a child. Not sure if anyone else has done this before for the Silmarillion, but, if so, I'm doing my own version. So, naturally, it's going to be a little OFC-centric (because, let's face it, Tolkien didn't give us very many options to choose from in terms of female characters) and a little Fëanorion-centric, and takes place in Valinor some time during the Second Age.
> 
> I'll add more tags as more story gets written, including more relationship tags as needed. Other than that, if you like it let me know. I've written up to Ch. 12, so I'll post more if anyone's interested.
> 
> Enjoy! ;)

“It is time you finally married, my daughter.”

Those dreaded words. Words that left Istelindë with the taste of bile and resentment bitter on the back of her tongue. Words that left her skin crawling with the chill of memories best left forgotten, that left a heaviness building in the pit of her belly, weighing her down beneath the heavy bell-toll of time running short, sinking and sinking down to rest beside her dainty slippers tucked up against the exquisitely tiled floor.

It would be a lie if she said that she had hoped these words would never come.

Her life of luxury was a long-distant dream, and the common world a nearer and dearer reality. At home, her hearth was warm, simple and stone and lacking the pearly opulence of her father’s mansions. The oven, well-used and well-loved, her altar upon which she learned the trade of baking the softest, lightest pastries and the richest honey-drizzled breads. The tapestries vibrant in color and hue layered her walls, the beloved work of her own two hands. Her hands now callused and experienced in the ways of a woman who polished her own floors and scrubbed her own laundry and tended her own garden.

A princess, some still called her, if mockingly behind her back. A princess who once would have married and allied two peoples. A princess who once had had a prince to give her happiness and the world. A princess whose _great love_ was tainted when that very man was painted red with the spilled blood of her people.

And now, sitting in the study of her father—the Crown Prince of her kingdom—Istelindë was faced with the future she had long since abandoned.

 _I do not wish to marry_ , she would have said, for the memory of the stares between her shoulder-blades. Some hot and filled with rage and blame. Some dark and churning with ugly pity and disappointment.

 _I have a life_ , she would have said, for she had turned her back on those awful eyes. The dulled and faded pearls and jewels of court no longer brought joy to her heart in the face of those sneering lips and incisive, disdaining eyes. At least outside, in the light of day, in the streets with the common folk, no one would look at her twice. No one would snarl. No one would _whisper._

_“That woman, she should have known he was rotten! How could she have loved such a monster, been so blind?”_

_“What a poor girl, to be betrayed thusly by her love!”_

_“If she had never been the lover of a Kinslayer, they would never have come seeking our aid in their folly…”_

Now her father’s eyes rested upon her, waiting, anticipating her acquiescence in his plans. His fingers tapped impatiently upon the papers scattered across his desk, manicured nails lingering upon one in particular, though she could not see the name scrawled upon its lower edge. But he fingered the corner, preparing to lift it up from the sea and bring it before her eyes on display. Was it a request for her hand? Or was it an acceptance of an offer already made behind her back?

“I did not think any man would take me as I am now,” she finally replied, cautious and refusing to outright accept. Fishing for information.

And she could _see_ the eagerness and relief behind those blue eyes, eyes so alike to hers, yet which filled her with the bubbling of half-stifled rage for their blindness to her plight. “I had feared,” her father began, “that you would be alone forever, my dear daughter, and it troubled my mind greatly to leave you alone without a husband to care for you and bring you bliss. Surely you could not be happy as you are, banished from my mansions! But if you were to marry a lord of my father’s court…”

There gaped open the golden maw of the pearlescent cage upon whose barbed bars she had been snagged. And it waited with hunger to suck her back into hell.

Istelindë forced herself not to cringe away.

“If that were to be so, we would welcome you back with open arms, my daughter! You could brush all that darkness in the past under the rug. And it would do my heart good to have more grandchildren running about my halls, to see you smiling again and content, safe in the keeping of a husband who can give you all the riches and pleasantries you deserve.”

On his face was that smile, so hopeful and delighted, as though he had given her the greatest of gifts. In his dreams, he must have pictured her draped as she had once been in pearls and the finest silks, her face shining as did her lustrous gown, a faceless man at her side and children galloping about her knees where she sat in the cushioned decadence of his sitting room sipping wine that could buy a family fresh food for a month and nibbling daintily upon pastries prepared by the most talented chefs in the royal family’s employ. He must have pictured her happy with that fate.

Once, maybe that vision had made her knees weak and her heart skip in its beats as she stared out her bedroom window and daydreamed with her eyes resting upon the white-foaming waves of the bay. Once, she danced about her chambers in her nightgown and sighed at the thought of the man whose name she knew but who she never had met, whose face must have been as gorgeous as that of even the handsomest man in her grandfather’s court for all the whispers of his beauty, that prince of Tirion upon Túna. Once, she had held her hands to her belly and blushed, imagining it swelled with child. Her _husband’s_ child. And then that flush would darken at even a whisper of what they would have had to do for her to become pregnant…

Once, but no more.

Istelindë’s body was no taller, but she stood now straighter. Her hair was no longer, but it was pulled back in a simple braid instead of threaded with copious strings of pearls. Her eyes were the same shade as her father’s, but darker, because the world had stained them with shattered illusions and broken dreams upon the stairway of her soul. And she had grown stronger.

Instead of the bubbling champagne-feeling of joy at those long-lost visions, they now only brought forth the sharp tang of ill-flavor that threatened to downturn her lips and wrinkle her nose. She kept her face dispassionate by sheer will before her father’s bright eyes.

“If I were to agree to your proposal…” _If, indeed, I ever had a choice but to say yes to my own father…_ “Who is this man you would have me marry?” 

She asked this softly instead of shouting at the skies, instead of throwing down her hands in a loud smack upon the desk with the tangled and twisted thorns of frustration digging into her lungs. And he no longer hid his grin behind sternly-pressed lips. Teeth gleamed out at her, white in the cool morning light from the window, and she shuddered at the wolf’s satisfied grin disguised thusly by gaiety just as its fangs sank into the flesh of its helpless prey.

His fingers caught on the edge of that paper, and he indeed pushed it forward across the surface of his desk so that it might shuffle to a halt with a soft sigh before her gaze. The handwriting was neat and faintly masculine with its sharper angles and fewer curls, filled with flowery words and other courtly frippery. But, as her eyes skimmed over its contents, she could sense the acceptance in the circuitous syntax, building to the climax of the correspondence. Wherein…

_…that I am honored and delighted to think that my sovereign holds me so highly in his esteem to offer one such as I the hand of his only daughter. Would that I would not disappoint either my Prince nor my dearest Lady. I am humbled and flustered even now as I think upon it, but to take the lovely Lady Istelindë as my wife would be beyond any dream I would ever have wished or dared to ask of my Prince…_

_What drivel_ , she almost said aloud. The urge to part her lips and spit out sarcastic words was nearly magnetic, but she somehow managed to stifle the longing. This man, he sounded so… so _Vanyarin_ , like a scholar or a poet or a courtly flirt. A flatterer of the most obsequious sort, to assure and play at his own _delight_ and _humbled spirit_ at such an offer from one such as her father, the Crown Prince. _What a joke._

Except there was nothing funny about it.

She did not even bother to read the name. It did not matter _who_ this man was. Only that he was marrying her as a favor to her father, to get into the good graces of the royal family.

And she could not even call him _stupid_ for it, because it was a smart political move. Her father made no move to hide his downcast gaze and mournful sighs at the _terrible fate_ of his daughter, not even from the court of Alqualondë, so it was only right that someone should eventually come along and relieve their beloved prince of the terrible burden of his worry over the awful situation of his favored (only) daughter. Whoever might manage to take away that sorrow, to erase not only the shame of her previous engagement away but also to bring back the façade of a perfect little world in which everyone was always happy and smiling and content with the prison of pearl and silver that was the lot of royalty, they would have her father deeply in their debt. In the favor of the Crown Prince was quite an advantageous place to be.

Thus far, the stain of her previous engagement curdled too many hearts and minds to allow any man to take that step and accept her hand in marriage. Obviously, the poisonous whispers of court dwindled, their noxious fumes slipping out through cracks in the windows, drawn away by the fleeing of their target into the world without.

The air would fill again with that choking haze upon her return. Those eyes would drill holes into her back, half-hidden behind vibrantly-feathered fans, the shadow of their glare deepened by the radiant pigmented color painted about long, dark lashes. Red-stained lips would part, and their forked tongues would wag behind the shield of powdered white hands, all disguised like the purest of snow but black with malicious intent. It would haunt her steps like a phantom, the words drifting on invisible winds to her ears, sharpened into tiny arrowheads to puncture her spirit. And she would deflate, crumble and fall apart.

Could she go back to that torture chamber? Could she wear a smile in the face of such cruelty? Could she bring _children_ into such a world, knowing that they would shoulder the taint of their mother’s shame?

Her stomach twisted so sharply she felt that she might be ill right then all over her father’s desk. At least it would have destroyed the awful piece of paper clutched between her fingers, rubbing against her calluses so wrongly. At least it would have destroyed the evidence that some man was finally willing to brave the verbal slaughter that would inevitably follow his marriage to the ostracized Princess of Alqualondë.

“Very well,” she finally said, setting the paper down again before she gave in to the tremble in her fingertips, the demand itching beneath her nails, that she tear the feeble bit of parchment into shreds. “If this is what my Prince wishes of me, how could I deny him?”

She clenched her hands at her side as her father released a bark of laughter and stood. Her nails bit sharply into her palms beneath the walls of her curled fingers, and it was only those prickles of pain that allowed her to stand without shrieking her rage. To allow his widespread arms to wrap about her shoulders and pull her until her head rested upon his chest and his chin tapped the crown of her head. To close her eyes and hold back the burning, stinging pain in her eyes as he squeezed her ribs and revived pale shadows of childhood dreams and laughter in the air. Before all this resentment. Before all this rage.

Before she became a mere pawn in the political game.

Before everything _else_ , this moment would have brought her to the heights of the sky, lifting her off her feet and carrying her into the golden light of happiness fulfilled. Towards bliss. Towards ecstasy.

Now, her heart weighed like lead in her chest. A fist squeezing until it felt as though it might be crushed. A seize in her lungs choking away all the sweet air.

She would not allow all that she worked so hard for to be snatched from betwixt her fingers. Not even by the man who once had cradled her so tenderly when she cried and spun her in circles in the air until she thought she could fly off into the blue. Not even to make the light never leave his eyes nor the smile never fade from his lips.

Istelindë survived her downfall once. And once was quite enough.

In her thoughts, she plotted. Even as she felt her father’s jubilant kiss upon her brow.

\---

Hours. Hours of kisses upon her cheeks, of hands grasping hers and clenching. Hours of voices exclaiming in false glee, raised in a toast of congratulations for her good fortune and blessings. Hours of her brothers saying “Finally!” and her mother proclaiming “Excitement fills my heart!” and her father’s cheerful “I am so proud!” and the rest of the brightly-colored and pearl-bedecked people of court watching on as if they were a particularly intriguing spectacle. Already, the secret passed from mouth to mouth, the eyes sliding surreptitiously over her plain gown and unadorned face and simply-braided hair, narrowed and judging and _mocking._

 _“What poor lord will be saddled with_ her _for a wife?”_

_“Could she not even be bothered to dress appropriately? Or, mayhap, she is so poor now that she owns not even a single acceptable gown?”_

_“Now she finally accepts a proposal for marriage, after all this time? Do you suppose her heartbreak has vanished? Or, perhaps, her coffers are finally emptied…”_

Let them say what they would.

At least their creativity improved. It seemed that their insults grew in leaps and bounds, speedily transcending from “dispossessed beggar” to “desperate gold-digger”. In all honestly, Istelindë felt not the same sting in her heart that would have been yielded at the curses of “Kinslayer’s whore” and “traitor to the people”. Those once-commonplace staples of her humiliation and destruction must have fallen out of fashion like each new shade of color that cycled through the yearly parade of court gowns and finery.

“Sister?” The voice of her brother pulled her away from the background noise of insults and rumors. “Are you not overjoyed? Finally, you will be married and back home!”

Home.

This place shadowed her heart and bludgeoned her mind. It was strung with poisoned traps to catch at unwary feet and needles sharper than the crags of Pelóri ready and waiting to stab at an unguarded heart. That such a place could be called _home_ was a mockery of the very warmth and safety of the word.

“Of course, I am overjoyed, indeed,” she crooned, pasting a smile on her sore lips. It _must_ have looked as painful as it felt, for it stretched her face wrongly and made her cheeks ache for the strain. Yet, her siblings and her father and her mother all seemed _blind_ to her pain. Like an invisible taint, a stain upon a tablecloth or a scuff upon a desk, a tiny flaw to be ignored. As though that would force it to disappear. As though that would erase it from reality.

 _This is their way._ To never look beyond. To never _see_ but that which they wished to see. To be satisfied with their fate. To cram her into a tiny box labeled “obedient daughter” and “joyous princess” and be done with her.

Like a toy. Like a _doll._

Longer did she put up with the awful words and smiles and hugs and kisses. Until her skin felt as glass about to shatter with the lightest brush of a finger. Until her spirit quivered in her mortal cage like a trapped animal, like a thrall whose hands were torn as they clawed at the lock. Until her lungs felt empty of breath, and yet her face reflected in the silvered finery of the house was not blue from the lack.

There had to be an answer. A way out of this tangled spider’s web of fate. A way to combat and to conquer this impending doom.

She sipped her tea and sighed in false delight and nodded along with her mother’s repeated exclamations. But, in her mind, she wildly pondered a ruined reputation, a true banishment from court. Openly consorting with a man, and the social consequences. The way her mother’s face would cringe back, soft lines bending into horrified shock. The way her father’s mouth would sharpen with deep lines of rage and disgust. The way her brothers would look away, eyes averted in shame, where now they stared with grins and bright eyes.

Then she allowed her brother to wrap an arm around her shoulder and hug her close, a welcoming gesture to reel her in with a false sense of acceptance. And she grinned up at him as though she were still that young girl filled with excitement at the prospect of marriage. Her heart throbbed for, in her mind, she knew that such ruin as she contemplated would steal away even her distant home. The market where the people never stared and whispered. The friendly faces at the bakery when she popped in for a snack. The affectionate smiles she shared with the vendors and the buyers alike, nameless comrades she passed by on the streets who smiled out of kindness for no reason other than to be kind to a lonely stranger.

Was there a way to keep her freedom and escape still this cage of unwanted marriage? 

This thought she had as if in a dream while outside she bathed in the approval of her family’s silvered laughs and expensive wines. Her mother’s fingers curled through her own, and she saw tears upon pale lashes, and Istelindë knew that that crazy path she contemplated would leave her alone, utterly in ruin. The public backlash would extend past the court and out into the nameless crowd, and all would know of the ruined princess’s lurid affair and snub her lest her taint spread like a black stain upon the whiteness of their morality. 

Could she live with that fate? Did she have any other option?

She closed her eyes and breathed through her mother’s tight embrace and soft sobs of joy (“My daughter, finally married!”), but she could feel the golden collar around her throat heavier than ever. Choking, tugging, leaving her feeling sick to her stomach.

_What am I supposed to do now?_

Eventually, she was freed from her family’s unwanted congratulations and well-wishes, allowed to escape the confines of her father’s mansions back to the comfort and safety of the simpler world. Fresh air burned through her strained lungs, the whispers of Manwë’s breeze soothing her sore cheeks, the rustle of leaves above her head a less judgmental audience to her unadorned gown and unpainted lips. She took to the path with her shoulders stooped more than when she’d tread it on her way to the unknown of her father’s study, and it seemed that the world wrapped her in the softly quiet comfort of its embrace, a barrier to hold back the frigid danger of that which she left behind.

Her feet carried her home.

Home to her cottage. To the bread in the window, cooled now and awaiting its creator for slicing and eating. To the half-finished tapestry draped over her chair, pale as moonlight with a motif of unstained swans on the water. To the hearth fire which she now lit in the face of encroaching evening’s chill, and its flames lapped at her palms like the tongues of faithful hounds happy to see their mistress.

Her feet carried her to her bed. And she fell upon her hand-sewn quilt upon her mattress far less luxurious than the down-beds of her childhood. Carelessly, she pulled her hair loose from its braids and let it spread like white silk over the rougher, warmer fabrics, trailing down in a pale tail towards the floor.

_What to do… What to do…_

She doubted that she could persuade her suitor to break their engagement. No matter how disgusting she made herself appear, no matter how uncultured and uncouth, she already was the lowest of the low of court. The former purported lover of a Kinslayer. The only way she could sink lower was to be _caught_ with a man who was not her husband-to-be. 

As she spread her fingers out across her quilt, she imagined what it might be like, to spread them out across the warm flesh of a lover. To allow some other nameless, faceless man she knew not to undress her and touch her bare skin and take her in the fashion of a man and his wife.

Her fingers crept upon her gown, pulling at the laces and ties, tugging it down to leave behind her white skin. It was naked it the open flame, glistening with a red and golden glow, like the setting sun upon the white shore. And the hand that was her own was now _his_ , trailing up the outside of her thighs, dipping into the curve of her waist, climbing upwards to cup the swell of her breasts.

And she shuddered. No passion ignited in her core, not even when she delicately traced about a nipple or trailed a hand down the swan-arch of her own throat. It was a loveless gesture, empty of promise other than lust, and her imagined lover’s eyes were lit with the hunger for gain and little else. The touch of his lips burned upon her neck, his breath scalding against her cheek, and his touch too hard upon her soft skin where he grasped out of need for her body and not out of longing for her spirit.

Without even trying further, Istelindë sat herself upon her bed and banished those fantasies before the chill of discomfort could overwhelm even the warmth of the hearth-fire’s merry dance. With her beauty, she could lure a man to her bed. But without his love, she doubted she could stomach the act of their bodies joining.

To even think of allowing him to touch her intimately brought her hand up to her mouth, cupping over it as if to hold in the sudden surge of bile.

Sure as the rise of the sun in the east, getting caught mid-act with a man would get her banished from court for good. And probably the city as well. But, if even the _thought_ of a man’s hands on her naked form left her in such a state of shuddering disgust, how could she ever hope to go through with her plan?

The other obvious option was worse still.

Suddenly overcome with nervousness, she got to her feet and paced before the fire, her toes biting into the soft rug laid before its warmth to drive off the chill of the bare floor. But she would almost rather roll about upon the ice-cold wood than contemplate the next thought that wiggled its way between the cracks of her mind.

Marriage.

A married woman could not be married again.

A merry fisherman or market vendor or craftsman of ships, some man of common background and trade. A man who would smile at hand-baked bread and pastries, who would groan with pleasure before a tended hearth, who would be all too happy to give his wife leave to bake and clean and launder to her heart’s content. Such a man, with a rosy-cheeked face and a laugh like a wave thundering up the shore, would not try to put her into a cage. Would not lock her up in his expectations of a painted, empty-headed ninny nor frown upon her plain and practical day-dresses nor sit aside whilst others slandered her mercilessly, words as knives pointed with bellicosity at her unprotected back.

A little boy born with her husband’s merry disposition, grown up to learn his father’s craft or perhaps another entirely. Or a little girl, eager to play and dance in the waves, maybe one day married, yes, but to a man she loved with all her heart. And Istelindë would sit on a simple chair in her simple cottage, and there she would revel in the tinkling of laughter in the air and her husband’s warm hand upon her shoulder and the prancing of children about her knees.

And their happiness would be as the sun. As genuine and open. As pure.

Yet, even as her heart began to feel that light and flutter with secret anticipation, she felt doubt call, and her feet slipped from beneath her. Carelessly, she sprawled upon her bed and resisted the urge to weep as that light feeling was snatched away by harsh truth.

_No man of Alqualondë will marry me against my father’s wishes._

It could lead to nothing good, such contention. All common folk were subservient to her family. With a mere glance of her father’s hard eyes and displeased, disapproving words from his parted lips, any man would be pushed away as by a gale off the sea. The word of the Crown Prince was, in regards to her marriage, law.

 _Then, a man_ not _of the Teleri…_

That road, her feet tread once. Old visions of a handsome face hard as stone, a pale visage with dark hair, a deep-elf carved from the earth. Of the Noldor.

Demons, drenched in the blood of the innocent. Their star-bright eyes sliced through the night, cutting through the dark, slaying helpless mariners and stealing away their ships. Monsters and traitors and murderers in the cold blood with long, flame-red blades, hunting in the blackness behind every corner. The faceless man to whom once she’d been engaged, morphed into an incomprehensible beast thirsty for blood and vengeance and cruelty.

His name whispered through her thoughts.

_Nelyafinwë Fëanárion._

But then she sat up straight with a soft cry. The thought was so perfect and so daring! How could she not have contemplated it yet before?

_Rekindle your legendary “love” with the exiled Prince of Tirion._

A prince was still a prince. She imagined her once-fiancé as an uncompromising man, tall of stature and glorious of face, but as cold and unmoved and terrible as any deep-elf of legend. At her back, he would be a pillar of strength, an unyielding wall upon which her father’s displeasure and disapproval could crash as wrathful waves helplessly crash up against a cliff’s mighty, unmovable face and disperse with a quiet whimper. Even the open disapproval of the King of the Noldor, the husband of her aunt, was unlikely to sway a man who had once slaughtered an entire city in a fight over a glowing rock.

And a marriage did not necessarily mean binding of their souls. If they were in mutual agreement, perhaps she could negotiate a marriage of convenience. The exiled prince needed not an heir, so there would be no need for children of their union. And Istelindë felt no need to deny him the right to find relief where he might if he would allow the same in return, should she ever wish. Truly, she would not mind if she never saw him at all, so long as they were married in name alone it would serve her purposes.

And no one would question their union. Once, every joyous whisper throughout the land spoke of the Prince of Tirion and the Princess of Alqualondë, of their whirlwind romance and their unbreakable passion bringing together two peoples. None would think it so strange—in fact, some might find it _expected_ —that they come back together after being ripped apart so grievously by circumstance and sin. For, if he had truly held her heart and she his in return, would their sins have been enough to keep them apart? Would even something so heinous as the Kinslayings, those distantly imagined ballads of horror that swept like a cold wind through the peace of Valinor, prevent her from taking him back and healing his broken spirit?

Such tripe would spread like wildfire through the courts and the common people.

_This… It just might work._

But only if _he_ agreed.

Biting her lip, Istelindë pushed herself up from her bed. Still naked, warm with the glow of her hearth, she went about gathering all she would need. A quill and ink. Parchment of the softest make, saved for the best occasions. Wax for the seal that she kept hidden away and never used, the signet of her house and of her birth.

She sat upon a chair at her modest table and laid her treasures down. Taking the quill between her fingers, she tested its point. And then she nibbled it between her teeth.

_What to write…_

\---

Weeks later, a russet-haired man descended from the mountains, wearing a sharp scowl on his once-handsome face. He ignored the wide-eyed stares that followed him everywhere he went and instead steered his cart and his cargo through the streets with an exasperated sigh. Furs were laden upon the back, the trophies of many a successful hunt, and items of carven bone waiting to be set with a blade or bristle. There were fine skins, waiting to go to the tanner, and there was plenty of jewelry and other jewel-encrusted items of fine make to be distributed, though eyes often skimmed over their beauty as if in shame and hesitated to purchase. Still, there was always some woman of court willing to risk the whispers of a curse in order to wear a necklace made so delicate and lovely by the hands of the progeny of the greatest craftsman there had ever been within song or without.

He came upon the market street, the hustle and bustle barely dimming at his presence despite the wide berth he was given by the people and their nervous hands and their averted eyes. Though the greeting was far from warm, the tanner looked up and saw the approaching cart, inclining his dark head with expectation. And all would have gone as it always did were it not for the messenger who stepped between them.

“My Prince,” the man said, and his voice was strained. Nelyafinwë nearly smirked at the agony in that voice, at the struggle between disgust and appropriate reverence for his title. Better to feel amusement than wallow in pain at the scorn.

Halting, he leaned over the messenger, watching with keen eyes as the other male fidgeted with discomfort at carrying the full weight of his attention. “What is it?”

He was handed a letter for his troubles.

 _Probably a missive from the King._

Nelyafinwë nearly rolled his eyes, for the words of his half-uncle Arafinwë were ever sweet upon the tongue and tasted bitter upon the back of the throat. Begging he and his brothers to return to Tirion, to repent and reintegrate back into the broken family. Pleading that they put their dark past behind and be open to the second chance at joy in the haven of Valinórë. False platitudes, they were, because the hatred half-hidden in darkened eyes ever lingered in defiance of supposed forgiveness. The heads of his family ever turned away at his sight, eyes never able to meet the fire and ash of his gaze, and he scoffed at their weakness and ground his teeth in the face of their lies.

What his King could possibly want now, he could not guess. But he supposed it would be more of the same. He would hand it back unopened.

Except the name—his name—written upon the envelope was _not_ in his half-uncle’s hand. Moreover, the parchment had not the same heavy feel nor the same creamy cast. And it smelled faintly feminine, as though the natural perfume of the writer still lingered upon the pages therein. Put-off, he tried to remember if he had ever seen the Queen’s writing, if this looping, curling script was of her hand. If the seal in bold red wax was her personal seal.

What _she_ might want, he could not even _begin_ to guess.

There was no sense in leaving it unopened. If he needed to reply, he would have to do it whilst in the city or risk waiting another handful of months before he next descended from the mountain passes. As much as he wanted to snub her (the presumed author), the unusual circumstances of this correspondence had him too intrigued to _not_ at least stick his nose in and see what it was that she wanted from him in any case.

His fingers slipped down to his boot, and he saw the messenger flinch sharply when a knife was pulled forth and used to efficiently slice open the letter. As efficiently, he was certain the other male imagined, as it might be used to slit open throats and bleed them dry. But, unfortunately, he had to put the implement aside if he wanted to pluck the letter from its enfolding (such was the bane of being one-handed), and he slipped the knife away. Carefully, he pinched the letter within between his nails and pulled it forth, setting it out upon his knee so that he might unfold its pages.

It was addressed to _“The Noble Prince of Tirion, Nelyafinwë Fëanárion”_ , which was the first clue that something was not right. Nelyafinwë could not help the tiny frown that downturned the corners of his lips. His uncle ever addressed him with feigned fondness as “dear nephew”, and he could not imagine his aunt lowering herself to refer to him with a title that rightfully belonged with her eldest son.

Short it was also. Less than a full page where his uncle always blathered on in that heavily adorned Vanyarin prose. Unusual. And his gaze slid down to the bottom of the text, focusing in on the curling signature with suspicion.

And he found his thoughts derailed. For it read a name that he had not heard since before the Darkening of Valinórë in long distant, half-remembered days.

_Istelindë of Alqualondë._


	2. The Unexpected Proposal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The last thing Nelyafinwë expects is a marriage proposal. Especially from _her_. Now, the question is, what to do about it...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: purposefully misleading letter-writing, flirting, mentions of sex, scheming

_What in the name of the Valar could a Princess of Alqualondë possibly want with_ me?

Staring at the letter pressed flat beneath the broadness of his palm, Nelyafinwë wondered if he should even bother reading her words or if he should simply toss the letter aside. Well could he imagine what scorn and bitterness might be within this short message, what rage she might want to pound with upon the doors of his mind and what hurt she might want to inflict upon his spirit in return for her suffering and that of her people. For what else could she want but to lay blame where blame was due and take her vengeance in even the smallest, pettiest ways that a woman might in these peaceful lands?

Yet, the shadow of doubt and shame lingered over his thoughts, prevented his hands from rejecting her letter and thrusting it aside. Had he been punished _enough?_

Suffered, he had, a thousand-fold times more than any slaughtered mariner of Alqualondë ever had (for their deaths were short and swift), and his people beside him beneath the heavy and cruel hand of the Doom and Exile. His skin had been whipped off his bones. His body hung from a cliff for two decades and cut down at the cost of his hand and his dignity. He had seen his men slaughtered, their corpses a mountain upon his shoulders. He had seen his brothers fall, their dead eyes piercing holes through his soul.

But would it _ever be enough?_

Would her curses soothe the ache of guilt? Would her accusations ring like bells of salvation in his ears? Would this release— _her_ release of fury and grief—in turn release _him?_

Did it matter?

Nelyafinwë waved the messenger away. Carefully, he folded the letter without reading it and tucked it into his tunic. For all the suffering his family caused, for all the blood they had spilled upon the docks in the haven of Alqualondë, for all the lives they had ruined when they had instigated the rape of the swan-ships, the very _least_ he could manage was _reading a letter._

But not now.

Without another word, he went about his business.

\---

It would be later, hidden away in a room in an inn, that he dared take out the slightly-crumpled pages once more. Sitting upon the bed, he spread the letter out upon the worn sheets and smoothed it of its creases and wrinkles with an open palm. In the flickering candlelight, he picked out the words of her elegant script, pausing to digest the faint differences in dialect.

And he felt himself still when their meaning connected.

\---  
_To the Noble Prince of Tirion, Nelyafinwë Fëanárion,_

_I doubt that you have thought of me at all. Maybe you remember not even my name, for it has been so long since it mattered. Still, I would have your attention, if for only this short while._

_This is not a letter written for the sake of laying blame or accusation. What you have done is undeniable and, to many, irredeemable. While the suffering of my people strikes me in my heart as it would any woman of the royal house, it is not a blow such that I still feel hatred at your mention (though your name is never spoken here), and I feel little need to fill pages with diatribe ruing your evil deeds or whatever melodramatic drivel you may have expected. Instead, I have a proposition._

_I would not presume to say this so blatantly, to assume that one might play to your guilt when I cannot guess whether you possess a heart capable of such an emotion at all, but I have little other option than that. It might not have been a heart-rending blow or betrayal of a great love, but the Kinslaying at Alqualondë was a betrayal to the alliance of our families it was nevertheless, and a betrayal to the engagement between us. If you have any honor left, you know you are in my debt for this slight._

_In repayment, I ask a favor._

_My demand is this: that you would take my hand in marriage. A marriage of convenience, one without consummation except at the consent of both parties, but nevertheless one that is legally binding. We might negotiate conditions properly face-to-face, but I would have a reply as soon as you can answer._

_Cordially,_  
Istelindë of Alqualondë  
\---

This strange thing was a _marriage proposal._ Albeit, one disguised under coercion, but a marriage proposal nonetheless. This crazy woman, this princess who had once been slated to become his wife and the future Queen of the Noldor, was attempting to corral him into a marriage of convenience no different than the one they would have had all those years ago.

Shock was not something Nelyafinwë still felt often. Nothing could shock him anymore! He had lived through raising six younger brothers. He had survived two decades in the tender care of Angamando. He had instigated five hundred years of war! May the Valar weep, but there was nothing in this world he had not seen, nothing that he had not heard! Insults, insinuations, torture, assault, murder, insanity—he had seen and experienced it all! 

Yet, he felt his face grow pale, a wave of dizzy coldness dripping down his back with his blanch. Upon the parchment, his fingertips trembled faintly, tracing over and over that damnable line: _My demand is this: that you would take my hand in marriage._ And, still, those curling black lines, that feminine and yet bold script, both made sense and made no sense at all. To his eyes, the words read again and again, and yet…

Why? Why would she want such a thing?

Was this a cruel joke?

The Fëanárioni, shadows in the night, the stories parents used to trick and beguile their children into good behavior and early bedtimes, the infamous murderers whose clothes and hands dripped in the blood of thousands, they were held in approximately the same esteem as the Dark Lord. Lower even! For they were traitors of kin unto kin, and Nelyafinwë the Prince of Traitors amongst them! No one would _ever_ even _consider…_

Raising a hand, he cupped his chin in thought. The first instinct screamed to write a resounding “no” to this strange and pretentious demand. The touch of Nelyafinwë’s fingers brought low armies, tainted cities, destroyed lives! His sword had cleaved through thousands of skulls and spilled entrails over his skin just as many times. The sludge of his broken and tormented spirit was so beyond help or purification that he could not even _imagine_ inflicting its joining upon some pampered creature of the Blessed Realm!

This woman, she knew not what she asked for!

Yet, the old Nelyafinwë stirred. The curious scholar, the young politician. The Nelyafinwë who delighted in the doings of court in the days of old, whose silver tongue was renowned for its sharpness and sleekness, whose truest love was in the intrigue and the drama spurned into a hurricane by his insidious words, felt that damned tickle of _curiosity._ The gift of his father—one of the very few characteristics of his sire he had inherited—writhed beneath his breast, eager to solve this strange, misbegotten puzzle. The darkened part of his mind hissed and snarled.

_Give her what she naively and unknowingly requests. Release yourself upon her and see if she runs screaming._

It might even, whispered that treacherous part of his spirit, be _fun._

Though he saw this plot ending in a thousand different tangles of ruin, with himself and a useless, simpering maiden locked in eternal matrimony or with said maiden taking one look at his scarred flesh and his knobby, handless wrist and fleeing in revulsion, he still went against his better judgment and fetched parchment from his pack. It was not the fine white stuff that she had written upon, and his handwriting would never be that same graceful, loping sway that it had been so long ago before the Darkening, but he nevertheless set his quill to paper and wrote:

\---  
_To my dearest Princess,_

_I hope you know what you are getting yourself into with such brazen demands. You may yet have your wishes granted._

_Meet me in Tirion upon Túna an hour after sunrise on the second day after next. I will be at the inn on the market street. A gentleman would have offered to come to you, but I doubt my face would be welcome upon the streets of Alqualondë. I await your visit eagerly._

_Your faithful Prince,_  
Nelyafinwë Fëanárion  
\---

Carelessly, he folded the note into quarters. No need to bother with an envelope for such a tiny thing, and he almost _hoped_ that the messenger might snoop. What lovely gossip it would be, that the feared eldest son of Fëanáro was making courting gestures (maybe even intimate gestures) towards his former love.  


Smirking in anticipation, the prince rose to his feet. His brief stay would, at the very least, not be as boring as he had feared.

Now, to find some wax to seal the deal…

\---

It sounded illicit. Like a liaison. Like an _affair._

Cheeks pink, Istelindë held the note swiftly and carelessly penned, delivered by a messenger from Tirion whose eyes were slightly wide and stricken. The handwriting was not that of a prince, but slightly jagged and hurried, nor was the parchment of the highest quality and make as one might have expected. After waiting more than a fortnight in despair of hearing back at all, this tiny thing was her answer.

It was exactly what she had been hoping for. And yet…

To an outsider, the words could be interpreted as provocative. Meeting at an inn, alone and unchaperoned like a pair of lovers sneaking about beneath the noses of the court. This note contained no mention at all of marriage and, indeed, without having read the original note penned in her own hand, the words _“You may yet have your wishes granted”_ sounded as though… as though she might have suggested meeting him to…

Her cheeks were red now. Bright, rosy red. And, traitorously, her nipples perked up with the shiver that ran down her spine, tenderly rubbing against the thin fabric of her nightdress.

And _“I await your visit eagerly”_ sounded… Out of context, it sounded like something a man might say to… to indicate to his lover that he…

Swallowing, she forced herself to define those fragmented thoughts into a coherent idea. To acknowledge that, to an outsider who would assume the worst of their secretive correspondence, such words sounded very much like he implied that he was fantasizing about and even anticipating a sexual encounter between them.

She sat down on her bed feeling a bit faint. There was simply no possibility that these words, these lines, were innocuous. Prince Nelyafinwë, a man to whom she had once been engaged, a man she had never even _seen_ face-to-face, was openly and somewhat outrageously flirting with her. This could easily be a love letter to outside eyes without context. An almost blatant display of desire. Should _anyone_ have read this between his writing it and her reading it, they would most certainly suspect not only that the pair were intimately involved, but that their affair was perhaps even established. Or, at the very least, their correspondence. It was just so _familiar!_

More than anything else, though, this solidified one suspicion she had had already.

Nelyafinwë Fëanárion was a dangerous man.

What were the chances that the messenger had taken a peek at the unsealed message of a Kinslayer to a lady of the Telerin court? Quite high, indeed! And what were the chances that that messenger would _not_ speak to another of what illicit words he had seen? Practically nonexistent! That two-faced Fëanárion had done this _purposefully!_

Was it a vengeful act? Was this a ploy to ruin her in exchange for her threat?

Or was he going to accept her proposal?

Either way, this was it. If it was the former, her ruin was inevitable. An engaged lady out and about consorting with a murderer of her own kin, it would be the talk of Valinórë for a decade to come! Were this to get out and she was _not_ taken as the Kinslayer’s wife, her honor as a woman would be tarnished by just the _implication_ that they had met to have sexual relations together in secret. And, if it was the later…

Well, if it was the latter, this would play to her advantage. It would look like her father’s proposition of marriage was impinging upon a previous affair. It would seem, to an outsider, as though it catalyzed rash action and swift marriage to her lover. The speculation would abound. When had she forgiven his sins? How long had they been consorting together? Had they been secretly involved since before her impending marriage? Longer even—since his rebirth?

 _“Did love for that monster ever truly leave her heart?”_ they would say. _“All this time, was she harboring affection for this traitorous Kinslayer?”_

In any case, there was no going back.

On the day after the morrow, she would need to be in Tirion just after sunrise, scouring market street for the inn. It was too late to depart tonight, and too late to send a reply and expect it to reach the hands of her accomplice before _she_ did. With a sigh, she folded up the note and placed it under her pillow.

Her hands tangled in waves of pale hair and slipped it over her shoulder, coursing through the locks again and again in lenitive rhythm. All the while, her eyes were distant, watching the flicker and dance of dying embers against the walls and curtains and tessellated tapestries. An odd restlessness was in her limbs, a jitter that she could scarcely ignore, and an electrified current coursed through the outer layers of her skin.

The shift of the sheets upon her bare calves felt like caressing hands. The brush of cool palms left her body covered in gooseflesh.

(And, secretly, shamefully, a bit wet between her thighs.)

\---

Istelindë rose long before the dawn. Very little sleep had come to her that night, but her fatigue was overshadowed by nerves. Little creepy-crawly creatures wriggled beneath her skin, buzzing in her ears and leaving her heart throbbing up somewhere about her throat. Her dreams still spun before her eyes, a mixture of shouting voices and unintelligible words churning together into a cacophony of noise.

In the midst of it all, silver-white eyes. And broad hands upon her skin.

There was no time to spend washing away the sweat that lingered in a film upon her body when she finally lurched out of bed. Outside, the night was still, and the night-creatures almost oddly silent to her ears, as though the world held its breath in anticipation of the explosion of activity that would come with the light of dawn. If her suspicions were correct, she had not long to depart without her way being barred or even shut, for the rumors would spread quickly if word of mouth had reached even the lowliest messenger or herald of her father’s court. She could see it behind her eyes when they lingered shut, the scurrying about of the maids, hissing soft words behind their cupped hands to the manservants. The very _moment_ her father arose from his bed and went to his dressing room, a servant would be waiting with the juicy gossip.

By that time, Istelindë would already be on the road. Within just a few minutes, she had sated her hunger with a half-loaf of bread and gulped down a toasty draught of wine. Once more was her raiment simple, easy to move about in for her travels, and she cloaked herself in deep blue. Little else did she bring with, save changes of clothing and snacks for the road. The journey from Alqualondë to Tirion was not so long, after all, that it would take more than a few hours even on foot.

With any luck, her weary feet would touch the gold-paved streets of Tirion upon Túna before high noon.

With her pack, draped in her cloak, donned of her traveling shoes, she pushed open her door. Glancing back, she saw her hearth with nary an ember to its name. Her oven untouched and her curtains still drawn. Her unfinished tapestry draped in the corner, neglected. The very sight she came home to each day.

Until that very moment, she had not thought it, but… this might be the very last time she gazed upon this sight, at least for a long while. Were Nelyafinwë to agree to her proposal, she would demand to be wed as soon as feasible, and _he_ could not come _here_ to live. In fact, his abode was a mystery altogether, and some would have speculated that he lived in a cave like a barbarian or an animal for all his bloodthirsty nature. Still, wherever he aboded, she would follow him as his wife.

With one last long look, she pulled shut the door. And then tugged it closed with a huff of air for good measure. One day, she might be back. Until then, she needed only freedom to tide her over. A new home she could build again.

The street, at least, was quiet and empty. No eyes yet out and about to watch for her passing form in the early morning, to report back her fleeing into the night to her father before he came knocking on her door. Dawn was not even close, barely a faint glow to the east over the still-dark and endless bay stretching out into the sea. With near-silent steps, Istelindë fled down the stairs to the street below, pulling the hood of her cloak up over her head. Still, nothing stirred except the twittering birds of early morning, and they, at least, were less likely to whisper about her behind her back.

Yet then she turned away from the faint gray light rising upon the crest of the sea. Instead, she looked away towards the gaping vale in the mountains, Valacirya, and the far-distant silvered and golden glimmer of lights upon the hill resting at that lowest spot in the crest of the Pelóri overlooking the vast bay beyond to the east and the vast plains and forests of Valinórë to the west. It seemed so far away in the darkness, little star-glimmers flickering away like fireflies fleeing into the night. Upon the dawn, light would glow from the gilded rooftops, painted all rosy in pinks and reds and fiery orange until, when Anar finally ascended fully above the horizon, they would burn yellow together like a miniature sun in the gleam.

That hour was far off yet, however. Shouldering her pack, Istelindë swiftly and quietly followed the merchant paths winding out of the haven. The pale and pearlescent cobblestone darkened beneath her feet, and the sand and rock gradually changed to roughened sea-grass and then to sprawling lawn as she left the coast behind. Already, just barely with her foot set out of Alqualondë, she could feel the incline of the earth steepen.

The hike would be long and uphill. Never had she needed to _walk_ to Tirion the few times she had been in her youth, for then she had been a passenger in a graceful little horse-drawn carriage aside her mother and still-yet infantile siblings. A life away from the twittering and frivolity of court, a life of lifting and carrying and scrubbing and walking, brought strength to her muscles she had not had in those days, though, and the strain was only felt a little in the protest of her legs as she went.

 _This is not so hard_. She released a panted breath and widened her strides, for she hoped to be out of easy sight of the city before the light of day broke strongly over the hills. Already, that soft gray glow was paling as Arien’s vessel approached the open Gates of Morn and her light began to gush forth into the world.

Following her was a small creek—or perhaps she was following it. It flowed with soft sighs back the way she had come, and she counted the minutes of the oncoming dawn by the shimmers of light that broke across its swift-flowing surface. Lilies and irises dotted its banks, white and purple and yellow and orange, muted colors now coming into their own as the grayscale of night was washed away. And she ran her fingers over each one in turn as she went, for who knew when she might again come this way. A return journey might be far off.

And when she reached the line of trees that dappled the road as the soil changed from rocky and rough to fertile and soft, she glanced back over her shoulder. Truly, in the early light of morning, Alqualondë sat upon the shoreline like a pearl, its glow rainbowed and iridescent, all white and silver reflections upon the gates and the buildings. Even from here, at a distance, she could see the palace rising in graceful, towering loops and shell-swirls. And there, at its foot, the house of her childhood, her father’s mansions, the domed roofs with their engravings and coruscating white jewels catching the light.

Those lights blurred faintly. Heat rose behind her eyes, stinging sharply despite her fierce resistance. Crystalline drops did not fall, but rested perilously upon her lashes and at the corners of her eyes. She took a deep breath and held it tightly. Just staring.

It was this sight that must have greeted the eyes of the Noldor as they walked by torchlight down from the hill of Túna, Fëanáro at their head. Had his eldest son stood then directly by his side? Had he looked down upon this sight and thought of their alliance, their marriage that would never be?

But he would have taken the same deep breath and then followed down in his father’s wake towards the sea. Not yet stained in blood. Not yet tainted with sin.

She, instead, turned away. 

The glow of that city was at her back, and the lights of Tirion in the far distance beyond, half-hidden now by the branches of swaying trees and their towering, outstretched arms. If any time there was to turn back in fear—that fear that now tugged and twisted at her heart, that throbbed against her ribs like an animal clawing and scrabbling to be free—it would have been now. She could glance over her shoulder, let herself be overcome by the beauty of her home and the nostalgic sickness that already rooted itself in her chest, and it would reel her in as surely as any seasoned fisherman might reel in his catch. Helplessly, she would be pulled back towards her inevitable, unenviable fate.

Though it seemed to be weighed down with all the heavy mass of a mountain, she took that next step. And then the next. And then the next. Each farther and farther into the west. Each farther and farther away from her only home, her beloved city. And she breathed the cool morning air and ran her fingertips over the rough bark of trees. Instead of the sea, she let the earthliness of the land take her away, leading her from the wide-open waters into the labyrinth of the encircling forests.

Denser they became, as if they grew with a mind to part the traveler’s eyes from the mystique of the pearl below and draw their mind towards what lay beyond their darkness. Even though she knew that morning was beginning in truth, that soon the first bright light would splash over the sea in a thousand fiery sparks and twirls, it still seemed so shadowed here. Dark yes, but safe. Protected.

A thousand soft voices of leaves rustled overhead, and their feather-soft touches brushed against her cheeks where they hung low upon their branches. Almost as if they urged her on in her quest. Almost as if they knew her heart better than even she.

When she finally dared look back, there was only darkness.

And she continued on.

\---

It was more than an hour after dawn before the first knock shook her front door and harsh voices struck out at the harmony and peace of the gentle morning. Neighbors peered out at the sound, their sleepy eyes widening at the livery of the royal guards and the presence of one who was unmistakably of the royal line, silvered hair unbound, voice raised if not in anger than perhaps in urgency. No finery did he wear, but simpler things assembled as if in a hurry.

“Istelindë! Istelindë, sister, open the door!”

When it was clear that the woman was not forthcoming, the man—the prince—stepped back and murmured to the guards. It was but moments later that the door was knocked clean off its hinges, and the watching neighbors gasped and winced back into the shadows of their windows and doorways at the violence.

Guards spewed in, and the prince at their heels.

But all on the street heard the cry. “She is gone, my Prince!”

All they found was the cold hearth and the half-done tapestry forgotten in the corner. But the maiden princess herself was vanished. Beneath her pillow rested a small note, folded into quarters, containing words brief but impossible to ignore for their insinuation. Anyone might blush to read them, and blanch in turn at the name with which they were signed.

And, for the first time, the people heard a Prince of the House of Olwë swear.

\---

Even the towering trees and their thick foliage could not block the rays of Anar once she began to track across the sky in all her blinding nakedness. The light trailed through the gaps in the treetops in golden beams, dappling the path and bouncing off the bubbling waters of the stream beside. Above her head, Istelindë gazed in silent awe, for the rich and jewel-toned peridot of the leaves was nearly blinding in its brilliance, as though each individual had been carven from a gem rather than grown upon its parent branch.

At least they distracted her from the burn in her thighs and calves. A mere hour or two into her walk and her legs had been fine if smarting. Now, ascending Túna, they were burning and complaining a bit more loudly at her abuse. For all the fitness of the Eldar, the incline was still steep, and she was not accustomed to such lengths of travel. With the increased warmth under Arien’s rays, Istelindë felt sweat bead upon her brow, and she pulled her cloak from about her shoulders and folded it hastily away into her pack.

Deftly, her fingers grasped at the long braid of her hair and began to twist it upwards. A tune came into her throat, and she hummed faintly to the sound of buzzing bumblebees and soft wind rustling the branches overhead. The breeze carried over the bareness of the nape of her neck, and her melody ended on a sigh.

It could not be much longer now. She knew the ring of forest extended almost up to the gates of the city, but would not the golden roofs be visible in glimpses between the swaying trees as were the snatches of deep blue sky?

Squinting, she caught a glimpse of silvery white. And then a flash of gold.

Gradually, the trees thinned, and the path went from dark to dusted in precious metal and diamond which powdered her heels as she went. While she might still hear easily the twittering of birds and the calls of insects, so too were cultured voices now issued distantly through the maze of tree trunks, echoing as if against stone walls. With renewed energy and anticipation, Istelindë’s feet seemed suddenly winged, and she pranced the last miles towards the gates now just visible through the trees to her keen eyes, glowing white in the shade.

It was as lovely as she remembered.

Different from Alqualondë, too, as the ocean is from the vast plains of golden wheat, but similar in some ways as well. The Noldor, too, were lovers of silver and white, but the Teleri were fondest of pearl and iridescence, opals and pale white diamonds, shells and amber and treasures of the ocean waves. Yet, upon their backdrop of white and complimentary to their gilded roofs, the Noldor decorated with all manner and colors of gemstones. Mosaic patterns of vibrant and bold colors, sapphire blues and emerald greens and deep, mysterious violets, covered their buildings and adorned their squares and fountains, gleaming with a million rainbows of pure sunlight. If Istelindë’s home city was all pallor and grace, Tirion was ostentatious, the prodigal child, drizzled in multicolored jewels and rich fabrics to match the boldness and confidence (if not arrogance) of the deep elves whose hands had brought it into being.

No guards stood over the gates, and no one stopped the lone traveler as she passed beneath the towering arches and set her feet upon the cobbled streets. They were busy and lively, and for the most part the people were tall and dark-haired. No sun-kissed glow, but instead an alabaster-white tone to their skin. And their eyes were, for the most part, gray or deep shades of green or blue. With her pale hair and eyes, Istelindë must have stood out sorely.

But even in Alqualondë the common folk knew not her face well enough to know she was of royal blood. Here, amongst the Noldorin folk, eyes caught upon her in admiration at her exotic looks and coloring, but they did not narrow in recognition or even suspicion. Travelers of the Noldor were rare in Alqualondë—her people were not very welcoming to those even distantly related to the slayers of kin and spillers of the blood of their folk—but Telerin merchants were much more commonplace in Tirion, the hub of trading and mingling of peoples, the city whose Queen was also of the Teleri and of Alqualondë, whose King was the son of a Vanyarin princess and wore her golden tresses.

Istelindë stopped at a fountain to catch her breath, setting herself upon its ledge so that she might watched the loops of water spinning elegantly through the air and plunging back down into the pool below with a soft laughing burble. Carefully, she dipped her fingers into the clear, shining water and wondered what she might do now.

Ought she find a place to stay the night? But it was not even afternoon yet, and she hadn’t much to carry, not enough that she needed a place to keep it until night fell. Maybe she might explore the markets a bit before going?

Certainly, she dared not search for Nelyafinwë yet. Tomorrow was the meeting time, and his note said not if he would be there before the designated time and place. There was a distinct possibility that he might not be in the city at all, or perhaps was staying with his family in one of the royal residencies where she might not see him.

Not that she would recognize him if she _did_ see him. About all she knew of him was that his epithet was “the Tall”. His ataressë was Nelyafinwë—the Third Finwë, a reference to his status as scion of the Crown Prince—and his amilessë was Maitimo, the well-formed one. So, tall, beautiful in body, probably gray-eyed and dark-haired and solemn-faced as were the majority of his folk. Of the whole royal family, Istelindë had only ever seen Arafinwë and his children, her cousins, all golden- or silver-haired and, apparently, taking much after Queen Indis in both Vanyarin appearance and temperament. Only once in her younger years and distantly at that had she lain eyes upon Finwë Noldorán before his death, and all she remembered were his fine royal blue robes embroidered with gold and his long, dark tresses woven about a golden circlet set with sapphire.

Well, there was little use in sitting about in any case. Rising to her feet, Istelindë made for the market street. At the very least, she would _find_ this place of rendezvous and scout it out, perhaps reserve a room for herself so that she might not have to walk about in the early morning.

And it did not hurt that she passed by so many stalls and carts on her way. Jewelry beyond the pearls so commonplace in Alqualondë and fabrics of bright and colorful dyes and impractical silks and velvets not meant for the sea caught her eyes as she went. Little in the way of coin did she carry, and that was all that held at bay the urge to purchase bolts of fabric with which she could make the loveliest of dresses to wear in the coming summer months, light and flowing to twist and fly about her ankles as she danced beneath the stars.

Maybe after she was married she might have the time for such things. After all, Nelyafinwë was a prince, and besides that, would not any man enjoy seeing his wife dressed thusly, clothed in delicate fabric and naked to the breeze and the caress of its folds upon her bare skin below?

Catching herself, Istelindë flushed. _Why would I think of pleasing him?_

Put off at that thought, she let the fabric her fingers tested slip between their pads. The diminished joy upon her face raised a questioning brow, but she slipped away into the crowd before the vendor could ask her what troubled her mind. There was no way to explain it. The way her heart sunk at remembering her proposal of unconsummated marriage. The way her lips pursed with displeasure at the knowledge that their union would be essentially loveless, a thing of convenience rather than passion. After all, the very _thought_ of some strange man laying with her in the way of man and wife still made her stomach twist and turn with upset, left her hand slipping down to linger over the flatness of her belly as might one who was in pain.

In the end, Nelyafinwë _was_ just some strange man. A nameless, faceless being whose voice she had not ever heard and whose touch she had not ever felt. It seemed that his mind was sharp enough to corner her with nary a few words in a written note, and he likely enjoyed the pursuit either of her ruin or her hand enough to play such a dangerous game on a whim. He might be the sort of man who went about being unnecessarily difficult or cruel, manipulating people for his own gain or out of vengeance, stringing them along until they lost their usefulness before he cast them aside like broken toys.

That was how Istelindë imagined a Kinslayer. Ruthless and dispassionate. Empty of compassion and distant to the suffering of his pawns. With so very little information at her disposal, did she really want to get attached to the _idea_ of building a _true_ relationship with this man who had flirted with her and propositioned her as such in a letter, who may have purposefully sabotaged her reputation for daring to threaten him into marriage?

Losing interest in looking at the wares, Istelindë instead slipped softly through the crowds, the strap of her pack clutched tightly in her fisted hands. Maybe the inn was a good idea after all. Some rest might do her good after such an early morning. And it might clear her mind of these silly, childish daydreams.

Maybe then she could think.

Maybe then she could face Nelyafinwë on the morrow like a grown woman and not a swooning maiden. Istelindë would need her wits about her to do battle. Especially with one so slippery as this strange Noldorin prince with his too-intimate addresses and his ambiguous non-replies hidden amongst insinuative gestures.

Still, she reminded herself, better a snake than a nacreous prison.

Better a Kinslayer for a husband but freedom of the spirit than a safe, warm bed in the mansions of her father and a broken heart dragging her down into the abyss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:
> 
> Angamando (Q) = Angband (S)  
> Fëanárioni (Q) = Sons of Fëanor  
> Anar (Q) = the Sun  
> ataressë (Q) = father-name  
> amilessë (Q) = mother-name


	3. The Marriage (Two Days Later)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They rendezvous, they talk, they get married... it only took a few hours. Istelindë has gotten what she wants. Meanwhile, the news spreads fast...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: marriage of convenience, scheming, flirting, thinking about sex.

Sunlight was pouring through her window, but it brought little comfort. Usually, the golden light’s warmth was a blanket about her soul, soothing away her troubles and lending her strength, but she had never faced a challenge quite like this before. A single meeting—a single _conversation_ —that would decide her future from this point on possibly to the very End of All Things. After this day, her path would either swerve one direction into utter ruin and pariahdom or the other way into a marriage with a man about whom the most she knew were his names and his unholy deeds at home and abroad.

At this point, her heart felt faint. Almost was she uncertain which she might prefer. The loneliness of being ousted from her cottage and the dark stares of disapproving eyes following her like shades of ill fortune. Or the marriage vows of a Noldorin prince from his silver tongue and a place in his house as his wife for eternity.

Was it any wonder that her heart nearly failed her?

Still, in the end, she had come so far and schemed so much that it seemed pointless to turn away now and jilt her not-really-lover. Somewhere downstairs in the open hall of the tavern, maybe sitting at the counter or occupying one of the tables scattered near the walls, Nelyafinwë Fëanárion was sitting, waiting for her appearance any minute. No amount of imagining could bring her solace and no amount of lollygagging would soothe away the wild hammering of her heart against her ribs.

Istelindë twisted her hair into an understated braid. Donned in pale blue with her white hair and her light eyes, she was ghostly in the reflection of the silver mirror. Beautiful as a white lily upon still water, or as a pale rose in the moonlight—or so had been said to her in the tongues of eager courtiers so long ago as they vied her for attention. Little had changed but for the lack of excessive jewelry and the diminishing of the layers of lace and silk that layered her gown. Nothing at all had she in adornment but a single long strand of pearls knotted and resting heavily between her breasts.

Without fanfare, she slipped out her door and made for the stairs. Last night had been loud, filled with drinking and revelry and tale-telling, but now all was quiet. The late-night tavern-goers were sleeping still, and only soft voices drifted up to her ears. Without doubt, this was the purpose of holding the meeting so early in the morning instead of in the middle of the late evening din and noise.

Even as her foot rested upon the last step, she felt eyes upon her. Men glanced in her direction, half-hiding their interest as they averted their gazes but kept their shoulders oriented towards her as she crossed into the center of the room. Very hard did she try to ignore them as she glanced about and took in each dark head, wondering with a sudden jolt of anxiety how she might be expected to pick her suitor out from a crowd of like-looking men. Each new face with dark hair and sharp lines seemed to blend with the next, but none seemed to recognize her nor expect her gaze upon them, and she turned away from each until…

Until she came upon the gap.

By no means was the room full, but there were plenty of men and even a few women milling about, breaking their fasts. Yet, they seemed polarized to one end of the large, open space, squishing themselves unnecessarily close and leaving other tables untouched by silent agreement of roving, nervous eyes. Carefully, Istelindë followed the glances towards a small table near the back of the establishment and its occupant sitting patiently with his back to the wall.

His hair… was not dark.

That was her first observation. Instead of the midnight tresses she expected, her eyes were filled with deep copper curling in waves from where it was pinned at the back of _his_ head. And then the eyes split through the early morning shadows like the last lingering star fighting against the overshadowing glare of Anar. They were gray, of a sort, but she would almost have named them white for their radiance and their violent heat.

Cautiously, she approached, and she saw some others half-stand from their chairs, hands frozen half-outstretched as if to stay her or warn her away. As though she were a maiden boldly approaching a dangerous, ravenous beast, unknowingly setting herself out upon a platter, an easy target for the slaughter. Yet, her eyes were fixed upon he whom she suspected was her Kinslayer, and her voice stayed mute in the back of her throat, blocked and choked with instinctive terror (and anticipation) from the weight of his gaze resting upon her so sharply and so wickedly. Gradually, quiet fell over the room, until all eyes rested upon her and all ears strained for the sound of her slipper-clad feet upon wood.

Finally, she stood across from him, hands clenched together before her body, eyes fixed upon his striking face. Little scars could she see even in the faint gloom. And a smirk that half-twisted his lips upwards, showing just a hint of teeth. His cheekbones were sharp and his nose long, and her first impression was of hardness and cold flame.

Abruptly, he stood from his chair, and the scrape of its legs upon the floor made her breath catch in her throat. From the corner of her eyes, she saw others jolt or jump in their seats with surprise, but her focus was on _his_ movement. His sudden approach, and his towering, impossible height. Istelindë was a fairly tall woman herself, but the top of her head did not quite reach the lowest slopes of his shoulders. Without even trying, he made her feel petite. Even tiny! For he had the breadth to match his height, a trim waist but broad shoulders, and she could sense if not see the power of the body hidden beneath layers of skin and fur and simple cloth.

He pulled out her chair. “Will you not sit and join me in the breaking of our fasts, my dearest Princess?”

His voice was not what she expected. The tones might once have been the sleekest of velvets, but now they were ragged at the edges. Strained and torn. From what, she could not have said, but no voice could naturally be so gritty and deep.

“Of course, my faithful Prince,” she replied. At the upturn of his lips, she knew this was no mistake. It was, undoubtedly, Nelyafinwë Fëanárion who stood beside her. Who pushed her chair in as she sat and whose impossibly broad palm skimmed so softly over the slopes of her shoulder blades and back as he passed. There was the scent of earth and something metallic upon her tongue, and the tickle of rogue red hairs teased at her cheek in his wake.

His sprawl across from her was lazy and graceful, trickery in the form of perceived laxity. Eyes went half-hooded as they gazed upon her face, ringed with the deepest of red lashes. He leaned forward, and a curl spilled down over one cheek, drawing her eyes to the slopes of his face, to the faintest of freckles that dotted below his eyes and across the bridge of his nose. Without coming this close—close enough to touch without reaching with the full length of an arm—they would have been impossible to see. To count.

For a moment, his eyes slid away, back towards the silent and blatantly eavesdropping patrons trying so hard to appear to be looking anywhere else and at anything else besides the Kinslayer and his lady guest. At the sudden glance, voices hastily began to speak, all those uncomfortable folk trying hard to appear and sound busy with their own conversations. Even many of the Noldor, it would appear, were fearful of their Kinslaying brethren.

The brief moment of respite ended too soon. The heat of his gaze returned. For all that it shared its color with the stars, it scalded hotter than Anar.

“Of all the things I ever expected to receive after my rebirth, I can very honestly admit that a marriage proposal was not amongst them.” The words were blandly stated, almost with disinterest. “I cannot say that I would ever have expected to find a maiden willing to take one such as I as a husband.”

Gulping, Istelindë steeled herself against the rising bubbles of panic and the jittery restlessness of nerves that danced in her fingertips. It would not do to appear weak or uncertain in the face of this man, for he was staring with piercing intensity, his eyes ready and waiting to catch even the slightest slip in her façade, the tiniest chink in her armor. Besides, had she not begun this all with a demanding letter, a bold opening statement and declaration of intent? Was it not right that she now follow her boldness with confidence and with poise, demanding both his attention and his compliance with her wishes?

She could already see the sneer that would lift his upper lip if her voice wobbled traitorously with the frantic beat of her heart, already hear the derisive tone of his voice when he caught her eyes flitting nervously away from the intensity of his stare. Above all, such a powerful man would want a woman not afraid to stand tall in the face of his strength, not afraid to meet him head on in a battle of words and deeds.

Shoulders squared, she looked him dead in the eyes. And they were beautiful eyes, if as potentially toxic as the liquid mercury from whence they seemed born. Istelindë allowed her own gaze to narrow, and her hands clenched in her lap, hidden by the table.

“I would not think many a woman would be interested in saddling herself with the trouble you seem to bring everywhere you go,” she replied tartly.

And her heart skipped a beat as his smirk widened.

“Still, I have my reasons,” she continued, refusing to so much as glance away. “Would you consider hearing me out, _my faithful Prince.”_

“Had I not intended to hear your rationale, I would never have replied to your note at all.” Almost casually, he placed his left elbow on the table and cradled his cheek lazily in his scarred palm, tilting his head just enough to look like a lazy, curious feline, waiting to see if she proved an interesting enough toy to bother with the pouncing. “Tell me what brings you here with such a bold proposal, _my dearest Princess.”_

“Very well then…”

\---

Most women glanced away demurely at his stare. Long since had Nelyafinwë perfected the art of instilling discomfort in all those nearby, giving them an open-eyed glance that lingered with a glimmer of predatory threat in its depths, watching them squirm where they sat with the sudden and urgent need to flee from his sight. Even before everything had gone so terribly wrong—even back before the Darkening when his most threatening persona had been the smooth and cunning politician—this characteristic had been prevalent.

Poke at them until they winced in pain. Prod at their minds until their tongues laid bare their darkest secrets. Tease them until they trembled with helpless rage. Or flatter and play with them until they blushingly laid themselves bare seeking validation and affection. These were all things he had learned from watching Fëanáro navigate smoothly through the seas of courtiers in those days of his youth, and he had been disillusioned by the ruthlessness of his sire and the backstabbing trickery of the supposed gentle and pure people that the Eldar should have been. As he always did, he adapted. Became vicious to avoid being harmed. Became charming to hide his true colors. Wore the boldest colors as if to draw forth eyes and yet warn them away, that he might be as poisonous as his coloring implied.

Rare was the woman who could look him in the eye. His mother, Nerdanel, had always been so fiery and daring. How could she ever have lived with Fëanáro if she were spineless? His aunts also, though excessive exposure to his father might also have been responsible for that as well. Findis and her upturned nose and her holier-than-thou-art Vanyarin attitude. Lalwendë and her feminist crusade and flouting of social conventions. Anairë, so tiny yet capable of making one feel like a small child with a single click of her tongue. And even Eärwen, whose sharp personality was tempered only by her spouse’s mellow disposition.

It was clear that this woman, Istelindë of Alqualondë, had the same daring and unyielding blood coursing through her veins.

Blue eyes, so pale and tinted with the gray and blue hues of the open bay in the sun, refused to look away from his gaze boring forth. No sign of trembling was there in her slim form, and no sign of hesitation in the solid setting of her shoulders and the high arch of her neck. Small she might have been compared with his height, but even looking upwards to take in his face she seemed not dwarfed or shrunken, not cowed and hunched by their innate inequality of height and stature. 

The pursing of her lips caught his eye. Pale pink and deceptively delicate, antique rose. Full and lovely and uncompromising in the face of his teasing rather than parted with shock and lust or twisted downwards and trembling with nerves. There might even have been the faintest hint of a smirk curling up at the corners.

 _“My faithful Prince,”_ she named him, and the lilt of her voice was both sharply sarcastic and carrying the saccharine sweet aftertaste of amusement. Was she _teasing_ him?

Carelessly, his eyes wandered away from those supple lips and down the length of her throat, slender and white. As was commonplace in the Telerin fashion, her dress was low-cut and draped in such a way that it was a wonder it slipped not off her shoulders and spilled down to reveal her bosom. A simple but long strand of pearls wrapped about her throat and slipped down into the vale between her breasts, emphasizing the swells, disappearing from his sight beneath the table, coaxing his gaze across her body…

Her lips parted to speak, and his eyes snapped back upwards. Pretty to look at, she was, and her body lined in confident posture besides, but there was little sense in thinking of her too much as a man thinks of a wife. For all his flirtatious overtures, she had proposed between them an unconsummated union.

“Very well then,” she said, and her chin tilted upwards as if to challenge his interruption and disagreement, to beat against the walls of his authority. “I have a problem, my Prince, one that I believe I can solve with this union.”

 _Marrying me would create more problems than it could_ possibly _solve,_ he wanted to interrupt, but the downward twitch of her mouth warned him to stay silent.

“My father, as you must remember, is the Crown Prince of the Teleri and my grandfather’s heir. I, as his only daughter, am not considered part of the line of succession nor a potential heir to the throne in the case of tragedy. Rather, I, like many women of royal blood, function mostly as a bargaining chip to forge alliances and bring strong bonds to my family.”

That, of course, had been the premise of their original marriage contract.

“Of course, the Exile of the Noldor rather threw a wrench in those plans, would you not agree, my Prince?” The sharp edge of her smile was nearly mocking, venomously accusatory, meant to incite guilt if there was a soul left in his body which could feel such a thing. And he did, indeed, feel the sharp sting somewhere in his chest with the knowledge that he had barely thought of her _at all_ or what consequences she might have faced because of the actions of his people. In the gap of five hundred and then some years, he had stricken her name completely from his mind, written her off as a paper construct rather than a person, an accessory to a future that no longer existed which he need no longer be concerned with. Naturally, he felt guilt at that realization, though no outward indication of such a weakness did he dare make, either before her eyes or those of the public.

“None would touch the lover of a Kinslayer, you see.” And her eyes flashed with distant pain, almost nostalgia. “But I moved on. Quite happily, in fact, I abandoned my life at court, thinking that I should never marry with the taint of my association with sinners and murderers staining my honor.”

“Except, that must now have changed.” Or she would not have been here.

“Indeed, my father has decided it is time for me to marry.” A single hand rose, curling delicately beneath her chin as her face turned sour. “I am an independent creature, my Prince. I have no need of an army of servants and a thousand pretty dresses and a host of golden, empty promises at court with a husband I do not want. But my father _is_ the Crown Prince, and my grandfather the King. I am bound to obey.”

Nelyafinwë felt his own smile grow, a wolfish and sharp-toothed monster. It was almost funny, the picture unfolding before his gaze. The discontented woman before his eyes fleeing before the petty, empty life of a court peahen, her foot caught in a golden manacle with a loose and lengthy chain now shortening by the day. Reeled back in towards the cage she once had flown, dragging her as she kicked and screamed against its impossible strength.

And she wanted _him_ to cut her free. To break those chains.

Fleeing to Tirion was a stroke of genius, for even had they chased her to these walls, the Telerin guard had no authority to detain her within the domain of the Noldor. As long as she remained within the golden gates of this city, her sanctuary was secured and the shortening of her chains stayed. And then, in choosing a member of the Noldorin royal family as her potential spouse, a man who was willing to slaughter innocents in the cold blood against all laws of morality and fight in the face of the Curse of the Noldor until every ounce of his spirit was spent, she knew he would hold no fear of defying her own family’s discontent at their suit. It was almost laughable that he, he who had been guest in the Iron Hells and experienced torture almost to insanity, he who raced across battlefields and sent his enemies fleeing in terror before his star-fire eyes and wild grins, would even be _intimidated_ by the soft and politically correct _disapproval_ of some foreign royal family governing a peace-loving people who spent their time fishing and making boats.

The thoughts and words of her father and grandfather meant as little to him now as did those of his uncle, the King of the Noldor. For he had seen kings fall to ruin many times, watched cities burn and heard the screams of the dying and the mourning as he waded through a sea of spilt blood and shattered lives, and such frivolous concerns as a Telerin King’s wrath shrunk to paltry size in comparison to those times of agony and insanity and terror. It was not as if there would be consequences. No war. No threatening. No slaughter.

Those peace-loving folk, coming after him in rage, blades raised and voices snarling, threatening to hang him by his guts for defiling a woman of their House? He thought not. At best, he might receive angry letters and be snubbed at any social event he dared attend. Not that he attended such things in any case.

But, as he looked into this woman’s blue eyes, saw her taking in his form with the same detached assessment and cool measure as he had her own, he thought to decide whether it was worth the trouble. Dealing with her family, certainly, worried him not.

Dealing with _her_ , on the other hand…

“I will admit to being in your debt.” Because that much was true, and Nelyafinwë was many things but liar was typically not amongst his trades. “Yet, I would be tying myself to you wholly in matrimony, loveless if convenient. Would you have me take you into my House, support you upon my craft and livelihood, feed and clothe you of my own income, and then live celibate for all my days to appease you as well?”

“No resistance to handing over such rights did you seem to have _before_ the Darkening,” she swiftly countered. “Were we married before your descent into moral depravity, would not I still have owned rights to such things as your bed?”

Point. Unfaithfulness was something that left Nelyafinwë feeling unclean. Murder, even in the case of the Kinslayings, had cause rooted in the protection of his family and the upholding of his Oath, but adultery was aught else entirely. A whim of lust and greed, selfishness and discontent with blessings already held, the idea reminded him of the foul stench of rot rising from bloated corpses upon the silent fields in the wake of war. Had he gone to Beleriand a married man, he would have returned untouched but for that which was beyond his control, if only because he dared not paint a wife with the blackness of his deeds and leave her torn down and devoured by willing and self-centered betrayal.

“Still, I seek not to deny you satisfaction.” For a brief moment, her gaze wavered, and Nelyafinwë nearly chuckled because it was shyness and propriety that broke her adamant veneer in the end. Faint but undeniable was her blush. “If you wanted to take another to your bed for such relations, I would hardly deny you. Nor, I should think, would _you_ deny _me_ the same.”

 _I would not think to_ , he wanted to reply, his eyes feasting on her tongue as it wetted her lips and her eyelashes where they swept across her rosy cheeks. Fleetingly, perhaps a touch traitorously to their current agreement, he thought that he would have no need to seek another woman, nor she another man, should everything play out ideally. _I would try to seduce you into my bed in a heartbeat were you my wife. Then there would be no need for such concerns._

“Does that satisfy you, my Prince?” Her voice brought him back from his less than pure thoughts to the reality of their situation.

“An unconsummated marriage…” _If that even lasts._ “I presume you are accustomed to a more common life? I live in the mountain passes, high enough that six months of the year or more may be spent cut off from the plains below by snow and ice. There will be no marketplace easily available without descending down into the vale, and certainly nothing in the way of luxuries or space for spotlessness. No room for laziness or resting the days away. You would need to contribute. To _work_ from the first light of Anar until she sinks beneath the horizon to the west.”

“Work, I can handle. I have been taking care of myself for quite some time and plan to continue doing so.”

Her jaw was set sternly, and her hands rested upon the table, neither trembling but both still and clenched with resolve. Again, her chin tilted upwards, her eyes narrowing and her lips bowing in a gesture of defiance. There was strength in her muscles, trim but clear to experienced eyes, and no glimmer of uncertainty met his scrutiny in her gaze. There was no lie in her confidence that he could detect. Well could he imagine her, despite her soft blue gown and necklace of pearls, still working diligently with her hands upon the earth, making battle with weeds and harvesting fruits of her labor, or pulling from the oven a fresh loaf of hot honey bread and making over the fire a stew rich with the smell of thick broth and salted meats.

For many things would she need to be prepared. Unfairly, perhaps, for she went to an abode (or perhaps one might call it a small cluster of cabins) laden with the burden of seven men without female companionship. Not only would her hands be raw from laundering and cleaning, from chasing about their messes and badgering their ill-thought actions into line, but perhaps her heart from their prickly company and barbed speech, their natural derision and fiery tempers.

Yet, if she believed she knew what it was that she asked...

(And, not in the least bit because he felt tightness in his loins upon the vision of her sprawled out naked across his bed.)

He would accept her suit.

“If you say it, it must be so, my dearest Princess.” He reached across the table and dared to catch her hand, lifting it to his lips so that he might, at the last second, stray from her knuckles and lay his mouth upon her wrist. And the throbbing pulse beneath, fluttering so much faster than her outer calm would indicate. “I am agreeable to this match.”

She took a deep breath, though he could not have said if it was meant to stifle a gasp at his forward kiss or to signify her relief at his acceptance of her proposal. Perhaps both.

Clearing her throat, she pulled her hand away. Almost seemed it a slight, yet Nelyafinwë detected that her jerky movements originated in uncertainty at her reaction rather than disgust at his touch. It seemed that she feared not intimacy (or, indeed, sexual relations as a whole), but merely held them sacred and wished to have love as well as passion in such joining.

Could he give her such things?

Did it really matter when they both elsewise benefited from this agreement?

“My Prince, I would that we be married as swiftly as possible now that we have reached our unwritten agreement. Today, if possible.”

It was practical at the very least. “Wish you not for a day or two to think on this?”

Her look was almost a glare. “I have thought on this every day since my father ordered me to marry.” And then her lips twisted into the faintest of smirks. “One might think it was _you_ getting cold feet, my Prince. Are you not prepared to take this leap of faith?”

Nelyafinwë did not allow himself to retort at her goading like a child. Still, he could not help but rise to his feet and offer her immediately his arm. The handless right. “If that is how you feel, my Princess, let us be on our way. I would not seek to trample upon your desires nor hinder your course. Wed me this morn, and we shall be on our way out of Tirion before sundown.”

He felt her eyes catch briefly on his lack of hand, but her hesitation was only that of a double-take rather than revulsion. Instead, her blue eyes fluttered curiously at the dismemberment. Clearly, she’d not heard the vastly exaggerated heroic tale of his rescue and the cutting off of his hand as did the merchants of Tirion whisper about when they thought he was out of hearing distance. Then again, she had mentioned that none would say his name in Alqualondë, and he could just see the wrinkled noses and ugly sneers of those who would have had him hang upon the cliffs of Thangorodrim for all eternity in repayment of his sins. If any would be of that mind, it would be those innocents of the havens.

Upon his arm, her touch was terribly soft and gentle. Just a flutter of fingertips that he barely felt through his sleeves. Yet, for their smallness, the hand in the crook of his elbow and the other come to rest upon his forearm had calluses and trimmed but not manicured nails. He could see the shadows of work briefly upon her palms and in the scrapes on her pale knuckles.

Her slight body leaned into his side, pressing her hip against his thigh and his elbow to the side of her bosom. “Know you where we ought to go, my Prince?”

And he ignored the surge of warmth from whence she brushed against him. “Aye, I know exactly where we ought to go.”

\---

Not an hour later, they left behind the towering cathedral married. 

All they had about them at that hour were the clothes they wore to their liaison at the inn, he in his deerskin and fur, and she in her flowing blue dress and strand of pearls. Stunned had the scholar, the preacher of the teachings of the One and the Valar, been as he officiated their legal joining in the name of the One, Ilúvatar, and witnessed by Manwë Súlimo and Varda Elentári. Simple and sweet vows exchanged, and Nelyafinwë could only stare at his wife’s wide-eyed gaze and gentle smile and think she played at the happy newlywed well.

No flowers thrown from the balconies above alighted their heads as they departed as would have happened in the days of old at the marriage of a prince and princess. There would have been throngs of people, crowds singing and crying out blessings as they passed down the steps to a waiting carriage. He, bedecked in Noldorin finery of the most gem-encrusted and vibrant sort, and she, draped in the diaphanous silk and lace of white and pale ocean tones of which her people were so fond.

This, though, passed in silence. No waving and no singing and no smiling brightly in the face of a thousand well-wishers. The couple departed instead with contented smirks, entwined at the arms, both satisfied with their lot.

Quite a few glanced their way as they passed, recognizing Nelyafinwë by his crown of russet and his height and his handless right arm, but their gazes lingered longer in curiosity upon the woman at his side. Before the day was out, Nelyafinwë expected the court to hear of this sight, of the Prince of Traitors, the eldest son of Fëanáro, sighted about in the streets with an undeniably Telerin lady upon his arm. However, by the time his uncle managed to put together one of those politely worded, excessive little correspondences and send it out into the city carried by the winged heels of a court messenger, Nelyafinwë would be long-departed with his wife.

“Is there anything you need from the market before we depart, vessenya?”

Blue eyes glanced up at him through silvery-white lashes, coyly with an accompanying little grin. And Nelyafinwë almost shuddered at the sudden realization of lust, struggling to listen to her voice when she began to speak instead of allowing his eyes to slip down to the cleft between her breasts peeking out from beneath the collar of her dress.

“A few things,” she said in reply, and he felt her tug upon his arm as if pulling him towards the destination in her mind’s eye. “Some fabrics and threads for clothing—I have but what I wear and another dress besides—as well as some more feminine necessities.”

Feminine necessities. Right.

“Look not so concerned,” she chided, though with a soft laugh, seeing the wrinkle of his brow in confusion. “Simple things. Underclothing. A hairbrush. Items that are a bit of a hassle to make when stuck up in the mountain passes.”

Having not lived with a woman since before the Darkening—and even then, he’d not been privy to his mother’s more intimate needs—Nelyafinwë had no idea what she might or might not require. Best, it was, to cater to her whims for the time being. The last thing he wanted was to deal with an angry spouse on his travel back home. There were already enough problems and discomforts to go around without creating more.

So, he let her get her nice but not excessive fabrics (and unabashedly imagined her both wearing and _not_ wearing all of them) and her corsets and underclothes and her hairbrush and her more practical hair adornments to keep at bay her silvery locks. Not even once did she glance towards the jewelry, heavy and fine fresh from the Mansions of Aulë, the home of the finest jewel-smiths and metalworkers in all Valinórë. Instead, she sorted through an impossible collection of many-colored threads, picking and choosing, conversing steadily with the female seller about which would be best for what and other things he knew little about. As he watched her hands hesitate over each color of thread, he thought about having decently stitched clothing, mayhap even tapestries to keep upon the walls of his cabin, and soft hands to rub his shoulders upon his return from working each day. Little pleasantries his brothers could never have offered for all that they had the best intentions.

A flash of blue—her eyes glancing towards him—left behind what seemed to be a trail of warmth upon his skin. Delicate fingers fiddled with silvery thread as if weighing its worth, or mayhap comparing it to the image in her mind’s eye. Then another glance, their eyes meeting for but a moment before hers flickered back to their task.

Cautiously, he approached her, resting his hand on the curve of her waist as he leaned over to see the threads from beyond her shoulder. “Need you any assistance, my dearest?”

Beneath his palm, he felt her body shiver.

“I know fine clothing may be impractical,” she replied, turning around to face him, almost brushing up against the front of his body. Though the vendor shrank back like a rabbit crouching in terror before the gaze of a hawk, his pretty wife rather held the thread up, and he realized she was comparing it with the shade of his eyes. “You realize that I will, at some point, want to descend from the mountains at the very _least_ for the festival days. Best that you have at least one nice thing to wear on such occasions should you accompany me, even if it might not be the overwhelmingly bold eyesores favored by the Noldorin court.”

She waited not for his opinion on the matter but added the silver thread to her collection and moved to haggling. No help from him did she need, negotiating and smiling and laughing her way into diminished costs in coin, but he lingered still over her shoulder. Far enough away that the woman selling thread ceased to tremble, but close enough that widened eyes snagged on his every movement anxiously as if waiting for him to leap forward and brandish a knife.

He bothered not even to hesitate in handing her the coin purse. Istelindë knew what she was doing, so there wasn’t a need to hover and stick his nose in where he was undesired. If she so wished to daydream about making him presentable, she was more than welcome to _try._

After spending years cooped up in a prison cell in his own filth, then countless more sleeping in trenches and scraping mud and other disgusting things out of his boots and off his armor each day, Nelyafinwë found himself less concerned with such things as the cleanliness and social acceptability of his clothes. But then, mayhap she would change his mind. Truthfully, while he may not be interested in a marriage for _love_ , she was a beautiful woman, and he hardly wanted her to run off to a festival alone and find someone _else_ to warm her bed; perhaps humoring her and accepting at least one set of decent clothing would be useful even if the idea of dressing up like a peacock (oh, those long forgotten days where his hair took hours to braid and his clothing was pressed by servants each day and laid out for his perusal) sounded rather taxing and like to a waste of precious time better spent doing other things.

Cargo safely tucked away, she turned towards him, and her blush was back again. “There is one more shop I would like to visit. You… need not attend.”

A dismissal if ever there was one.

“Come back to the inn in an hour’s time, and I shall be waiting,” he told her, then watched her slip away through the crowds. Tempting though it was to follow and snoop, he knew there wasn’t a chance that she wouldn’t spot him following, not with his towering height and his curls set afire in the blazing light of Anar. Whatever it was that she desired, it was clear she was embarrassed to make her purchase before his gaze, though what it might be he could not guess. No flush had adorned her cheeks when purchasing undergarments and shifts…

Maybe it was best that he knew not.

He turned back the way they had come, laden with some of her purchases. Back past the rich fabrics and the unnecessarily gaudy but nevertheless exquisite jewelry. Eying a necklace that looked as though it might weight a good ten pounds in gold and ruby, he thought such a thing would seem ridiculously large and unwieldy upon her slender throat. Istelindë was built for simple and elegant, soft silvers and water-gems.

Something paler than sapphire, but more Noldorin than diamond or pearl. Maybe something in the tender shade of cornflower blue, or something softer yet still. Small upon a simple chain, resting against her sternum where had the weight of her pearls settled earlier that day, coaxing his eyes to follow down from her face to the hint of her breasts…

His eyes caught on blue.

Pausing mid-step, he had his eyes upon something of such make. Flowers of pale morning blue and white jewel, shaped as the blossoms of the nieninquë and set with dewdrops of pearl, their looping leaves formed of adamant. It was a pendent upon a silver chain, so sleek it looked more like to a thread. It was Noldorin in make, though he might have called its simplicity almost Vanyarin, like delicate little threads of poetry on the morning breeze. It was nothing at all like to the heavy necklaces favored by the ladies of the court even now.

The poor craftsman selling his wares looked about ready to faint at the scrutiny. No self-respecting jewelry-maker would _not_ recognize a son of Fëanáro, even a son not prone to the craft. Red-faced with beads of sweat gathered at the temple, the man cautiously moved forth. “My Prince, is there something I might help you with?”

The shift of his eyes from the necklace to the man’s gray gaze made the poor thing jump and then try to cover his slight by smoothing his hands over the front of his robes, chasing nonexistent wrinkles away.

“I wish to purchase that one.”

\---

Istelindë felt her hand brush against her pack for the fifteenth time as she slipped through the crowd, checking to be _absolutely certain_ that it was latched shut nice and tight, that not even a hint of lace or silver embroidery peeked out from the corners. To a stranger it was not so odd, a newlywed lady purchasing such _risqué_ clothing, but add in the knowledge that she had no intention of making love to her own husband…

_Mayhap you should try lying less to yourself. For all his scars, he is pleasant to look upon, and there would be no complaints about the state of his body._

So, Nelyafinwë lived up to his amilessë. Burnished hair and fiery eyes and a gorgeous, well-proportioned face and form. The missing hand had caught her off guard for a moment, but that explained the curious lack of ties visible in his clothing. Nothing he wore looked as though it required two hands to get on or off again, likely for that very reason. And none of that clothing hid exactly how well the warfare abroad had shaped his muscles and strengthened the lines of fine-breeding already present. No lord of her father’s court could boast such physique.

 _Admit it, if only secretly. The_ possibility _of going to your husband’s bed just_ might _be a little appealing._

Could she really deny that thought now? A good portion of her own coin was spent buying a scrap of lace and silk that would cover very little of her skin. And what fabric there _was_ clung to every dip and curve. Holding up her hands to the fabric, even in the dim lighting of the shop, she could see the color contrast of her fingertips easily.

If she put such a thing on, anyone who looked would be able to see the deepening of color about her nipples and the shadow of slightly darker curls between her thighs. The entire _purpose_ of such a piece of clothing was to entice, to welcome and to tease.

Earlier, before her meeting and before her future was set in stone upon the altar, she’d seen the shop half-hidden in the corner and flushed at the knowledge that the Noldor even _had_ an establishment selling such things so _openly_ and _shamelessly_. Even then, she had felt the temptation to go inside and touch. To run her fingers over fabrics finer than anything she dared use to make a simple dress. To test the intricate patterns of lace between her fingertips and relish their finery. But then she had turned aside, driven on by her mental assertion that her marriage with her former fiancé—if they even decided to marry—would be a marriage without that intimate connection.

Now, with her secret tucked away, she felt a tiny burst of satisfaction and excitement. More so even than she had felt upon realizing that anyone who read her note would assume that she and Nelyafinwë…

Wait…

Her hand slowly slipped down into her pack, grasping for the rough parchment folded into quarters and coming up without success. Pausing in the midst of the throngs of people, she shoved her hand into the pocket again, seeking and finding naught. Then she thought back to the morning before, to her last look at the cooling fire and the unlit candles of her lonely cottage.

It was under her pillow.

Damn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:
> 
> Anar (Q) = the Sun  
> vessenya (Q) = my wife  
> amilessë (Q) = mother-name  
> nieninquë (Q) = lit. white tear, snowdrop


	4. Sunshine to Drive Away the Cold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The newly married couple head on their way home. And there are mountains and meadows full of flowers. Because.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: some thoughts about sexual things, allusions to torture, mention of violence/mutilation, depressing talk about things that happened in the canonical Silmarillion

“If the messenger took a decently hard look at the note, he would have been able to give a day and location for our meeting regardless.” That was what Nelyafinwë said when she sheepishly admitted that, instead of burning the note as would have been sensible, she had accidently left it lying about and forgotten it in her haste to flee.

She made no mention of _where_ she left it.

“You have a plan for this as well?”

Nelyafinwë finished lifting her bolts of cloth and his own purchases of grain and equipment up onto the cart, laying them out in the place where he had had stacked furs and dried meat for trading not a handful of days ago. His handless forearm swept aside a tumble of russet curls back from his face, spilling them down his back. “I was prepared for your family to have at the very least known that Tirion was your destination. My uncle would never allow them to set a guard upon the gates of the city, however, and none know where I live even amongst the Noldor. Your people would not know which gate to wait at even so, and, if they guessed, they would likely sit in waiting to the western side of the city, expecting that I live farther inland.”

Which, she had discovered, he did not. _“We shall see about making a cloak for you in the colder months,”_ he had said, _“For the mountain weather is a bit less kindly than the temperate regions on the bay.”_

“If that is all…” Before she could say aught, she felt his arms curl about her and lift with ease. Gasping at the lurch of her feet leaving the ground, her arms came up about his neck of their own accord, fingers tangling in his barely-tamed curls. With his sheer height, he deposited her in the front of the cart and then swept around, checking the horses and the wheels before vaulting up beside her, left hand taking the reins.

The shadow of heat where his forearms had stolen beneath her thighs and braced against her back still lingered. And his scent was strong in her nose. The broad palm of his hand had curled up the outside of her thighs, splayed wide, and the spot where his fingers dug lightly into her flesh tingled. Carefully, she arranged her skirts about her ankles, trying desperately to force away the blush that wanted so desperately to paint her cheeks at being manhandled. Even if it would have been difficult for her to jump up onto the damn cart without getting her skirts tangled up about her legs.

“Let us be on our way,” he said, and she saw the smirk that lingered like a phantom upon his lips just a hair too late to stop what came next. Before the entirety of the nearby crowd, he leaned down over her, his breadth overshadowing her willowy form, and kissed her softly on the corner of her mouth. “What say you, vessenya? Shall we now make for our home?” 

_Our home. I am married to this man._

“Yes,” she whispered, almost voiceless, feeling the stares of the people like the burn of direct sunlight upon her skin. “Yes, let us be on our way home. Vennonya.”

And the cart lurched down the road, turning to the north.

Not surprisingly, there was no one waiting to catch them at the gate.

\---

In his hand, Arafinwë held a letter. A letter addressed to him and signed with the name of his wife’s elder brother. The Crown Prince of the Teleri.

Sighing, the golden-haired noldo let his face fall into the cradle of his hands.

Always them. It was _always them._ The Fëanárioni.

Naively, long ago, Arafinwë had looked upon those seven sons and seen victims of their father’s malice and senility. Forced and bullied into taking the Oath, those men (some hardly more than boys at the time), stood at their father’s side wide-eyed and stricken at the drawing of blood, and only loyalty to their sire kept them stayed when they must— _must!_ —have wanted to flee to the safety of the Blessed Realm, back to the green lawns of their home and the welcoming arms of their heartbroken mother. The prince could not have imagined fatherly, caring Nelyafinwë or the mild-mannered minstrel Kanafinwë or shy and bashful Morifinwë ever, of their own free will, committing murder and bringing chaos down upon the heads of all their people in the name of reclaiming three meaningless glowing rocks.

Meeting his oldest half-nephew after rebirth had been… an awakening.

Always, Nelyafinwë had been an expert at the ploys and games of court life, his face always so beautiful and his voice always so charming to behold, yet his words at contradiction with his seemingly innocuous motives. A facet that, while distasteful and overshadowed by the light-hearted and kindly veneer of the generous prince, was necessary for one who might one day sit upon the throne as King. It was a dark characteristic possessed by both Fëanáro and Nolofinwë but which had passed Arafinwë by.

Now, Nelyafinwë’s voice was in shambles, scratchy and shattered from screams and other less pleasant things. Few knew the full story of what went on in the hell of Angamando, but what little Artafindë could tell him left the golden King shuddering and wishing he’d not asked. For all that his nephew’s voice was perhaps deeper and rougher, though, the cunning and dangerous courtly creature lurking beneath that lovely face (harsher now, and gaunter, the cheekbones starker and the brows drawn farther down into a permanent scowl) was amplified. The hint of a shadow that lurked in those starlit eyes now spread and the glint of teeth between lips parted about a too-sharp smile was now more exposed. They flashed through Arafinwë’s mind, and even the memory incited instinct he’d not known he possessed.

The same man who once baked cookies for his baby brothers and flirted shamelessly with ladies in every corner was now a darker shade of his former self. Just a touch more diabolical than before. Crazier. Crueler. Wicked in the most foreign way.

That such a man was consorting with his very own niece behind his back…

Arafinwë might have feigned shock with an audience present if only for the sake of portraying faith in his own nephew’s morality, but, in truth, there was no jolt of sudden realization that buzzed down his spine and left him shooting upright with surprise. Just the sinking feeling of resignation deep in his gut. Absent though he might have been from court for many a decade, what reason was that to suppose that Nelyafinwë simply _stopped_ being who he had always been? What reason was that to suggest that his nephew did not still harbor that ravenous monster eager to pull the marionette strings of the poor peoples of court?

Naïve no longer, Arafinwë did not hesitate to suspect that this was a game for his nephew. Perhaps the lady had other motives. But Nelyafinwë? What other reason would he have to seduce a Princess of Alqualondë, a royal woman of the people he had slaughtered with his own two hands, a woman who just so happened to be his former fiancée?

And, of course, this game would cause nothing but trouble. Not only for the involved couple—never would Istelindë of Alqualondë escape the shame if these liaisons were as her father apparently suspected—but now also for the royal Noldorin family as well.

_I did not need this to darken my day._

Calling forth a servant, Arafinwë bade them fetch news of his nephew’s doings within the city walls. If Nelyafinwë was still lurking about market street, trading his wares _or_ meeting with Telerin princesses, he would be easy enough to spot. And, if a lady was present and accompanying him, they would have to bring her up to the palace. Perhaps Eärwen might even be capable of talking some sense into the girl!

His nephew Nelyafinwë might be, but Arafinwë would not excuse him of his nature on the basis of relation. The oldest Fëanárion was undoubtedly a dangerous man. Too smart in the ways of people. Too much like his father the politician. Too much like his sire the ruthless traitor and breaker of promises.

And Arafinwë felt both his heart tremble with slowly rising rage as well as the pulling and twisting of worry hanging as a heavy cloud upon his thought. That some poor girl might get sucked into the doings of the Fëanárioni was an ill thought indeed, for nothing good could possibly come of such affairs. Not with _them._

Long ago Arafinwë had given them the benefit of the doubt. Like a fool.

He had learned since then.

\---

Tirion looked different from higher in the hills.

From below it was like a distant golden star, but from above could be seen the movements of the people within the streets, little dark spots flickering about against a backdrop of white and the million glimmers of Anar’s reflection on jeweled murals and crystal fountains. Nelyafinwë did not glance back—he had seen this sight a hundred times before, she supposed—but Istelindë found it fascinating to witness. From above, she could even make out the flow of people on the streets, all flowing together on one side of the street and in the opposite way upon the other, like little dark-haired rivers.

So enamored was she that she was not exactly paying attention to the road, which had faded from glistening golden and silvered powder to simple rocky dirt as they drew further and further into the mountainous terrain. A large bump or rock beneath one wheel shifted the cart, sending it swaying, and she would have been thrown down were it not for the arm that slipped about her waist and held her steady.

Without thinking, she reached up as if to grasp the hand that must be splayed across her belly, but her fingers meet something foreign. A bony bulge layered with splotches of both smooth skin and rough grooves where edges of flesh had melded in canyons.

As though she’d laid a match to his flesh, Nelyafinwë drew his arm back.

“Careful,” was all he said, but she heard the stilted stiffness in his voice. The discomfort and the expectation of revulsion both ringing with defeat.

While she could not deny it strange to see such mutilation in the Undying Lands, his amputated hand was not so disgusting as she thought she would have imagined had she known of its presence before their meeting. Most of the wrist must have been taken, leaving the limb sawed clean off at the narrowest point of the forearm. From what she could see, the end of the limb was actually smooth and well-healed. Clearly, it had been cared for after removal.

The flesh of his wrist, stretching up his forearm in some places, was oddly marked with dark splotches and threads, shadows left by deep scars that stood out sharply upon his pale flesh, ringed about where his wrist and hand once had been. Until now, she’d seen little of his actual arm, for he kept it covered while in the city. Already, eyes followed him with distrust and even revulsion _without_ the added incentive of a hideous scar. But he _had_ pushed up his sleeves while loading the cart with supplies and never pulled them back down to hide once more the scars from her searching gaze.

Aware that he might not appreciate the gesture but too curious to stifle her urge, Istelindë reached out to brush her fingers over the scarred appendage, ignoring the way his muscles jumped at the touch of the coolness of her fingertips to his burning hot skin. “What happened?”

Silver eyes glanced over at her. “I am not certain you wish to know.”

To which Istelindë frowned and narrowed her eyes. “I think I would not have asked had I not wished to know. Are you not my husband now? Can you not tell me, your wife?”

“Tis a rather long tale, and not a pretty one besides.” The timbre of his voice was ever so slightly hesitant, more hesitant than it had yet sounded to her ears since their meeting. Nelyafinwë held himself always with such confidence, so much self-assurance, perhaps even _arrogance_ , but of this he clearly wanted not to speak overmuch and it showed in his diffidence. Even without knowledge of the circumstances of the loss of limb, Istelindë would have guessed that it had been unpleasant. Maybe a battle. Maybe an accident. Something worse she wished not to contemplate, though it lingered in the back of her thoughts like a wraith bringing chill.

“Anar will keep ill spirits away. Light does that, you know. Drives back the darkness and holds at bay the shadows.” Casually, she scooted towards him until their thighs bumped together, and she moved his handless limb to rest in her lap where she might enfold it in the cup of her tiny hands. “We have all afternoon for tale-telling.”

He was still staring at her. As though she were a strange thing, a specimen of colorful insect he had never before laid eyes upon and found, though odd, also intriguing. “If that is what you wish. This tale begins on the far shores in a land later named Losgar where the people of Fëanáro landed in the swan-ships and set them ablaze in the long night…”

\---

“Have you brought news of my nephew’s whereabouts?”

Arafinwë had been waiting impatiently for some word. An expert at playing the collected and tranquil ruler, he held a teacup in his hand and had slowly sipped it away over the last hour, his eyes caught on the gardens beyond the window of the sitting room. Usually, he took pleasure in the whispering breezes that swayed the gossamer white lace curtains and rustled the leaves of the towering trees. The scent of roses freshly in bloom reached his nose, sweet and familiar to his senses. Outwards, he might appear untroubled and peaceful, calmed by these lovely sights and perfumes, but inwardly…

Well, it took every ounce of his good breeding to keep his hand from shaking. Not in fear, mind you, but in something darker and wilder. Not oft was it that Arafinwë Finwion, the King of the Noldor of Valinórë, felt cause to tremor with rage.

Now a messenger stood in his doorway, breaths faintly heavy from swift movement. Gray eyes lowered respectfully, but Arafinwë could see from the cant of lips and the wringing of hands that the man had no good news. The King stifled the groan that vibrated in the back of his throat, begging to be released.

_Why was life never simple?_

“Your Majesty, Prince Nelyafinwë _was_ spotted at the inn on the market street this morning. A large number of witnesses have come forth claiming that he met a woman who stayed the night there, clearly a lady of Telerin descent. They sat together and conversed, though none can rightly give an account of their discourse that we have found, and then they departed together.”

_At least they were not seen going together up into a room._

“And…?”

The poor messenger gulped, his throat bobbing. “They were spotted shortly thereafter leaving the grounds of the Temple of Light arm-in-arm looking rather more fond of one another than is right for a man and a lady in public. A guard was sent to speak to the scholars therein, and especially the chief amongst them. He said that… well…”

 _Just spit it out!_ Arafinwë wanted to snap so badly! _This cannot be good if he is so hesitant to give the news unto my ears._

“He claimed that Prince Nelyafinwë brought a Telerin woman there to become his wife. They were married this morning shortly before noontime.”

_Aiya, Nelyafinwë!_

Had he been alone or with his wife, Arafinwë would have shouted aloud and thrown his hands upwards to cover his eyes in horror. As it was, he carefully set his teacup down in its saucer, resisting oh so strongly the urge to throw it at the wall and hear the delicate china shatter, and then purposefully laid his hands still upon his lap. Blank-faced, he gazed upon the messenger and imagined the foul curses and dark accusations ringing like blows through the air when Eärwen’s brother realized that Istelindë of Alqualondë had married an infamous and dangerous Kinslayer without even asking his permission or approval. Indeed, _in spite_ of his lack of approval presumed.

Truthfully, even as King, there was little Arafinwë could do about it all now. Married before the eyes of Ilúvatar, witnessed by the Valar as were most oaths even of marriage. Were that the case, none but the One himself might strike their union down once they joined together as man and wife.

“And where are my nephew and his wife now?”

Still no eye contact. More bad news.

“They were last seen in the early afternoon purchasing supplies. Cloth and other things a lady might need to make herself at home. Since then, none have seen them. It is known that they were not witnessed to have departed through either the eastern or western gates to the city, but naught else.”

No doubt they were halfway up a mountain somewhere by now. Arafinwë had a decent idea of where his half-brother’s children made their camp hidden away in the wild forests of the smaller mountains ringing Valacirya and the impossible heights of the Pelóri. Nowhere in Valinórë were they truly welcome, within or without the mountain walls, and they kept to themselves for the most part as a result.

Still, while he could easily send riders up into the pass to catch the couple, he hesitated even now to take that step. Swift and sure of foot, the horses of his stables could easily catch a slow-moving cart even on the uneven and rocky dirt trails to the north, but what would they then do with the couple? Marriage, even one such as these two had negotiated, was not illegal. Istelindë did not appear to be coerced or browbeaten. By the sound of it (though Arafinwë had not laid eyes upon the apparent love letter in person) the pair may have been conversing and planning to elope for quite some time.

Would sending Istelindë back to her father really be for the best? The marriage may not yet have been consummated—for all that some claimed the Fëanárioni to be barbarians, in no world could Arafinwë picture even a son of Fëanáro taking his wife to bed for the first time in a cart beside a dirt road in broad daylight—so annulment was, in theory, a possibility if coercion or other force was implicated in the joining. Still, to what fate would he be sending the poor girl? Back to Alqualondë in ruin, honor impinged by the possibility of an affair _with her husband at the time_ , only to be bartered off to a man who met more her father’s approval?

No, he would not do something like that. Istelindë was a grown woman, and, if she were anything alike to her cousin Artanis (his dear, beautiful, zealous, impossibly powerful and independent daughter), she had a plan and would not likely appreciate interference in her doings. Hopefully such a plan would keep her safe from Nelyafinwë’s political machinations and deceptive beguiling.

But there was no harm in offering assistance. A friendly word offered from her aunt’s husband to lend her strength or aid should she find herself in need. If, indeed, she was coerced or forced—and he would believe such accusations from only her lips or written in her hand—only then would be send riders into the mountains to take her back home without hesitation.

Lo, he had little faith in the goodwill of his dear nephew. But he prayed that even the wild Kinslaying Fëanárioni had too much honor and too much dignity to stoop to something so banal and repulsive as kidnapping and rape.

As always, though his heart beat heavy with rage, he so desperately wanted to see the best in even the worst sinners.

He so desperately wanted to have faith.

\---

“I remember not much beyond that point. Findekáno told me later that I fainted from the pain, and I have no memory of this great eagle who supposedly bore us forth to Mithrim. All I remember after seeing his face and feeling my shoulder wrenched is later waking up in the whitewashed Healing Halls…”

At that moment, Istelindë’s face was as white as any infirmary wall. Though he spoke not against it nor pulled his arm away, her grasp about the handless limb must have grown uncomfortably tight throughout the telling. Or mayhap he could not feel the way she grasped the limb so tightly, what with him having lost most feeling and blood-flow to the limb as he hung by his wrist from the side of a cliff until his shoulder joint was mangled and the flesh about his wrist burst into open sores and then began to rot and peel away.

Retelling it now, he seemed so _removed_. His gaze was distant, but his voice trembled not. No anger. No tears. No sorrow. In the swirling silver of his irises she could barely make out the darkened remembrance of pain, let alone spot the trauma that _must_ have been there somewhere. And he had told her almost nothing of what went on _before_ the hanging.

_“I met him… the Black Enemy. And his is a visage one needs see only once in all the many long years of the world.”_

With a slow exhale, she loosened her grip upon his arm. To think, that had been only the first _twenty years_ of Exile. What horrors had befallen the Exiled people since?

Stories of these epic deeds and dreaded horrors were not spoken in Alqualondë. Any mention at all of the Exiles, though not strictly forbidden, was a social taboo. One need not be told _not_ to speak of those Noldor who came into their haven and slaughtered their kinfolk, who stole away their livelihood and their work of craft only later to use it as an instrument of betrayal. Even the Noldor who _had not_ taken part in those black deeds were _frowned upon_ by the Telerin people whose trust had forever been tarnished and whose hearts, once so very open and so very welcoming, were closed and wrapped in thick, unbreakable chains.

Feeling a bit shaky and sick to her stomach, Istelindë wondered if her people would see such trials as repayment. Clearly, Nelyafinwë did not think of his imprisonment—and Eru only knew what else they had done to him that he failed to share or feared to mention—as some sort of punishment for slaughtering the Telerin mariners. He told his story and asked not for her pity nor for her forgiveness. Did not lay blame upon ill fate or the Curse of the Noldor or even the doorstep of the One for his misfortune but admitted calmly to his own mistakes.

_“I was foolish. Young and overconfident and not yet come into my role as King. Even then, I had trust in the words of the Enemy. But Morgoth Bauglir is a liar above all other things. A being of deceit.” His head bowed faintly, eyes downcast. “And I was deceived.”_

Treacherously, her heart panged with sympathy. For a Kinslayer, of all people.

“I am sorry for bringing back such memories.” Her voice was so small, so quiet against the afternoon buzz of insects and the squeal and clamor of the horses’ hooves and the wheels on the stony road below. “It was not my intent. I was insensitive.”

“You are my wife, and I would not hide my past from you.” Again, he was looking at her, and the lines of his face were drawn and tired, wholly different from the confident smirk and the dangerous scowl of earlier. Softer now that they were no longer beneath the public eye. More open to her scrutiny. Maybe even a bit vulnerable. “I have done things for which I am not proud, Istelindë. I have seen war and death, have it written in runes of suffering upon my skin, and you will see them all. No point is there in hiding such truths.

“In any case, while it is a very _visible_ injury, and a disabling one, I remember little of the actual deed that was done to cut my hand away. By that time, I was already insensate. Findekáno claims that I made not even a sound.” Lifting the limb, he turned it about, examining the smooth melding of flesh at the very end and what Istelindë now knew to be the remnants of scars and discoloration where necrotic flesh and infection had chiseled away at the tissue twining up his arm. “Truly, it is a troublesome thing, to learn to use a different hand. Naturally, I was inclined to write and make swordplay with my right hand, and I needed to relearn with my left. And some things are beyond my ability to do with only one set of fingers. Hunting with bow and arrow, for one.”

The way he spoke seemed odd to her ears. Like the loss was an annoyance rather than a trauma. If Istelindë had awoken in some unfamiliar room with her hand cut clean off and _missing_ … she suspected it would have ended in screaming and shrieking and crying and panicking until she dropped from exhaustion. Yet, he seemed not to care overmuch or even be too emotionally distressed by the debilitating loss of limb. Had he not been horrified to find a piece of his very body was just _gone?_

Her skepticism was reflected in the wry twist of his lips. “Any tenure in thralldom or imprisonment within the Iron Hells would change a man, and I will not deny that I was very much changed. When I awoke to find that Findekáno had cut my hand _off_ to _save_ my life… well, it was not my finest hour.

“Still…” He released a strained noise that might have been an attempt at laughter, “If my right hand were to appear right this moment, I am not certain what I would do with it. After living without for centuries, I would probably forget it was there shortly after the discovery.”

Together, they sat in the awkward silence upon the tail end of his words. Staring down at her hands, now oddly empty of the weight that had been his arm, she doubted that she might understand anything at all about this strange man, this Exile whose eyes had seen all the Hither Lands and experienced their greatest beauty and most terrible darkness. In the face of that—facing endless years of imprisonment (maybe physical torture) with no hope and no end in sight, being denied even the ability to _die_ —the mere problem of a loveless marriage seemed a bit trifling. Almost silly.

Never would she allow herself tears over this decision, this plot of hers hatched and carried out to escape the threat of marital imprisonment, though now they threatened with a sting at the corners of her eyes. Still, the creeping heat of mortification stained her cheeks. No indication had he made, but might he think her childish? Secretly, behind those glorious and terrifying silver eyes, was he laughing at the ridiculousness of her presumed plight?

“Look not so disheartened,” he finally said, shattering their silence. “Shall we stop for a moment? Get some sunlight and rest a while? There is no rush to reach home.”

Hiding away in a room by herself sounded awfully tempting at that moment. Then, perhaps, she would feel less like he was laughing at her within the confines of his head. But such sanctuary required that they reach their destination. Nevertheless, she could see lovely blue and yellow flowers dotting in the nearby hills, and the sunlight glimmering down to set the grass to green fire, and it looked welcoming and comforting in the wake of such a chilling tale. It would at least give her temporary escape from sitting in silence with her husband.

Unable to even bring herself to speak, she at least managed a nod.

\---

Something was not quite right.

Carefully, Nelyafinwë helped his new wife down to the road and watched as she slipped past him and wandered towards the open grass strewn with wildflowers, her pale blue dress lifted at the hems by a soft breeze. Were he not distracted by her sudden quiet and pallor, he would have spent more time focused on her slender calves bared as her skirts tangled about her knees.

_Maybe it would have been wiser to forgo the tale-telling?_

But when else would he share such things except in privacy between them? He had no intention of _hiding_ his past. If, indeed, he succeeded in seducing the lovely, willowy creature whose footsteps were so silent upon the land, she would see him in all his hideous truth. Body and soul. The marks of barbed whips and red-hot irons to match the torn ache of his vocal chords. The scars etched into his flesh with every battle and every slaughter. The black stains across his spirit, sacrifices in the name of salvation that forever slipped through his fingers.

He was an ugly being. Tainted and bitter and half-mad. The loveliness of his face was nothing more than a pretty illusion.

And she was something pure and compassionate. Untouched by the darker shadow of reality kept at bay by the towering fangs of the Pelóri and the wideness of the Great Sea. He could hear her voice softly humming as she knelt upon the lawn and ran her fingers across the crowns of the flowers. And the sound was so saddened. By his past, well-deserved and, though not forgotten, accepted and pushed to the darkest corners of his mind to rot in silence.

_Would that she would curse my name instead. I am, at the very least, accustomed to such verbal abuse as that._

As he approached her, his boots were loud against the earth. Never had he bothered with silence in movement. Like his father before him, his steps were always heavy and confident, strides long but never rushed. And she heard his approach, half-turned to look up at his face as he cast upon her his shadow.

More gently than the word might imply, he threw himself upon the grass at her side and sprawled onto his back, letting his hair tangle with the vibrant greenery, feeling the longer grass tickle at the edges of his cheek and jaw. The sunlight _was_ rather nice upon his skin, a deep warmth sinking down into his bones, spreading slowly but surely throughout his veins as he let his eyes slip closed to the sound of her humming and the rustle of her fingers playing gently between the flowers. 

It could have been seconds, or maybe it had been hours, before he realized that her voice had gone quiet and her fingers still. A single eye opened, and he found she was looking upon his still form, lips parted but hesitant to speak whatever words wished so desperately to depart.

“Tell me about your home, Nelyafinwë.”

“It will be _our_ home,” he immediately said, though, in his mind, he wondered at the word _home_. Certainly, the mountains were a safe place to stay. Like a camp but less temporary. Like a fortress but less protected. Like a home but less welcome. Home was something long gone, lost in the shadows and mazes of his dreams. Not the niceties or the soft beds or the good food or the wide-open lawns, but the feeling of togetherness that had crumbled and fallen by the wayside somewhere along the way. Important in retrospect but forgotten in the time of greatest need, abandoned like a broken toy or useless trinket somewhere on the long road of his miserable and pointless existence.

Home had been his mother’s cheerful smile and his father’s open laughter. His brothers gathered around the table in harmony and the scent of baking pastries and apple tarts. A harp echoing through the evening and the wildness of a hunt through the woods.

Home was innocence. And he would never have that again.

But his house… about that he might speak.

“It is rather small, made less for living and more for simple housing. Rather bare as well, for I had little skill in craft before the Darkening and less now that I have only one hand with which to work. There is a hearth and a room for cooking and dining and a sitting room at the very front when one enters the front door. Naturally, with my lacking a second hand, my siblings assisted me in its making.”

Interest sparkled in her blue eyes. “So, your brothers are there, too. Where we go.”

Part of him winced at the possibility of her anger. After all, he’d not told her fully and openly that his siblings essentially lived _with_ him. They had other buildings, of course, for housing horses and livestock as well as equipment. Sheds and a barn and a second, smaller, place that resembled vaguely a house. But his was the largest abode and the only with a hearth. Naturally, they all migrated into his cabin when the weather started to grow too cold even for Turkafinwë to enjoy camping beneath the stars.

Currently, they just sprawled wherever they felt like. Some in trees and some beneath the stars and some on the beaten-up, cushion-laden chairs around the fire. In the longest, coldest night of the year, they might light the fire and then migrate up into the unused space of the upper floors, making their camp where the heat pooled beneath the roof instead of the cold and drafty floor where winter crept in through cracks and slipped between door and frame.

“They are,” he asserted. “Kanafinwë, Turkafinwë, Morifinwë, Curufinwë and the twins, Pityafinwë and Telufinwë.”

There was a little hiccupping sound, and he caught her covering her laughter with a demure hand over her lips. The shield did nothing to hide the faint appearance of dimples in her cheeks. “My father was not the most creative at naming for all his skill in the crafting of jewels and the forging of weapons.”

_Or maybe he was just obsessed with their grandfather’s legacy and love._

“And Nelyafinwë,” she said, her voice still upraised with the after-tremor of laughter. “Do you all address one another by ataressë then?”

“Shortened forms. My little brothers call me Nelyo for the most part.” If she thought it odd that his brothers called him “Third”, she said nothing about it. Instead…

“It will take forever to get each face to the right name.” Lazily, he watched her fingers tangle in the grass and sway through the taller weeds, plucking gently and braiding the slender stalks together. “And twins as well! I hope they will not be offended at my mistaking one accidently for the other.”

“Surely you will learn their differences quickly.”

Her sigh was loud in the afternoon. Releasing her braided grasses, she collapsed upon her back and then rolled onto her belly, her chin coming to rest on her arms where they crossed, elbows planted upon the ground. Silver-white hair pooled about her like molten snow. Very briefly, he caught sight of the gap between her breasts as they were pressed together, and he wondered suddenly at whether her nipples were as pink a shade as her lips.

What if he were to seduce her right here and take her as his wife in the grass upon this hillside, making love with only Anar and a handful of wildflowers as their witness?

Closing his eyes, he thrust the daydream aside lest it manifest itself too physically and blatantly to hide. Such advances would not be welcome. Not yet at the very least. Best stay patient and persevere, savoring the rising burn of eagerness lit in his belly so that release would be all the sweeter and more satisfying when it came. Here, in the Blessed Realm, no demons of the night would sneak in and destroy her beauty nor steal her away in death nor drive her away from his arms. All the time in the world had he to admire from afar and work tenderly upon the steeled gates of her heart until, finally, she surrendered to his gentle onslaught and passion.

“What say you to a nap, my dearest Princess?”

He felt her approach well before he opened his eyes and bathed in the coolness of the shadow she cast over his lounging body. Without warning, she draped her head upon his chest, curling until her knees brushed against his thigh and hip, and his widened eyes gazed down upon her only to see her face hidden by her pale hair’s thick waves. “A nap sounds lovely, my faithful Prince.”

There was no rush. Closing his eyes, he leaned back. No rush at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:
> 
> vessenya (Q) = my wife  
> vennonya (Q) = my husband  
> Fëanárioni (Q) = sons of Fëanáro  
> Anar (Q) = the Sun  
> ataressë (Q) = father-name


	5. Alone With Seven Kinslayers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Home sweet home. It comes with the sudden realization that there are six more men living up there in the mountains with Istelindë and her husband. And all of them are Kinslayers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: dysfunctional family, mental health issues, men being jerks and making asses of themselves (just a bit)
> 
> Notes on Names: So, I have a quirk where, in my strange head-canon, elves are always addressed by father-name unless they give permission for a person to address them otherwise. The father-name is (usually) chosen at or near birth, much like a modern given name, while the mother-name is meant to be much more personal and individual (even prophetic) and sometimes isn't given until quite some time after birth. However, I also think that some of the brothers prefer being addressed by their mother-name over their father-name--thus their Sindarin names all being translations of their mother-names barring Curufin. Below, I have made a little list of names (Sindarin and then Quenya with the mother-name, father-name and shortened name, respectively) so that, for those not used to or familiar with naming conventions beyond the Sindarin names used in the Silmarillion, you can figure out who is being spoken to or about. I'll include it in future chapters to help minimize confusion :)
> 
> Maedhros = Maitimo = Nelyafinwë = Nelyo  
> Maglor = Makalaurë = Kanafinwë = Káno  
> Celegorm = Tyelkormo = Turkafinwë = Turko  
> Caranthir = Carnistir = Morifinwë = Moryo  
> Curufin = Atarinkë = Curufinwë = Curvo  
> Amrod = Ambarussa = Pityafinwë = Pityo  
> Amras = Umbarto = Telufinwë = Telvo
> 
> You will find that I switch between these names depending on whose POV we are experiencing. For example, the brothers all address each other by father-name (or shortened form/nickname, when they're feeling affectionate), but Istelindë will address many of them, throughout the story, by mother-name if they have asked her to do so. Sorry for any confusion in advance. This is what happens when you become obsessed.

They arrived at Nelyafinwë’s home rather later than expected.

Just barely the structures peeked from between trees splashed in golden and burnished orange light, the leaves set to yellow flame where the brilliance turned them transparent but for their dark veins. At first, Istelindë could make out only a house or cabin set upon a foundation of stone, its eaves hanging out over a porch three steps up from the dirt path. Then, beyond that, she could see a barn and a second, smaller structure as well, still half-hidden from view.

Movement against the blinding sunset backdrop caught her eye. Bodies, tall and broad, slipping through the shadows like wraiths or ghosts. A shudder rippled down her spine, though Nelyafinwë was unperturbed at her side and made no move to reach for a weapon, calm and collected. Those shadows circled as the travelers neared, drawn forth from their hidden work or craft by the sound of the cart wheeling its way up the beaten and bumpy dirt road, echoing through the lazy evening glow of the forests and the rainbow-stricken tower of the mountains beyond, announcing the return of their brother. Then, faintly over the huffs of the horses and the clopping of their hooves, she could hear voices.

Even as they pulled to a stop before the cabin (and it was so much larger than her cottage, two stories and very sturdy, not yet cozy but neither unwelcoming in that way of a blank canvas that had yet to be filled) a figure appeared, trotting down the steps. “Ah, Nelyo, you have finally returned! We were beginning to wonder…”

It was a beautiful voice for certain, the deep ring of bells and the majesty of golden light, trailing off into shocked silence. Had once Nelyafinwë had such a voice, before…?

As though nothing were awry—as though his brother were not staring at the pair upon the cart with all the confusion of a man who had never gazed upon a married couple before—Nelyafinwë leapt down and raised a cloud of dust when his boots contacted the earth. Reaching up, he graciously helped her down as she made to scoot after him, lowering her gently so that her feet barely stirred the dust.

“Nelyo…?” The man’s voice was questioning. Uncertain.

“This is Kanafinwë, second-born,” Nelyafinwë explained, not acknowledging the questioning flavor of his sibling’s address, and Istelindë let her eyes take in the new person standing before her. Tall, though not as tall as her husband, and as dark-haired as she imagined a proper noldo to be. They shared a bit of bone structure, though this new man’s face was a bit softer and his silver eyes more liquid than fire. Abashedly, she could not help but review her prejudices and decide that _this_ was what she had been expecting when she first pictured Nelyafinwë in her mind’s eye. 

“Kanafinwë, this is Istelindë. My wife,” Nelyafinwe explained matter-of-factly. Like this was all planned and expected, no reason to ask further questions.

Silver eyes blinked dumbly in response. “Wife?”

But Nelyafinwë was already circling around the cart, beginning to unload supplies even as more tall figures began to approach cautiously, their eyes flashing in the dying daylight. Shyly, Istelindë turned back to her new brother-in-law, apparently the second son. “Greetings, Kanafinwë, hánonya.”

Those big eyes took her in skeptically, burrowing into her flesh as if trying to understand exactly what it was about her that had caused Nelyafinwë to marry her without warning and bring her back with him to self-inflicted exile. In the background, she could hear her husband ordering his younger brothers about, handing sacks of grain and pieces of heavy equipment down one by one, but all her focus was on this scrutiny. Not much thought had she given to her husband’s brothers, though he had passingly mentioned that they lived with him in the mountains. Until this moment, their faces had been blurred and their personalities mere shadow-constructs of her husband’s temperament. Only now, looking upon Kanafinwë’s face—dissimilar in many ways from Nelyafinwë’s sharpness and faintly freckled cheeks—did she see them as individuals. As _real._

_Kinslayers. Seven of them. And me. Alone._

Kanafinwë cleared his throat, a nervous gesture as his silvery eyes averted. “A sister ought to call me Makalaurë, should she desire so.”

His amilessë. “Is that what you would prefer?”

“Aye.” And his cheeks went the faintest shade of dull rose, dusting just upon his cheekbones and across his nose.

If it had been just this one brother—or even one at a time—Istelindë thought she could handle the awkwardness of the introductions and the distant small-talk and shyness. But, already, a pair were approaching. One dark-haired and one light-haired, both with silvery eyes brighter and hotter even than Nelyafinwë’s.

She glanced swiftly between Kanafinwë and the new dark-haired brother. Though about the same height, at least these two were different enough in face and body that she could not mistake one for the other accidently. Kanafinwë was softer about his cheeks and his lips, his eyebrows higher and arched gently, his torso built of a slightly slenderer make, and his eyes were darker and swirled with silver glimmers. This new dark-haired brother stood tall and his facial features could have cut for their sharp edges and angles. It gave her the impression of permanent temper and standoffishness. And he was scowling.

And the silver-haired brother… The way he smiled made her shiver. Broad and mocking and cruel. Everything that the Teleri imagined a cold-hearted killer to be. The only thing that would have made him _more_ threatening would have been blood-splatter upon his broad hands and dried beneath his ragged nails.

Maybe her husband sensed her distress, or maybe he simply knew his brothers too well, but Istelindë could not help a silent breath of relief nonetheless when Nelyafinwë chose that moment to appear at her shoulder. That his height was greater and his face sterner than any of his brothers was comforting. Almost did she dare to slip behind his back and hide in his cast shadow, peeking around his arm to stare at these jewel-eyed monsters with their empty, toothy grins and harsh, stony scowls and their sharp, belligerent white faces.

“These two are Turkafinwë and Curufinwë, third and fifth brothers.” He motioned first to the fey silver-haired being and then to the unfriendly dark-haired one second. “Hannonyar, this is my wife, Istelindë.”

A broad hand rested on her shoulder in support, and she looked up at her husband’s face. There was a wrinkle between his brows, either of annoyance or strain. “Curufinwë is the only of my brothers who has been married before. His wife lives in the outskirts of Tirion, and his son is still abroad in the Hither Lands.”

Istelindë gave the scowling brother a second look, trying to guess what about him might have appealed. Pale though he was, the expression gave the impression of shadow across his features. Handsome, but tainted by a half-hidden malice creeping about in the dark.

_What could she have seen in this man?_

But these were also to be her new brothers, and Istelindë forced herself to smile and turn back to meet their garish eyes and terrifying looks. “Greetings, Turkafinwë and Curufinwë, hánonyar. I hope we can get along.”

Not surprisingly, Curufinwë just gave her a _look_ and huffed. The fifth brother brushed past her and made his way inside. But Turkafinwë leaned towards her, his hand reaching out to catch her chin. And his touch was boiling hot. “It’s Tyelkormo, woman.” And then he followed the other, leaving her trembling faintly in his wake, struggling against the terror-widening of her eyes and the hummingbird wings of her heartbeat.

Nelyafinwë’s hand, still resting on her shoulder, squeezed as if to comfort and then slid down her outer arm to catch at her elbow. Gently, he tugged her forward. “Let us go inside so you can acquaint yourself with your new home. Try not to let my brothers bother you.”

Nodding, feeling terribly out of her depth, Istelindë allowed her husband to catch her hand and help her up the steps. Their hands were still held tightly, her right and his left, as they crossed the threshold into the house. At the very least, that lent a little bit of warmth to her heart, for newlyweds should be as one when they entered their marriage home, not two.

The inside looked… not terrible, but not well-kept either. The rug before the hearth was ragged, and soot was creeping out across the floor. Clearly, they hadn’t bothered to sweep either, for dust and dirt had spread about like a thin film that stirred with each new set of boots. The furniture was old but sturdy (not all that clean, though), and their blankets were of a simple and cheap make. None of them, clearly, had talent in the arts of knitting or sewing. Such things were not typically included in the education of a prince (or, perhaps, a warrior abroad).

Bare walls stared back at her. Even her little cottage had had a tapestry or two to cover up the empty spaces and give the place a bit of life and love. With a husband now and a new house to tidy, there would be less time for weaving and sewing and knitting for a time, but perhaps she could use the quiet evenings in by the fire to pattern quilts, gifts to her new husband and each brother in turn. What they had now were rags, well-used and worn thin with holes and snags, and she would see to it that her new family had thick, heavy blankets to keep warm in the coming of winter’s chill.

_I will need to visit the markets again for more supplies._

Beyond the sitting room, she could see a staircase ascending to a floor overhead, unremarkable and bare-boned compared with the sweeping staircases of marble and railings of pearl that filled her childhood memories. The woodwork, at least, had been done with care. Smooth and etched with curling, abstract designs.

Nelyafinwë kept an arm about her as they moved forward, and Istelindë glanced back to see more men trailing in through the door behind them. Turkafinwë and Curufinwë were already inside, and there was Kanafinwë. Three others—another dark-haired and two red-headed (the twins, she guessed) also piled into the spacious room with swirls of dust and fallen leaves marking their path. Oh yes, this place would need a thorough sweeping and dusting. And a rug on which to wipe their boots.

“Now that all of you are assembled,” Nelyafinwë began, and she felt his hand upon her waist clench ever so faintly, “This is Istelindë of Alqualondë. My wife.”

For a moment, there was a heavy silence. And then noise. Lots of noise.

Six men with their deep voices all booming in the small space at once, and she could not make out what a single one of them was trying to say. Just that there was a wild mixture of surprise and derision and confusion all mixed together until her ears were ringing. Too many silver-white eyes all shining at once now mixed with vibrant green flashes, and they blazed down upon her like stars blinking in the dark. Just trying to keep track of them all as they closed in, crushing her back against Nelyafinwë’s chest, was like trying to chase shadows through the midnight sky.

“Quiet!”

Istelindë jolted in surprise, feeling the vibration of her husband’s voice rumble deep in his chest and through her back, jockeying for supremacy over the throbbing of her heart. Immediately, the brothers quieted, and stillness filled the air as they all winced back to give the couple space.

“My marital business is my own,” he told them, and his voice brokered no argument in that matter. “For reasons that I feel no need to explain to any of you, I have decided to take this woman as my wife. She will now be living here, amongst us, in my house, and I expect you to treat her with the respect that _the wife of the head of your House_ deserves. Or I _will_ make you regret your poor decisions.

“Now,” he nudged her forward, “In order from oldest to youngest, my brothers are Kanafinwë, Turkafinwë…” He gestured to the two familiar faces. Kanafinwë offered her a hesitant smile, and Turkafinwë inclined his silvered head.

“Morifinwë…” This dark-haired brother had verdant eyes rather than silver, setting him apart from his other dark-haired siblings, as well as a smattering of faint freckles across his cheeks as had his eldest brother. Briefly, his eyes met hers and then looked away. There was no twist of disgust in his lips. Rather, his cheeks flushed darkly with crimson and his fingers fidgeted anxiously with the edge of his tunic in contradiction to his severe frown.

_A shy Kinslayer? Who would ever have thought?_

Next, as expected, was the last dark-haired brother. “Curufinwë, of course,” Nelyafinwë said with a gesture towards the scowling brother, and then he finished with “And the twins, Pityafinwë and Telufinwë.”

One was solemn-faced and faintly bowed his head. His green eyes were of the same make and vibrancy as Morifinwë’s, but not playful or laughing as had been those of all the twins Istelindë had ever met. And the last brother, his twin, had hair of a faintly brighter shade of copper but otherwise seemed identical. For a few moments, she wondered how she was ever going to put the correct name to the correct twin, right up until Telufinwë turned his head just enough that she caught sight of the right half of his face.

Swirling, messy burn scars reached up across his jaw and cheek like clawed hands and slid down over the corner of his chin and twisted about his throat, an obscene necklace of flesh melted like wax and allowed to harden deformed. Most of his face, barring one cheek, was untouched by the discoloration and malformed skin, but the part that she _could_ see made Istelindë feel a bit light-headed with both instinctive disgust but also violently churning horror. For, to have such scars, he must have been _set on fire_.

Had he survived the flames? Or had they been the instrument of his demise?

_I would never dare ask. Already, Nelyafinwë had taught me the danger in seeking answers about the happenings of the Hither Lands._

Valinórë truly was sheltered.

“I am honored to meet you all, hánonyar.” Her breeding would not allow her to escape the shallow curtsy, though the motion of sweeping her foot across the floor led to grit slipping into her shoes, wriggling between her toes with the consistency of coarse sand, leaving her struggling not to wrinkle her nose.

And it didn’t help that they were all staring at her. Had she been in the company of her cousins or siblings, she would have asked if she had dirt on her face, but the silence seemed so utterly heavy that she doubted joking would be welcome. Or elicit laughter. Did these bright-eyed, stern-faced men even know how to laugh? Nelyafinwë had chuckled and smirked, but she had not heard him genuinely _laugh._

“Well,” Tyelkormo finally said, “At least she is lovely to look upon.”

Snickering abounded, and Nelyafinwë hand twitched within hers as though it wanted to rise and cover his mouth before his groaning sigh could escape. Alas, such was not to be. No flush was there upon his cheeks, but the look that Nelyafinwë sent his brothers was long-suffering and tired, like a father who knew his scolding would do nothing to quell the poor behavior of his giant brood of children.

“Let me show you the rest of the house and help you settle your things into our room,” Nelyafinwë said through the backdrop of whispering voices and soft, mocking laughs. And Istelindë could not help but be thankful to leave the six brothers behind.

\---

Whatever the men were cooking, it smelled burnt.

Istelindë could not help but tilt her head slightly to the side in confusion, eyes following the movements of her new younger brother Tyelkormo as he held a skewered hunk of meat over the fire, twisting it around and around with his hand until all sides looked equally tough and slightly blackened. And she could not help but wrinkle her nose as he pulled it out of the flames and ripped a chunk off with his teeth.

Nelyafinwë must have seen the disapproval upon her face, for the look he shot his brother was darkened with annoyance. “Must you, Turko?”

None of the others seemed surprised. Morifinwë stared painfully towards the window as though he contemplated jumping through it to escape the sudden tension of the room. Curufinwë looked entirely disinterested in the proceedings. And poor Makalaurë just sighed.

 _Is this how they always eat?_ Tyelkormo ripped another chunk of meat off with his teeth, and the princess that still resided somewhere within Istelindë’s soul winced back in horror. It was like watching a beast eat, all uncouth and barbaric. On top of that, it seemed that the meat was more carbonized than not, and the only flavoring that might have been laden upon its flesh prior to its destruction and consumption was salt.

_I would rather starve._

“Have we any more meat?” she asked suddenly, drawing all eyes towards her face. Tyelkormo’s blazing irises dimmed with the narrowing of his eyes.

“Aye, there is more where this came from.” He leaned back from his place on the dusty rug before the hearth, lazily tossing his long legs about. “The buck who gave this meat was butchered just yesterday. Still plenty left.”

 _Do not glare_ , she thought as she stared at the dirty soles of his boots. _Do not glare at your new brother._

Something would need to be done about that.

But one thing at a time.

“And how about herbs? Vegetables?”

They all exchanged looks, somewhere between amused and exasperated. “We have an herb garden,” Makalaurë told her hesitantly when none of the others dared reply, “But it has not been kept very diligently. What might be in it, I know not. We do not really… ah… have need for such things.”

_We shall see about that!_

“Well, I, for one, am not going to be eating bland, half-burnt meat off a stick each night. It’s hardly a proper meal.” Istelindë straightened her back and brushed nonexistent dust from the wrinkles in her skirts as she stood. “Tyelkormo, bring me some of your venison. Something tender with a bit of fat if it can be spared. I’ll see about making us all a real dinner.”

The third brother’s back straightened abruptly, and silver-white eyes looked up at her, wide and dumbfounded. It was as if Tyelkormo could not believe she had dared to give him a direct order. As if he had expected her to remain a silent, cowed little female content to wallow in bad food and uncouth company. Well, none of that! She tapped her slipper-clad foot upon the dirty floor and allowed her arms to cross even as her chin hiked up and her eyes narrowed to slits. “Well, are you going to make me wait on you all night, little brother?”

Nelyafinwë’s gaze was resting between her shoulders, though it felt neither disapproving nor angry. She ignored it.

And Tyelkormo, beneath her expectant stare and slowly raised brow, lurched to his feet and scooted around her towards the door without even a protest. The long, braided tail of his endless pale locks had scarcely disappeared through the doorway and his feet echo in long, bounding strides down the steps when she turned back and focused in on her next victim.

“Makalaurë,” she said, and the second brother stiffened. “Show me this herb garden. I will see if anything is salvageable.”

“Of course, nésa.” He obediently rose to his feet and led her in the opposite direction, back towards the kitchen, and Istelindë met her husband’s searching gaze for only a fraction of a moment before she passed into the next room and out of sight.

She’d been shown the kitchen earlier. Though it was also not as clean as she would prefer, the table splotched with unknown sticky messes and old stains, it would be usable after a good scrubbing. But Nelyafinwë had taken her no farther than that, not out the back door that Makalaurë now held open, spilling the flickering yellow-golden light of lamps from outside across the floorboards.

This doorway led not to a welcoming porch upon which to enjoy the cool night breeze and the sound of crickets and owls. Instead, its stairs were of gray stone, a bridge that led down into a small and enclosed grassy space cleared of undergrowth. The evening light had long faded with Arien’s descent through the Doors of Night, yet light was not needed for Istelindë to judge the truthfulness of her new brother’s earlier words. It was plain to see that an attempt had been made at a simple herb garden by inexperienced and clumsy hands, but that it had long since gone untended. Some common herbs were recognizable, amongst them the handful Istelindë would need to give _some_ taste to their dinner, but they were spread out at odd intervals, some too close together, some overshadowed by a larger and more virulent plant or weed or insidious vining flower taking advantage of the space and the shade. If there were vegetables once, she could see no sign of them now, but there were a line of very wild tomato plants springing up here and there, their ripe fruit gone unharvested.

Despite the poor state, Istelindë still felt herself smiling as she took the little stone stairs down to touch upon the earth. Kicking off her slippers, she let her toes wriggle and play between the long blades of grass, ticklish and soft. And then she knelt beside a tiny rosemary plant buried haphazardly half-above ground in a little mound of soil, and she let her pale hands touch the damp, dark mulch and dirt, feeling its stability and its earthiness and its corporeal solidity. She let the feeling take her mind away from the troubles of the day to a place so much simpler and kinder than politics and marriages and strange Kinslayers.

She sighed and closed her eyes, tracing the leaves of the little plant gently. Only a tiny garden had she space to keep back in Alqualondë where the soil was not ideal and her yard lacked the room for growing things. Just a few simple herbs and flowers had she kept and tended there, but now she would have this entire space.

“My lady? Sister Istelindë?”

Makalaurë’s voice was deep and strong, but uncertainty trembled like a slightly sour tone in his harmony. It was all she could do to turn her head and look up at him where he stood still in the doorway, his white face cast with streaks of golden light and his eyes seeming to be part of the milky twirls of stars in the night sky.

“Come and sit with me.” She patted the earth beside her.

His feet were hesitant as a fawn’s upon the grass as he approached, and he did not crouch down at her side. Instead, he shifted from foot to foot. “I am not made for such things. Besides, it is dark already…”

“You are hardly too old to learn new skills,” she scoffed. “Sit, and I will show you how to harvest rosemary.”

Just as had Tyelkormo earlier, Makalaurë complied with little fight and an odd look upon his features. A furrow in his brow and a small, thoughtful frown. But, unlike her silver-haired brother whose smile made her shiver and whose voice felt like ice sliding down her spine, this brother was all liquid eyes with his deep, soothing voice, and Istelindë felt questions rise upon her tongue, begging to be asked and answered.

“You have an odd look about your face,” she murmured. “Did I say something strange?”

Even as she asked, she guided his hands towards the tiny plant, and he was watching her actions and copying the way she gently broke off the stems. Even in the light of dusk, she could see marks upon his palms, crisscrossing facets burned into his flesh, silvery outlines of broken skin like a spider’s web stretching all the way out to his fingertips. From a brief touch, she knew those silver lines were smooth and unexpectedly warm.

“Not strange,” he told her. “But when you use that tone of voice, you remind me a bit of my mother. She said things just as you do, so demanding without room for dallying or wasting precious time. To put up with Atar she had to be strong, unafraid to boss all her boys around.”

His smile was distant and fond. But, also, sad. And Istelindë felt her heart get both lighter and yet tremble and ache like a strained muscle buried deep beneath her ribs, pulsing with each slow breath in the darkness. Pain and empathy, echoing out from her spirit to match the sorrow she sensed in his crying out for understanding.

Foolish, it was, because these creatures were dangerous. Eldar they were, people like her and her family and _her people_ , but, at the same time, hidden somewhere beneath the mirror-lake pools of old grief and unshed tears, there must be a monster lurking. Staring out of those gray eyes, shielded behind deceptive beauty and sweetness, the softness of his half-smile and the golden ringing of his heavenly voice.

It was so easy to forget exactly who—and what—this man was. What _all of them_ were. Even her husband with his charming wordplay and smoky-pale eyes.

_Kinslayers._

She was not quite ready to see them as _people_ rather than _monsters._

People with mothers who nagged and fathers who were difficult and stubborn. People who had memories of childhood in long-past days of blissful ignorance. People who fondly reminisced about their family rather than embroiling themselves in dastardly plots and wicked schemes day in and day out.

Makalaurë did not detect her sudden imbalance. His eyes were far off somewhere she had never been, somewhere she would never see. “I think Turko felt it as well. No one could ever order him about except for her, Nerdanel, Amillë. Atar’s chastising and Nelyo’s disappointed looks would break upon his independence like waves break upon a jagged cliff face and disperse into nothingness, and yet a single word from her and he would trip over his own feet to see her happy.”

She never would have guessed. Tyelkormo seemed too wild for anyone to influence. A feline creature who needed to be plied and bargained with, who could not be coerced. Too free and untamed. Too terrifying and unhinged, fallen apart like old, cracked marble.

“You should all get used to a bit of bossing around,” she said, driving away her own unease with falsely confident words. “Maybe you are used to living strangely and wildly up here in the mountains, but a little bit of civilized behavior would hardly hurt. After all, you cannot feasibly stay cooped up here forever.”

“We ought to,” he whispered even as they ran short on stems to harvest, and Istelindë was grateful that standing gave her the excuse to pull away from the conversation. Little did she want to discuss what a Kinslayer ought or ought not do in repayment for his sins. Little did she think it ought to be her place to make such decisions.

Let Ilúvatar and the Valar decide. If they thought these men worthy of rebirth, who was she to question their will? Who was she to decide their intent?

It was all too complicated. All who were reborn had a second chance. Was it right to throw it away in repentance for past deeds? Was it spitting in the face of the One to pass by such a gift? Was it about deserving or earning or forgiving and forgetting?

“This will be plenty.” She cradled the slender stems with their little evergreen leaves in the cup of her hand and made for the door. Nothing like trying to scavenge up a decent meal to drive dangerous thoughts from the mind. Such things should be contemplated alone with a quiet and unburdened mind but only in the light, neither in uncertain company nor in the dark where the shadows of doubt and hatred lurked.

Makalaurë followed her inside. Blessedly, he did not try to continue their discourse.

It was for the best.

\---

It was a surprise, but perhaps it should not have been.

Somehow, Istelindë had taken a large cooking pot and thrown together something that actually smelled good enough to make his stomach grumble and his tongue feel swollen against the backs of his teeth. How a handful of simple ingredients, meat and herbs and sliced up potatoes, scraped together could turn into something so promising, he knew not, but it found himself helplessly leaning in through the doorway nonetheless, wondering when he might take his first taste of his wife’s cooking.

In such a short amount of time, she had even thrown together some dough and placed it already in their small, mostly untouched oven. Freshly-baked bread. It had been so very long.

She’d taken a rag to the table, and Kanafinwë was seated at the small spot of cleanliness, carefully tying together small bundles of herbs and hanging them near the window for reasons Nelyafinwë knew not. Turkafinwë had taken a seat near to the cooking fire, his eyes watching as Istelindë bustled back and forth tending the improvised meal, and Curufinwë was gravitating towards the kitchen as well, blocked only by Nelyafinwë’s presence occupying the doorway. The third and fifth brothers rarely were apart for long.

Truthfully, Nelyafinwë was having a hard time removing his eyes from her and her swishing blue dress and her hastily-braided snowdrop hair. Aware as he was that there would be no wedding night this eve, he still looked and admired.

 _Mayhap this was not such a ridiculous idea after all._ When first he had spoken with her, she had been confident and unyielding where most would crumble and fall beneath his stares and his sharp tongue, their spirits the consistency of water and mush. Now her backbone was showing once again. Her small arms showed their muscle as she lifted and chopped and kneaded and lowered heavy dishes from the cupboards. Her eyes were bright as she hummed softly to make up for the otherwise quiet symphony of breathing and the crackle of the fire.

But, when she had laid eyes upon Turkafinwë, he had seen instinctual terror in their depths. Understandable, given how shattered and animalistic the third brother had become. Wild already in his youth, nothing good had war and slaughter done to that mind of adamant, so strong against force but so brittle when struck just so. Turkafinwë was senselessly cruel, his viciousness not of spite but of boredom, a game to pass the time and hide away from thoughts that none of them wanted to entertain. Like a predator, his brother sniffed out weakness and took advantage with all the pragmatism of a scavenger, picking and poking and tearing his victims apart bit by slow, agonizing bit.

She was right to fear him. Anyone in their right mind would be wary.

Yet, that fear had been overshadowed. Without so much as a diffident breath, she had outright _ordered_ Turkafinwë about, her tone allowing for no disobedience or argument. And his brother had done as she ordered. Obeyed where even the shouting and cursing and threats of Fëanáro himself could not have moved that unshakable creature even a mere inch.

With all the grace and poise of a Queen of the Valar she now took to task his troublesome brothers. Brokering their compliance with a show of strength. Then luring them into her web with soft smiles and quiet words and the temptation of good food and warm mead.

“Nelyafinwë.” The breathy sound of her voice brought him back from his thoughts, and he found that she gazed upon him expectantly. “Fetch your brothers. The bread will be naught but another minute or two, and it is best eaten fresh and warm.”

“As you say,” he replied. And, in his mind’s eye, he imagined reaching out to catch the end of her hair and tug softly with mirth. Imagined wrapping an arm about her tiny waist and pulling her until she was flush against his body, his hips against the soft curve of her belly and her breasts crushed up against his lower chest. Her head tilted up to arch her throat so prettily as she strained to meet his gaze with their difference in height.

Imagined what her lips might taste like as he parted them with his tongue. Wondered whether she would moan as they became enmeshed.

Dreamed about her smile as they parted. And he could not help but picture that her blue eyes would be gentle and fond.

Filled to bubbling fullness with treacherous daydreams, things that he knew had no hope of ever coming into being with that same rosy and innocent tint of days long ago, he called for his remaining brothers, and he stepped aside to let them slip past into a strange new world. One that had the blessed shadow of days so long past and so distorted by time that they rested like a forgotten word upon the tip of the tongue.

The sound of his wife scolding Curufinwë for reaching rudely across the table instead of asking for the bread to be passed jolted across his thoughts. And Nelyafinwë stepped also into that new world. And took his place at the head of the table.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:
> 
> noldo (Q) = deep elf, of the Noldor  
> hánonya (Q) = my brother, formal  
> amilessë (Q) = mother-name  
> hannonyar (Q, p) = my brothers, informal  
> hánonyar (Q, p) = my brothers, formal  
> nésa (Q) = sister  
> Atar (Q) = Father  
> Eldar (Q, p) = high elves  
> Amillë (Q) = Mother


	6. Open Minds and Sharing Spaces

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The wedding night (that never happened) and the morning after...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: talk about sex, but no actual sex, a little bit of religious stuff (as in, the characters argue about saying grace), violence against inanimate objects
> 
> Maedhros = Maitimo = Nelyafinwë = Nelyo  
> Maglor = Makalaurë = Kanafinwë = Káno  
> Celegorm = Tyelkormo = Turkafinwë = Turko  
> Caranthir = Carnistir = Morifinwë = Moryo  
> Curufin = Atarinkë = Curufinwë = Curvo  
> Amrod = Ambarussa = Pityafinwë = Pityo  
> Amras = Umbarto = Telufinwë = Telvo  
> Turgon = Turukáno  
> Galadriel = Artanis  
> Finarfin = Arafinwë

They would have to share a bed.

Not in the way of a husband and wife, of course. They had decided on a marriage without consummation on the assumption that two people who had only met and spoken to one another for the first time that morning would have no interest in sexual relations with one another—

(Never mind that each was most definitely attracted to the other.)

—and they now stared at the single bed in the master bedroom. Istelindë looked at the pressed, clean sheets folded down as though they might leap up and attack at any moment. For his part, Nelyafinwë was caught between the urge to offer to sleep elsewhere and the wince that wanted to cross his face just _thinking_ about how much his pride would smart if his brothers found out that he _was not_ , in fact, going to lay with his wife on the night of their wedding. He had been hoping to keep that detail of the agreement secret until after he managed to seduce his lovely spouse.

Actually, he was hoping they never found out about it at all. Ever.

And thus, their problem.

Istelindë was fidgeting, her palms smoothing over her skirts in waves as her eyes slipped towards him and away again and again. Without even being told, he realized she was waiting for him to leave—or at least turn around—so that she could change into the nightgown that she’d lain out on top of the bed.

“Let me go and get us something to drink,” he said, slipping out of the room and letting the door click shut in his wake.

All his brothers were still loitering about in the sitting room, and all of them looked up at him as he descended the stairs, their eyes knowing and their lips curled into suggestive smirks. “Running into problems already, Nelyo?” Curufinwë asked slyly, and his little grin was an ugly and reminded Nelyafinwë _far_ too much of his father’s mockery. “If you need help, I can certainly provide some suggestions to get things started.”

Now Turkafinwë was snickering and Morifinwë was blushing and the other three were trying very hard not to look amused at his plight. Still, Nelyafinwë just gritted his teeth and slipped into the kitchen to fetch a pitcher of water when, in reality, he very much wanted to snark at his little brother that he need not get marital advice from a man whose wife went out of her way to avoid being in his presence and had not spoken to him since before the Darkening. Though cruel, it would have been satisfying if nothing else.

The part of him that remembered what Curufinwë looked like in diapers and smearing multicolored paint across their father’s study held him back. That little snot was still his younger brother, and he refused to lower himself to the same level of childish behavior. He had been through the worst experiences a man could go through, had learned that there were thousands of things more terrible than being the mortified butt of an awful joke, and he was not going to rise to the bait and give Curufinwë the satisfaction of riling him into anger.

But it _would_ have been satisfying. As satisfying as grabbing the brother, the unfortunate bearer of the face of his father, by the back of the shirt and planting the sole of his boot square in the little shit’s ass in order to send him face-first into the dirt on the other side of the door. Better yet, locking him outside for the night.

Biting his tongue still, he ignored the reinvigorated wave of sniggering as he traversed back up the staircase. Without knocking, he shoved open the door.

Istelindë’s gasp was almost arousing, damn her. Though she was fully clothed (if wearing a thin nightgown could be described as fully clothed), her arms shot up to wrap around her bosom as if to hide her (already covered) breasts from his gaze, her shoulders hunching away as if to ward off a blow.

_This is going to be difficult._

“Will you be incapable of sleeping with me in the same room?” he asked her, wondering what exactly he was going to say if she said “yes”. There _were_ beds across the hall which were rarely used during the summer months, but that would be a surrender. That would be telling his brothers, who knew not of his bargain with this woman, that he really _could not_ seduce and pleasure his own wife.

And if there was anything Nelyafinwë hated, it was admitting that there were things he simply _could not do._ Things as simple as tying his boots or hunting with a bow.

The trauma of being unable to do _anything at all_ in the wake of his imprisonment and mutilation, compounded by the loss of freedom and control during his tenure as a prisoner of Angamando, left him feeling ill at the thought of being marked impotent. It was that nausea and self-hatred, in part, that had driven him to relearn how to write and to become one of the most terrifying masters of swordplay in the First Age even after loss of his dominant hand. It was that slimy, burning, grinding fury and terror in the depths of his spirit that had kept him from spiraling down into an abyss of depression from which he would never have returned, even when all else in the world seemed to be tumbled straight down into chaos. He was not one to let circumstances escape his control. But he also did not want to be an authoritarian partner who removed free will from his spouse.

Watching Istelindë’s face, he saw her hesitation. Her lips parted, then closed, then parted again as she struggled to find the words that she wanted to say without leaving him smarting from her rejection. Nelyafinwë was tested again when inappropriate fury surged beneath his skin. Frustrated, he brushed past his new wife, not pausing to even notice how the silky nightgown hugged her curves, and shoved the window open.

“Nelyafinwë?”

Ignoring her voice—finally, she decided to speak, and it was just to voice his name with hesitation—he hoisted himself up onto the sill and across the open air into a nearby oak. It would certainly not be comfortable compared with a mattress, but Nelyafinwë had slept shivering and naked on filthy stone floors and somehow managed to rest his mind while being chained to a cliff face, writhing in constant agonizing pain during his tenure as a thrall. A tree would be more comfortable even than the stony ground cushioned only by a thin blanket, his bed all throughout the march north to the farce of a battle that had crumbled into the Nírnaeth Arnoediad.

Leaning his head back against the roughness of the tree’s main stalk, cradled in the crook of a thick and steady arm, he watched through slit eyes as his wife hastily wrapped herself in a woven shawl and blocked some of the candlelight spewing though the window as she set her elbows upon the sill. “That does not look very comfortable.”

And the way she leaned forward tucked her crossed arms beneath her breasts… damn it all, but Nelyafinwë could not help but notice that they were pleasantly round and full when not squashed beneath the tight prison of a corset. It did not help that they were hiked up like an offering, and her shawl did nothing to hide the fact that the cold night air left her nipples poking out against the cloth.

_She will not even sleep in the same room. And here I am, staring at her breasts._

“I will survive,” he snapped, closing his eyes fully.

Yet, she did not move away at his dismissal nor wince back from the harshness of the tone of his already rough voice. “I know that you did not have to agree to this, husband, and it is not my intention to be a burden. Yet, I cannot help but find that I am, at heart, a selfish woman. I cannot really imagine how annoying this must be for you. Hiding things from your brothers. Making an empty space in your life and your home for me to fill. I did not want to come across as being ungrateful, but I simply…”

Her voice failed her, and he blinked his eyes open just enough to see that she was looking down at her fingers where they fiddled with and twirled the ties of her nightgown about her wrists. Like this, without the steel in her spine as she faced down his bratty younger brothers or the hard set to her jaw when she challenged her husband’s unyielding personality, she actually looked very young. Innocence shone through the veil of the mature woman who had seen the bitter truth of the real world.

She was frightened. Hiding it well, but even so, he could see it when he looked hard with a more scrutinizing eye.

“I meant what I said, and I will hold to our agreement,” he told her. And he did, indeed, mean what he had said and intended to uphold their agreement. Until she was ready—maybe until she was in love with, or at least in _lust_ with, him—he would not move to seduce her or otherwise hassle her in ways she did not desire. “We will find a solution that will make both of us comfortable.”

“You cannot _possibly_ be comfortable like that.” One hand rose to cup her cheek as she tilted her head, a curl of white hair rolling down to brush against her hand, and she observed his stiff, falsely-relaxed posture upon his perch in the branches. “You cannot sleep every night in a tree, especially not when the year begins to shorten after the height of summer.”

“The height of summer is more than a month away. I can make this work at least until we sneak a second bed into the room.”

“Do not be stupid.”

“Says the woman who worries about her husband seeing her in the nude.”

“Says the man who would rather sleep in a tree than face his brothers in the sitting room.”

The pair stared at each other, neither blinking nor moving. Then each let out a faint snort of amusement. And Nelyafinwë could not help but watch as his wife daintily covered her mouth, trying to hide the sweet little grin lined in dimples. Not a bad smile at all, or a bad laugh.

“What a pair we make,” she said softly. “Forgive me, but sleeping abed with a man is not something I thought I would ever be doing. I will admit that, in part, my repulsion at the thought of being touched by a man I know not well was not a small portion of the reason I fled marriage in the first place and prevented me from… ah… purposefully destroying my reputation in order to put an end to my father’s uncompromising assurance that I required marriage to a noble lord in order to achieve happiness.”

“And here, you have ended up married in the end all the same.” What a mess it was, that she could not even tell her father than she did not desire marriage. That she was required to make herself incapable of matrimony (by marrying another) in order to escape a loveless marriage and a life she found too miserable and disconsolate to contemplate.

“Well, it is not perfect,” she assented. “I have a feeling you and your brothers will prove to be trying and frustrating. Tyelkormo’s manners alone are absolutely deplorable! It’s like he was raised in a barn! I mean no offense towards the parenting skills of your mother and father, of course, but…”

“No offense should be taken. The statement is well-deserved.” Nelyafinwë felt half a grin upturning the corner of his mouth as he thought back to the childhood of the third son. “While he was rather moved to see my mother pleased, Turkafinwë has never been capable of abiding by my father’s words or orders. Anything Fëanáro demanded, he would flout. Anything Fëanáro disapproved was immediately to be tried and flaunted. Unsurprisingly, spending time out of doors in the grass and dirt rather than dressed nicely or practicing craft in the forge fell under the umbrella of ‘Things of which his Highness disapproves’ and were Turkafinwë’s favorite pastimes.”

_Oh, Turko_ … His little brother certainly had been a handful. Jumping out of trees and breaking his arm whilst trying to fly like the birds. Running away from home for six months and coming back covered in dirt and dragging a dog. Flouting socially acceptable manners and throwing his dirty, grime-caked boots up onto the table if only to see his father’s nose wrinkle with disgust.

“Your brothers certainly can be…” She struggled for a descriptive word, and Nelyafinwë could think of a dozen unflattering words she might be sorting through within her mind. “Unsettling.”

And now they were straying into dangerous territory. From past experiences, Nelyafinwë knew better than to attempt to defend his siblings in a way that lessened the bloodiness and horror of their actions. While, as the oldest sibling, Nelyafinwë felt that a great many terrible things both done _by_ and _to_ his brothers were, in the end, faults that rested upon his own shoulders, he knew others did not see those six men and remember that they had once been babies in nappies and small children with cake smeared all over their faces and adolescents with scraped knees and snotty noses wanting it to be kissed better by Emya.

Nevertheless, he felt compelled to be truthful with his spouse. “I know they can be unsettling at best and, at worst, even terrifying, but…” He met her eyes. “But they are not _bad_ people inherently. They can be annoying and bratty and apathetic and even downright malicious, but I would implore you to try to understand them nonetheless.”

_If there were more people in the world who knew not how to forgive but how to empathize, I would not be hiding my broken family up in the mountains. It is not about me or about my shame or about my guilt…_

After all, he had functioned with all those negative emotions—and many worse besides—for hundreds of years.

It was only the utter failure to protect his brothers and fulfill his Oath to his father that had driven him to throw himself to his own agonizing, fiery demise. Everything he did, fueled by rage or by fear or by love for his siblings, it had been driven forward by the knowledge that _he_ was their oldest brother. Their protector and nurturer.

That _he_ had _failed them._

And he wanted her to see what he saw. He wanted her to see that they were beautiful creatures, if flawed. Damned be what she thought of her husband, but he did not think he could abide by a woman who held his baby brothers in contempt.

Said woman was chewing on her lip, her smile now downturned but not hostile. Just thoughtful and mayhap a touch confused. Like a person looking upon a confounding puzzle for the first time, staring at all the pieces scattered about and mixed together and wondering how they could all possibly fit together into the final picture they should become. And, Nelyafinwë acknowledged, it must be difficult for her to think of that complexity. To think of the Kinslayers and try to see them as people who had hearts but were capable of slaughter rather than monsters who took pleasure in bathing in innocent blood.

Humanization. Compassion. The resulting guilt. It was no easy task he asked of her, his new wife, his (he hoped) future spouse in more than name. It was a lesson that the people of Valinórë so rarely understood for they knew not the horrors of war and death, that even some of Nelyafinwë’s own family had not learned and could not seem to grasp despite their experiences with the dangers of betrayal and blame and vengeance and greed. It was just so _easy_ to live in a shroud of hatred and to never challenge one’s beliefs…

_Turukáno’s bellicosity, his absolute black hatred and his snarling, derisive words. A reflection of the grief and trauma of losing his beloved wife. An expression meant to lessen the pain by laying blame upon a scapegoat’s shoulders…_

_Artanis’s cold disdain, frigid enough to burn upon the flesh. Her vividly blue eyes, so beautiful and yet so damning. Her refusal to look, to even begin to see the fuller picture, either out of pride or out of well-hidden anger…_

_Arafinwë’s blank face and distant eyes. His inability to look upon the sons of Fëanáro without seeing the dead man’s shadow in their eyes and in their faces. His hypocrisy in insisting he had faith in their redemption, and yet… and yet…_

And it was so difficult to try to see the world though another’s eyes.

Frustrated as he had been in those early days after his imprisonment with the lack of acceptance and the foisting of blame, Nelyafinwë did not _hate_ his uncle or his cousins. What they went through in Helcaraxë, he could not begin to ever understand. But he understood _why_ Turukáno would rather hate than wallow in grief, why Artanis would rather scoff down her nose than open her heart, and why Arafinwë hesitated to welcome his family with open arms when their pasts were heaped in betrayal.

But that was not what he wanted between himself and his wife. Nor between his wife and his brothers.

And he admired the way she steeled her shoulders and how her eyes lit up at his challenge. “I will try, Nelyafinwë. Truly, I will try to see what it is that you see in them. For they cannot be all terrible if you love them so.”

“Some days all I see is a gaggle of brats,” he admitted, and he was pleased that she laughed, that the bell-sweet sound chased away the somber shroud that hung over their words in the darkness of the night.

“You had better come back inside, Nelyafinwë,” she said when her laughter tapered away into ringing quiet. “Maybe one can sleep below the sheets and the other above? But I do not want you to feel as though you need to sleep outdoors and give up your own privacy and comfort in order to please me. This is your marriage as well, and your home.”

“If you say so… my dearest Princess.”

Her smile was a balm on his sore spirit. “I do say so, my faithful Prince. Come back inside and we will make our sleeping arrangements.”

From there, things would have gone smoothly. Except, as he made to leap neatly from the branch through his window and to the floor, his damned foot caught on the window sill and he had no right hand with which to grab he ledge or to brace on the dresser or even to break his own fall, not when his other arm was half-tangled about his wife, fingers caught in the filmy fabric of her shawl, staying stubbornly uncurled to avoid grabbing somewhere inappropriate by accident.

And that was how he ended up lying half-atop his wife with her nightgown riding up above her knees and his bedframe breaking with a loud crack beneath their sudden weight. The mattress _did_ cushion their fall (and he did not, in fact, grope or squeeze any part of his wife that would be considered inappropriate), but it was now mostly flat against the floor and otherwise lopsided from collapsed supports buried beneath. With an arm still slung over his wife’s still body, he let the columns of his arms crumble away until his face pressed into a pillow, half-stifling his deep groan.

_Just let me die._

A not unfamiliar feeling of despair mixed with the ludicrous hilarity of an utterly ridiculous situation. And yet, he could still hear his wife’s soft “Oh my,” from somewhere off to his left and rolled his head such that he was facing her rather than attempting to smother himself in a construct of down feather.

“Well,” he said wryly, “Now that I have thoroughly humiliated myself, you might as well start calling me Maitimo as well. My full ataressë is a bit formal coming from the lips of a woman who has seen me trip over a windowsill and break my own bed.”

“At least your brothers will not doubt that the wedding night happened.”

“Yes,” he agreed on a soft huff of laughter. “At least there is that.”

\---

The pair rose together with the sun, and Nelyafinwë enjoyed a fresh cup of coffee and a hot muffin fresh from the oven before any of his little brothers even stirred from sleep. Already, Istelindë had picked up the dirty rugs and taken them to be washed along with every piece of clothing left unattended about the house. He doubted a single one of his brothers had a full set of tunic and trousers to wear, let alone a pair of gloves or socks. Boots had been neatly arranged by the door (removed from the feet of grumbling, half-asleep males in some cases) and he suspected they would be banned from the house by the end of the evening.

Istelindë now busied herself with heaps of eggs and potatoes, an excessive amount that could have fed a small army. Though he supposed that description was fitting in this case. Still, she did stop long enough to stand on tiptoe and press a kiss to his cheek before he made his escape. Just in time for a sleepy Curufinwë to be ducking into the kitchen, serving as a witness.

And the older brother could not help but smirk triumphantly at his younger sibling even as he slipped past the unattractively gaping man and strode for the door. Clad in only thin leggings and a nightshirt, no doubt the brat would be quickly asking after all his missing clothing after he recovered from seeing a woman express affection towards his older brother and father figure. On the inside, the oldest felt something light bubbling up in his belly, struggling against the tension in his lungs, trying to break free.

His poor little brothers had no idea what they were in for.

But he was hardly going to warn them. After their joking and ribbing last night, a healthy dose of female on a crusade was exactly what they deserved.

\---

In the next room, his brother-in-law was raging. Loudly and with much crashing and overturning of expensive furniture.

And he, Arafinwë, King of the Noldor, was again sipping tea peacefully. The only island of sanity in this whole sea of nonsense. Calmly, he watched as the saucer of his teacup trembled with the heaviness of his guest’s stomping boots upon the hand-woven rug and the now-scuffed polished wood floor. Delicately, he set his cup down and looked up into infuriated blue eyes with the most deadpan look he could manage.

“Why did you not fetch her back?” The poor man looked like he wanted to wrap his fingers about Arafinwë’s throat and shake him violently until an explanation fled his lips. It was, in all likelihood, only the presence of Eärwen, the lovely Queen, who would have threatened to chop her brother’s fingers off in exchange for trying to strangle her husband, that prevented his brother-in-law from doing exactly that. The completely unremorseful and resigned gaze of the High King was probably not helping to calm the flames. Actually, it seemed to do nothing except stoke them higher.

“Explain yourself!” the disheveled Crown Prince of the Teleri demanded.

Arafinwë blinked up at that red-cheeked face. “There is nothing to be done about it now, my brother.”

And there really _was not_ at this point. Istelindë of Alqualondë had now spent a full night up in the mountains with seven men, one of whom was her legal husband. Chances were that they had already taken the opportunity to consummate their marriage (if they had not already been consorting in a sexual manner prior to their swift engagement and wedding), and there was not a man in Valinórë, either amongst the Noldor or the Teleri, who would not know that that was the case by the end of the week. Word was already spreading fast that the marriage once left to fade in the wake of the Darkening had been reinvigorated and carried out in the new days of second chances and rebirth.

Some, he had heard, thought the whole ordeal rather romantic. Were it not for how much trouble Nelyafinwë’s hasty actions were causing, Arafinwë would probably have agreed wholeheartedly with their assessment. It _was_ romantic. And very entertaining. From the perspective of outside eyes.

But three of his chairs and several priceless crystal statues had been sacrificed already on the altar of his brother-in-law’s upset. The floor had marks (he would need to let his manservant know it needed another round of polishing) and the rug had stains (that would need cleaning as well) and Arafinwë rather worried (based on the rising red haze on the man’s face) that his teacup and saucer would be in a million pieces by the end of this encounter.

The Arafinwë of old would have scrambled to find a solution that made all parties happy. It was, after all, his mild-mannered (meek, Fëanáro had called it) disposition which led him to turn back from the threat of Exile and seek forgiveness humbly at the feet of the Valar. His younger self would rather bend over backwards than have shouting matches sully the peace and quiet tranquility of his home. Would rather placate with pretty words and empty promises than face explosions of rage and shattered glassware all over his formerly well-polished hardwood floors.

That young Arafinwë had grown wiser in the ways of people. No matter how hard he tried, everyone could never be soothed. And, in this case, he believed Istelindë to be in the right and her father to be in the wrong.

Now, how to say that _without actually saying that._

Diplomacy. What a burden.

“Istelindë is a grown woman,” he finally said, hoping that he did not sound unconcerned but rather just a hair patronizing. “She may be your daughter, but I was under the belief that women in this day and age could choose to marry out of love if they so found it. At least, that is what I would want for my daughter.”

As if he could have stopped Artanis from doing whatever she wanted. And, of course, his daughter had gone and married a barbarian Sindarin prince. Not a Kinslayer. But the sentiment was still there.

“Think you not that I want what is best for my daughter?” And the poor man just sounded so _put upon_. But, at the very least, the play to fatherly emotions seemed to quell the anger a bit and bring forward something resembling sadness and confusion. “Istelindë has lived in exile from her heritage for too long. All I wanted was to give her a safe home and a way back into society. A way to come back to her family without disgrace.”

_Clearly, she saw it not as you did, my friend._

“Forcing her hand was not the best way to do it, my brother,” Eärwen soothed, and she reached across the empty space to place her hand upon her sibling’s trembling, white-knuckled hand where it clutched at the armrest. “Surely, you see that.”

“But she gave no _indication_ that my suggestion made her _unhappy,”_ he argued. “She made no mention at all of a lack of desire for marriage!”

_So he fell into the trap of thinking a woman would be straightforward with her desires._ Mentally, Arafinwë shook his head in commiseration. Never would he say such a thing aloud, but he knew that his own Eärwen at times made equally little sense. Somehow, sometimes, the men were supposed to guess or intuitively know a woman’s mind, and none of them had the knack. Not even the great Fëanáro could understand their mysteries.

Now, at times Eärwen was quite forward with her wishes. Especially in their bedchambers. But Arafinwë had millennia of trust and confidence with his wife, and she with him. Their greatest secrets and fears had they whispered into one another’s ears, both in the silver light of Telperion’s rays so long ago, and in the long dark night that had followed Arafinwë’s failed attempt at going into Exile. To be straightforward with his wife was as natural as breathing, and he hoped that Eärwen felt the same.

But he tried to imagine the same from his daughter and knew it was a false dream. Artanis was diamond, glowing so radiantly bright, and yet that light shrouded her thoughts and feelings from his gaze. So overpoweringly did he see only her independence and her brilliance in thought and deed that he knew he could not begin to guess what might be hidden beneath. He could only hope that that had not changed in the long years since he’d last laid eyes upon her. Could only hope that her beloved Sindarin prince had penetrated that veil of light and learned to love all that his daughter kept locked away in her heart.

Still, he was not privy to such things. And, judging by the downcast misery of his brother-in-law’s face, neither was this man privy to his own daughter’s deepest thoughts and feelings. Not enough to guess either that she dreaded marriage itself or simply could not abide by the suit her father had prepared when already she had a lover in the wings.

“It would be unseemly—indeed, also an abuse of my authority—to try to disrupt the marriage now,” Arafinwë concluded. “I have prepared a message for Istelindë, my niece, offering any help she may need. And, also, a missive for Nelyafinwë, my nephew, requesting that he explain his actions to me in person. Should I find cause, or should Istelindë request my assistance, I will be happy to provide and make an intervention. But, should it prove that she is satisfied with her lot…”

The prince across from him sighed, and he buried his face in his hands. “In my head, I know you are correct. Wise are your words, old friend, as ever they have been the chief in wisdom amongst the wise people, the Noldor. Yet, in my heart, I wish it were not so.”

“That, I can understand, my brother,” Arafinwë agreed.

_But we are beyond making mistakes out of fancies of the heart._

After all, that was how all the dread terrors of the First Age had been born. Wild passion and vehement eyes and insanity allowed to overrule right thought. Justice—the true form and not the one-sided drive to sooth hurts of the heart—should be chief in their thoughts when facing their greatest troubles and fears.

And, in this case, the heart of Istelindë was the only proper judge.

\---

It seemed that, in the interim where they spent hundreds of years moving and fighting and rolling about in the muck and grime, these six princes had unlearned every single table manner they might ever have possessed.

Istelindë kept her wooden spoon handy to smack any hands attempting to reach rudely across the table or at others’ plates to grab at biscuits or mead. With all the brothers dressed in their sleeping clothes, she corralled them into the kitchen and bade them all sit and behave. Last night, dinner had been taken merrily and she had not the heart then to scold them overmuch for they had been strange creatures in the twilight with wild eyes and unpredictable spirits. Now, they were sleepy-eyed men whose glares lacked the awareness to be terrifying.

First order of business had been saying grace.

To which Curufinwë had protested most vehemently.

Last night, the shadows cast upon his face left him demonic and wild, a wraith with eyes like miniature suns that burned. Now, she could see the stubbornness underlined with offense, as though saying thank you for their meal were beyond the scope of his understanding.

“You need not thank the Valar,” she said equally as stubbornly, “But you _will_ thank the One for the food with which we are blessed. Or you can eat in the barn.”

“The One,” Curufinwë spat, his voice dripping in venom. “He who has done nothing but lead us to sorrow and defeat at every turn, who turned his back on our people in their time of greatest need. I have no desire to say thanks to such an impotent or otherwise apathetic God who would watch his Children suffer and do nothing to help.”

“He who created _all things_ , good _and_ bad, whose ultimate designs neither you nor I know in the end,” she scolded in return. “‘And thou, Melkor, shalt see that no theme may be played that hath not its uttermost source in me, nor can any alter the music in my despite. For he that attempteth this shall prove but mine instrument in the devising of things more wonderful, which he himself hath not imagined.’ Scorn the Valar all you please, for they are far from perfect beings, but quote not to me of what the One has and has not done in this world.”

Mulish still was the set of her new brother’s jaw, but he did not protest further when she seated herself at the head of the table and made to speak her thanks. “We are thankful for this food and for this roof. For the company of family and the safety of these lands. For all the blessings we have which others lack. And for the favor of our Father. Násië.”

Silence followed her statement, and she shattered it by turning towards Morifinwë. “Pass the potatoes, please, brother Morifinwë.”

And his face flushed so fetchingly as he began the cycle. A quiet din of silver against dishware and voices mingling met her ears. Like a cat with a bowl of warm cream, she bathed in the satisfaction of an uneventful breakfast. Only occasionally did she need to scold or smack wandering fingers.

And she got a thank you from every one of the boys as well.

Only after all had eaten and she was satisfied with their behavior did she move onto the next subject at hand. “I expect from this point on to see clean hands at the table, whether for breaking the fast or any other meal of the day. That _includes_ dirt under the nails.” At the dirty looks, she crossed her arms. “I’ll not have any of you spoiling the food with grit and grime!

“Furthermore,” she continued, “I expect your boots to be wiped clean on the rug at the door. If that task proves impossible, they should be set _neatly_ aside and _not_ brought into the house. The floors are hard enough to keep clean without having mud tracked about as well.”

They were all slightly slouched like scolded kittens. “Finally,” she said, watching them all wince faintly beneath the onslaught, “I expect to have quiet and polite behavior in this house. If you want to brawl like schoolboys, do it outside. If you want to shout and curse, find a clearing in the woods somewhere. It will be _clean_ and _civilized_ in my house, and the evenings will be peaceful and quiet. Is my meaning clear?”

Grumbling and mumbling of “Yes, sister Istelindë,” echoed about the table. And, for now, that would have to do. They seemed to be at least temporarily cowed into submission, but she suspected they would test her boundaries over the coming days. Especially Tyelkormo and Curufinwë. Makalaurë seemed too polite and Morifinwë too abashed at the idea of being scolded. The twins… she honestly had no idea what they were thinking. But, if they were anything like the twins she had known before, they would be plotting something. Whether for good or ill none could say.

She watched them shuffle out of the room and head into the yard to fetch their laundry from the line. And she could not help but think that the easy part was over and done with.

Now she would need to become familiar with each brother. Learn his personality and character. Judge carefully and without haste. For she had given her husband her word, and Istelindë did not like to break promises.

These men were people. She just needed to see it. However long it took.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:
> 
> Emya (Q) = Mama  
> ataressë (Q) = father-name  
> Násië (Q) = may it be so, Amen


	7. Alignment of the Lies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone wants to know what's really going on. But only two people know the truth, and they may not feel like sharing...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just wanted too thank everyone so far for all the lovely comments and support! I'm glad you all are enjoying this little experiment of mine so far.
> 
> Warnings: allusions to sex (that never took place), family being (inappropriately) nosy, some misogynist underpinnings, but mostly not much to worry about in this one
> 
> The rest of the family shows up, so more names to keep track of:
> 
> Maedhros = Maitimo = Nelyafinwë = Nelyo  
> Maglor = Makalaurë = Kanafinwë = Káno  
> Celegorm = Tyelkormo = Turkafinwë = Turko  
> Caranthir = Carnistir = Morifinwë = Moryo  
> Curufin = Atarinkë = Curufinwë = Curvo  
> Amrod = Ambarussa = Pityafinwë = Pityo  
> Amras = Umbarto = Telufinwë = Telvo  
> Turgon = Turukáno  
> Galadriel = Artanis  
> Finarfin = Arafinwë  
> Finrod = Artafindë = Findaráto  
> Fingolfin = Nolofinwë  
> Aredhel = Írissë  
> Fingon = Findekáno  
> Orodreth = Restaráto  
> Aegnor = Aikanáro = Ambaráto  
> Angrod = Angaráto

When his father had asked him to “run a small errand”, this was not exactly what Findaráto had had in mind.

_Two letters sat on his father’s desk. And the man himself was sitting calmly beyond in his cushioned chair, fingers crisscrossed beneath his chin, elbows braced on the wood in support. Deep blue eyes, the rich color of the night sky just after dusk, were staring through his body, distant and full of thought._

_“Atar,” he said, clearing his throat when the sound came out roughly. “I came as soon as I read your message.”_

_The vague slip of parchment was now crumpled into a ball in Findaráto’s pocket. It had requested the Crown Prince’s immediate presence at the palace, but it had given no explanation for the urgency expressed therein. Nor did it contain the usual pleasantries and prose that his father so favored in correspondence, instead reading bare-boned and stiff as though written in distraction or in anger when the delicate complexities of polite diction would not come._

_Naturally, Findaráto was concerned. Even more so when those eyes had to blink twice before they sharpened into focus._

_His father was very distracted._

_And the High King let out a low sigh, long-suffering and tired. “Forgive me for calling upon you so suddenly, yonya. I am greatly in need of your assistance.”_

_Thinking this to be a political or philosophical matter, Findaráto prepared to settle himself into the chair opposite his father. Such discourse usually brought joy to his heart, for challenges of the mind were fascinating, though in this case the dilemma must be more serious that simple hypothetical rhetoric. Yet, his father’s raised hand stayed his course._

_“Not that kind of assistance,” Findaráto said gently. One hand upon each, he pushed two letters forward until they brushed the far edge of his desk, nearest his eldest son. “These are missives for your cousins. I need them delivered with care.”_

_It took a moment for Findaráto to realize he had been called to his father’s palace with urgency for the sole purpose of being_ messenger.

_“Ah…” Hesitantly, he reached out to pick up the two envelopes, both emblazoned with the High King’s personal seal in scarlet wax. The first and the thicker of the two (written with more care and flowery words?) held an unexpected name. When Arafinwë said cousin, Findaráto had assumed he meant a cousin through his Noldorin heritage, presumably one of the children of his uncle, Nolofinwë. But, in actuality, he could see that this name was feminine, and it certainly was not Írissë. Quickly, his mind flashed to the faded faces of his cousin’s through his mother’s family, a family he had not seen since before the Darkening and the awful First Kinslaying, trying to recall which of the willowy, silver-haired women was Istelindë._

_He flipped the second envelope so it rested atop the first._

_It was addressed to Nelyafinwë Fëanárion._

_“I think a bit more explanation is required, Atar.” He knew, of course, where to find Nelyafinwë. Though he had never personally visited the Fëanárioni in their mountain camp, he did not doubt that he could find it if need be (and clearly there was need). “Could not a missive to cousin Istelindë be sent by messenger to Alqualondë?”_

_And there was that spark of fatigue mixed in with annoyance. Not at the question, Findaráto guessed, but at the circumstances surrounding the necessary answer. “Istelindë does not reside in Alqualondë. She has recently married a man of Noldorin descent.”_

_“It would be just as easy to have a messenger deliver a note in Tirion itself as…”_

Wait.

_He looked at the pair of envelopes in his hands. One addressed to Istelindë who had recently wed to a man of Noldorin blood. And the second addressed to Nelyafinwë, an urgent message that his father wanted to have delivered by his own son and heir, a messenger with far more authority to observe and question than any court messenger might have. Though he hoped his guess was false, Findaráto could not help but connect the pieces through conjecture._

_“The man Istelindë has married…?”_

_His father gave him that_ look, _and Findaráto winced. “Cousin Nelyafinwë has married a Telerin princess. There is no instance in which her family would have supported such a match.”_

_“Indeed not,” Arafinwë agreed. “They were, in fact, married the day before yesterday in the morning. Shortly thereafter, they fled the city. I was not informed until some time later after having received a message from Alqualondë suggesting that Istelindë had disappeared and was traveling to Tirion to have a liaison with her lover. My own nephew, of course. This past morning, naturally, her father appeared in person to express his displeasure with my lack of swift and decisive action in attempt to prevent the elopement and put an end to the hasty marriage.”_

_A dilemma certainly, from the point of view of an outsider removed from close proximity to the situation. And yet, Findaráto’s first thought was not for whether or not it was prudent or even moral for a princess to wed a man who had once slaughtered people under the protection of her family. Instead, he could not help but think that, sometimes, love was a stupid and fickle mistress, and he had met more than his fair share of people who had done ridiculous and even suicidal things in its name._

_“You did not try to take her back because you believe that she chose this marriage of her own free will, for good or ill,” he concluded._

_“One can never fool you, my brilliant scion,” Arafinwë confirmed with an effervescent shadow of a smile. “Tell me, yonya, do you think that your cousin would have taken Istelindë against her will to be his wife?”_

_The immediate and instinctive response was “No”._

_Arafinwë tilted his head to the side. “No?”_

_“I think that you and many dwellers of Valinórë have a fundamental_ misunderstanding _of how the Fëanárioni function.” Findaráto crossed his arms and looked away from curious, blazing eyes. “Nelyafinwë_ does _possess a moral compass. But I have found that, chief amongst the motivations of the men of the House of the Spirit of Fire, has been and always shall be loyalty to and protection of family, if only the immediate and full-blooded sort that Fëanáro was willing to acknowledge wholly in the days of old.”_

_Findaráto knew what it was like to struggle betwixt the urge to protect his loved ones and do what was considered to be right and honorable. Better, perhaps, than his father could ever know. Such was the curse of brothers without guidance of a father, who had only one another to guard each other’s backs._

_“Trickery is not above them, no,” he admitted, “Nor violence under the correct circumstances. But Nelyafinwë has become a murderer to uphold an Oath, to support his father and to protect his brothers, not out of pleasure or lust for blood. There is no reason to think, either, that he would ever have been released from the Halls of the Waiting if he was so mentally deteriorated that he would coerce, kidnap and rape a woman he has never even met—as far as we are aware—simply for sport. Tis not his way.”_

_“No matter how many times I say that I wish to believe the best of my nephews, the sons of my half-brother, you always put into perspective just how much I have failed in my quest,” Arafinwë told him, and the High King’s voice rung with just a hint of shame. “Nevertheless, as your King and your father, I would ask this of you, yonya, because I trust in your wisdom and your words. Please take these letters to your cousins, and keep your eyes open and observant. I would have news of Istelindë’s wellbeing amongst the Fëanárioni. If you can, please find a moment in private to speak with her and hear her true mind.”_

_Thus, the real reason his father was not sending a simple messenger. Findaráto tucked the two envelopes away and dipped into a shallow bow. “As my King commands me, so I shall do as you have ordered.”_

And now he was perched atop a steed, and they were loping lazily up through the mountain passes and into the wilderness of Valinórë formerly left uncharted.

The air seemed fresher and cooler as the elevation increased. Lost were the sounds of voices and footsteps, though Tirion rested as a diamond in the sun below. Instead, he could hear the soft melody of the Music churning through the wildlife and the trees, Yavanna’s alto surging with every creak of the trees and her soft trills with each call of the birds. Like land untouched by the black horrors of the world, just rising foothills steeped in the greenest grasses and the watercolors of flowers in blue and yellow and vibrant red.

 _Is that why you make your home here?_ Looking up to where the path disappeared into the thickness of the woods, Findaráto could not help but ponder the motivations of his cousins and their spirits no doubt awash with the stains of despair and hopelessness as forever would be his own. Those sorts of scars never did go away.

It was difficult living in Tirion. Often, Findaráto took his wife away to Valmar, and they walked the endless gardens, fragrant and quiet out of piety, for the constant noise and the insidious creep of shadowed intentions in the city brought back memories of Nargothrond and betrayal and things best left forgotten. To live in a place such as this, eternally quiet but for the harmonies of nature, would be a salve to the burns and bleeding cuts lining his soul.

But he had never left behind the city entirely. It felt too much like running away.

Passing into the woods, shade was cast over his head, driving away the heat that had been slowly and steadily creeping towards discomfort, a whispered foreboding of the midsummer blaze that would soon be upon them as the days lengthened to the solstice. And Findaráto could begin to see signs of cultivation now. Trails well-trodden through the undergrowth. Tree-stumps scattered about from where wood had been harvested for warmth or for building.

Then, finally, the sound of movement. Footsteps upon the earth.

The first brother he came upon, mercifully, was Morifinwë.

Verdant eyes narrowed from behind their ring of dark, dark lashes. Dressed mostly in skins, the Fëanárion looked not unlike he might have in the darker days of the Exile, days when there was no time for courtly gestures and fine velvets and glimmering jewels. In comparison, Findaráto felt overdressed excessively with his fine, dust-free boots and his rich burgundy velveteen cloak atop of white, silken tunic.

Morifinwë sniffed at him, and one could only read the strange cant of his lips as distaste. “Somehow,” he said, “I am not very surprised to see a visitor of such rank. This has something to do with Nelyafinwë’s sudden marriage, does it not?”

Reluctantly, Findaráto nodded. Feeling uncomfortable with their difference in height, as though he were trying too hard to exert his dominance by remaining astride his horse, the Crown Prince dismounted, kicking up a cloud of dust. It had been an age since he’d dirtied his boots and trousers with actual commonplace dirt and not the glimmer silver-gold powder that crowned the summit of Tirion.

Those eyes still watched him with suspicion that never had fully faded between their families, Feast of Reunion or no. “I know not where Nelyafinwë is this very moment, but I can take you to the house. Sister Istelindë is there.”

 _Sister Istelindë…_ That was rather more respectful than he had been expecting.

In fact, not much about this place was as Findaráto had imagined. All his life, even the majority of Exile, he had lived in comparative luxury. Oh, he knew that men had simpler abodes, that they had no need for vast caverns inlaid with vivid carvings and glittering gems of many colors. Nargothrond, for all that it could never compare to the caverns of Aulë’s Mansions or the majesty of the palace in Tirion, had still been a creation of surpassing beauty and workmanship. A jewel of the Hither Lands meant to bring to mind home so far away.

Here there was very little unnecessary beauty except that which was wrought by Yavanna’s hand. The house Morifinwë had described was plain on the outside, set upon a stone foundation with a simple but spacious porch. The windows were set with glass, but the curtains therein where nothing like the gauzy, lacy things that decorated even the simplest of homes back in the city. He was led inside and found that it was clean, though the rugs were a bit threadbare. The hearth was steadily burning, just a faint glow ever-present as was customary even in the warmer months, and the scent of good food (if simple) wafted through the kitchen door wherein was the sound of swift and dainty footsteps prancing back and forth upon the creaking wooden floor.

At the sound of their entering, he received his first vision of Istelindë as she stepped through the doorway. And he found that he faintly recognized her face. It had a similar look about it to his mother’s, the same oval shape, but her braided hair (tossed over her shoulder in a casual braid) was paler. Almost white.

Her eyes took in first Morifinwë and then Findaráto beside him. If she recognized him, she made no indication, but there was no sudden start or widening of the eyes that might indicate any form of surprise. In fact, she did not even address him immediately, instead treating him as any common messenger. She first looked to her brother-in-law. “Fetch my husband, please, Morifinwë.”

The Fëanárion sketched a shallow half-bow and left as he had come.

_It was easier to get her alone and in privacy than I would have thought._

“You are no messenger of the Teleri, and the Vanyar would have no need to make my marriage their business. I can therefore only conclude that the King of the Noldor has sent you in some capacity,” she said with her soft but steady voice. “I have food that yet needs tending, but I would that you come and speak to me while I go about my cooking, though it would please me if you would wipe your boots on the rug at the door, for I would not have dirt tracked all over the house. Should you stay long enough, you might as well make lunch with the boys as well.”

She had been in their home only few days, but already the Fëanárioni—the most feared and ostracized Kinslayers in history—were relocated to “the boys”, and she felt comfortable inviting a stranger to dine at their table without even first consulting her spouse. Either she knew Nelyafinwë well enough to guess at his moods and whimsies, or she feared not at all that her husband might disapprove her invitation and did not care.

 _Maybe Nelyafinwë married her to keep his siblings in line_ , Findaráto could not help but think as he carefully rubbed the dust from his boots into the rug before the front door and followed his cousin into the kitchen, sitting at the long table where meals were taken. _What a formidable woman, to scoff in the face of a Fëanárion’s displeasure with such ease!_

She certainly did not seem like the dainty little thing he recalled from his far-off memories. All he could remember of his Telerin cousins was that the males were merry but had little interest in hunting or making other sport and the women were quiet as mice, almost meek and certainly pampered. Yet, this woman was far from princess-like. Oh, she held herself with dignity and confidence as any royal woman might (but as many did not, or so he had found), but where would a princess have learned to cook as she was? When would a princess become comfortable with cleaning and laundering and chasing after seven grown men all on her own? Even Írissë had never been so bold!

Almost as soon as he sat, Istelindë’s eyes were narrowed upon him. “So, the King sent a messenger rather than a small army.”

“Indeed,” Findaráto agreed, “And I come bearing missives.”

Two envelopes were deposited upon the table.

“Furthermore,” he continued, “My King has asked that I ascertain from your own lips that you were not coerced into marriage or otherwise forced or kidnapped.”

Her scoff would have had a lesser man flushed in shame. As it was, Findaráto only escaped embarrassment because he held no guilty part in any of this sad misadventure. Though he required no verbal confirmation at that point, she still spoke even as she went about her business. “It is fine for my father to coerce me into marriage with a man I have never met and do not love, but as soon as a Kinslayer is doing the hypothetical coercing everyone rushes about like headless chickens trying to save me from my inevitably horrible fate.”

“It is the marriage, then, to which you objected?” At her look, he explained further. “It was assumed that you might have some objection to the marriage, but no conclusion as to whether it was because you objected to the marriage itself or because you had a… ah… a lover you would rather wed.”

“You are awfully nosy for a messenger,” she then said cautiously.

“Because he is not, in fact, _just_ a messenger,” a new voice, familiar in its harsh rasp and caught somewhere between amusement and annoyance, said from his back. “Shame on you for not announcing yourself properly, Crown Prince Artafindë.”

“Cousin,” Findaráto greeted with his best passively friendly smile. “How lovely to see you again. Congratulations, of course, on your marriage. It was… unexpected.”

“As I knew not that it would take place myself until the very morning of the event, I would expect that it would be unexpected,” Nelyafinwë replied sarcastically. The redhead, still as scarred and strangely fiery as he had been since his tenure in Angamando, spilled his long-legged form into a seat across the simple table from his golden cousin. “For what reason would Uncle Arafinwë send the chief diplomat and negotiator of the House of Finwë?”

“He could have sent a dozen soldiers instead,” Findaráto commented lightly.

“But that would have been foolish.” And Nelyafinwë’s smirk sent shudders down the Crown Prince’s spine, because that expression promised _pain._ While he doubted that his cousins would be willing to commit another Kinslaying whilst in the heart of the Undying Lands after having been gifted rebirth, he did not doubt that they could have made such an encounter _very unpleasant_ for their unwelcome guests. In a “broken legs and singed hair” sort of fashion.

“Tell me then,” his cousin continued, “What does your father want from me?”

“An explanation, naturally. I suspect that the rest of the family will want one as well once the word has spread. Such _wonderful_ news will not stay contained for long.” Findaráto just continued smiling, thinking of how Turukáno would curse Nelyafinwë’s name to Helcaraxë and back, how Findekáno would break out his best vintage and propose a celebration, or how Írissë would smile slyly and say that it was “about time one of those high-strung bastards finally took a woman to bed”.

“Certainly, he would not want me to leave home again so _soon_ after arriving back with my new wife,” Nelyafinwë returned. “Why, the wedding night is barely over!”

Not even a blush. From _either_ of them, Findaráto noted out of the corner of his eye.

“Can I presume that the ‘wedding night’ was hardly the opening act of your relationship, cousin?” he asked. Still no blush. Just a raised brow and a crooked grin.

“You shall just have to wait for the detailed _official_ explanation. Meanwhile, I am certain that Istelindë can keep you entertained until you get bored and decide to scurry back to Tirion, dear cousin. I, on the other hand, have work outside to tend to.” Nelyafinwë paused to tug on his wife’s braid, and he did not hesitate to kiss her, though it was chaste and on the cheek rather than something untoward and full of tongue.

Too bad.

He was left alone with his female cousin once again. “Well, dear Artafindë—Or do you prefer Findaráto as I have heard tell?—have you decided whether or not Nelyafinwë has kidnapped and held me hostage yet?”

“I, indeed, prefer the latter. And, I would never presume to make such an assessment. But…” he paused, giving her a smile friendlier and brighter than anything he had managed for Nelyafinwë, “It seems that you have the Fëanárioni well-trained already. What assistance could we hope to provide in the face of such an overwhelming show of power?”

She harrumphed and began laying plates out about the table. “Well-trained is a bit of a stretch. I think the shock might have influenced them into behaving for a short while. We shall see if my good fortune persists. In any case…” She set a plate down in front of him with a questioning look. “Will you be staying for lunch, cousin Findaráto?”

“I would be honored,” he agreed, feeling as though he were walking into the dungeons of Tol-in-Gaurhoth for a second time.

“Excellent,” she said brightly, and her smile was edged in teeth. “We shall chat a few minutes more before I call the boys in.”

\---

“I am forced to conclude that Istelindë had full knowledge of exactly what she was getting herself into,” Findaráto finished in the concluding remark at the end of his report. “In fact, it seems to me much more likely that Nelyafinwë and his brothers were the ones who were in for a surprise if they thought Istelindë would be an easily cowed female.”

Steadily throughout the telling of his brief tale, the audience of listeners had grown. By now, not only were his parents and his mother’s brother there alone, but Uncle Nolofinwë had made an appearance and stood leaning against the sitting room doorframe and Aunt Anairë had commandeered the position on the loveseat beside the angry new father-in-law of a certain notorious Fëanárion. After them, a slow trickle of siblings and siblings’ spouses and cousins and cousins’ spouses had followed.

Even Amarië was there, perched upon the arm of Findaráto’s chair, playing with his fingers as she listened. Her soft scent of jasmine wafted over his senses.

Somehow, the entire family (barring Uncle Fëanáro’s wife and brood) had crammed themselves into the room. All eyes were upon the golden prince.

“But she is being treated kindly?” Istelindë’s father asked, his voice low with worry now that his flashfire fury had faded and the beginnings of guilt had set in. “Surely cooking and cleaning up after all those men is not suitable for a single woman?”

“Truthfully, she seemed quite satisfied with her work.” Findaráto was fairly certain this this man knew not his daughter at all if he thought her too weak and lazy to carry out such tasks. In fact, to his eyes, Istelindë was a very productive individual. And he knew from living hundreds of years surrounded by constantly productive people—both elves and men—that they were _happier_ when there were tasks to be done and meaningful work to be found. It was when they grew bored that things became… dangerous.

He very purposefully tried _not_ to think of Turkafinwë. And failed.

“Besides that,” he continued, if only to avoid pale ghosts of toothy, insane grins and insidious, creeping rumors that strangled in the evil humors of darkened days, “there does not seem to be discernable tension between her and Nelyafinwë. They seemed, if anything, actually quite comfortable in one another’s presence. Mayhap a bit… too comfortable.”

Several cheeks about the room went red. And Istelindë’s father frowned harshly.

“I know that this may not be desirable news, though I think it could have been much worse, but I do believe that Istelindë was a willing accomplice—if not the chief instigator—in this union. And I do not think she will appreciate unsolicited intervention.”

If her unyielding pursed lips and spine of steel, as well as her apparent ability to cow any Fëanárion into a state approximately resembling a scolded kitten with little more than a frown and the threat of a wooden spoon to the knuckles, were any indicator, her retribution would be legendary. A true tale for the history tomes.

It was already a fairly enchanting tale. Love rekindled after long absence and many dangerous and terrible trials. He could already hear the bards singing with teary eyes and women weeping behind their feathered fans and gloved hands at the retelling. Not scars nor murder nor even the edicts of the Valar or broken Oaths or death could hope to keep the lovers apart, so invested and so enchanted were they one with the other. Mayhap not as compelling as the tale of Lúthien and her human Beren, but just as steeped in forbidden romance and adventure if one looked upon it from the correct angle.

While the family might eventually know the truth, should Nelyafinwë and Istelindë ever deign share it in all its entirety, that was a good way to spin it for the public eye. Less scandalous than elopement in protest of another marriage. And less likely to spur another upsurge in anti-Kinslayer resentment that already dotted the land like little spots of necrotic flesh creeping across an otherwise healthy limb.

 _Your family are the chief in the talent of causing problems as ever, Nelyafinwë_ , Findaráto could not help but think as he looked upon Istelindë’s frustrated father with his furrowed brows and Arafinwë withholding another inappropriate sigh.

“I think it sounds lovely,” Amarië said from her perch. “And just in time for the Midsummer festival season. We should invite them and make a point of celebration!”

Across the room, Turukáno groaned in disgust and Findekáno let out a cheer of agreement. Restaráto shook his head and Aikanáro crossed his arms and Angaráto had a look upon his face that was so like to their father’s it was almost silly. From where she was curled up happily, squished into the small loveseat beside her mother, Írissë piped in with “We can make a hunting expedition of it in the days afterwards! I have not gone hunting in the proper Fëanárean style in _forever.”_

 _To think, one marriage and we are already inviting the Fëanárioni back to family functions._ Findaráto smiled, head tilted upwards, returning his wife’s jubilant grin as she giggled at Írissë’s words. And he thought that he would be able to bear the awkwardness and discomfort if only because that thought gave him hope. _Nelyafinwë should have wedded an age ago._

_Maybe then we could all have started healing that much sooner._

\---

“What do you want to say to the King?” Maitimo asked her later as they lay together upon the bed, he above the sheet and she below but both still facing the other. Tightly did she restrain her urge to reach out and grasp a strand of his hair, to make it into a tiny red plait and spin it about her finger in thought.

“Would it be wise to tell the truth?” she questioned. “They already believe that we were lovers before our hour-long engagement. Would it be easier to simply… not correct them?”

His silver eyes blazed through the night, almost otherworldly, for she had never seen any with eyes so bright even amongst those born in Valinórë during the golden Years of the Trees. Yet, their warmth was comforting, that of a fellow coconspirator plotting, dancing with mirth half-hidden behind a veil of seriousness. “It would certainly bring about fewer questions. But… perhaps less understanding.”

“Less understanding?” she asked.

His left hand twitched where it lay upon the sheets, and she wondered if he wanted to reach out and touch her hair as much as she wanted to touch his. “Do you not wish for your father to understand his mistake? If we claim that you rejected marriage because you had an ongoing affair with me, would that not prevent him from seeing the err in his ways?”

“I am his only daughter,” she pointed out pragmatically. “He has no more to bully into marriage.”

“I suppose that is so,” Maitimo agreed. “It is your choice, though. My honor will not be impinged upon one way or another, for I am so low in their esteem already that I could only sink lower if I had forced this marriage upon you. No one expects a Kinslayer to find the sin of sexual relations outside marriage to be unconscionable. But if you do not want your family to think that you were willing to engage in such behaviors, I would not have you propagate that belief only to make life more convenient in the long term.”

Istelindë took a moment to think, picking quietly at the sheets. Indeed, there was part of her that winced away from the phantom of disapproval in her father’s gaze, from the unspoken tension that would hang over them all if she lied and told them that she had been gallivanting about with Maitimo in secret, acting in a manner unbefitting her status. But neither was she certain she could stand the look of skepticism or even anger she might receive if she admitted that she and Maitimo had never even _met_ until that morning at the inn, that she had merely exchanged one unwanted marriage for a slightly less uncomfortable one.

Nor did she want to see the disappointment and maybe even guilt on her father’s face when she told him that all his joy was for naught. That she had agreed to be married only to make him happy at the cost of her own contentment. If it were her in his place, and her daughter had told her such a thing…

Well, suffice to say, she would not have felt good about her decisions. For it would not have been her intent to make things _worse_ instead of _better_.

“Are you satisfied with pretending at a love affair?” she asked instead of deciding then and there. “We are not, after all, in love.”

_Well, I doubt you are, in any case. I fear, before long, I might not be so lucky._

“It would not be the worst task I have ever been assigned.” The words might have made her heart sink in dread but for their teasing tone and accompanying half-grin. “It might even give my family chills, seeing an infamous Kinslayer acting like a lovesick stripling. Holding hands and making doe eyes would be more than worth the trouble if I get to see them all squirm in their seats with discomfort.”

“That is awful, Maitimo!” But she found herself giggling at the image despite herself, sitting up to brace herself upon her elbows. “Let not Morifinwë see us acting thusly, though. He might get hives and be red-faced for weeks!”

Her husband let out a bark of laughter. _Genuine laughter_. “Oh my, my poor little brother. He simply cannot escape the curse.”

“The curse?” Intrigued, she leaned closer. Unwittingly until she pushed into Maitimo’s space, their faces but inches away.

“Indeed,” he replied as he finished his snickering and chortling. “Has he not invited you to call him by his amilessë yet?”

Istelindë shook her head. “Why? Is there something wrong with it?”

“No, no…” And he shook his head, spinning russet curls down onto their sheets in thick waves. They brushed against her arm and felt so warm and soft. “It is just, of all of us, I think Amillë described his future the most accurately with her naming. When she first named him thusly, Atar asked her to change her mind, and she told him that it was far too fitting a description to let such perfection slip by out of need for dignified names and another ridiculous masculine worrying.”

“But you have not yet told me what his amilessë truly is, Maitimo.” And, by Eru, did she want to reach forward to touch his face just then. So close were they that, to her gaze, his eyelashes were stark in contrast to his skin, each a perfect, deep burgundy red. And his freckles were speckled about his face like stars about the night sky, their patterns so foreign and yet, she imagined one day their constellations would dance in dizzying spirals upon her dreams.

“Ah, no, I think I shall let _him_ have the honor,” her husband said coyly, “If only for the chance to see him turn the color of a ripe tomato.”

“So cruel you are to your poor little brother,” she scolded without any real sting.

“I had to babysit him as a child,” Maitimo countered. “This is only what he deserves in retribution for such torment.”

And, though his voice was nothing beautiful and his laughter jagged like the cracks and crags in the mountain walls, Istelindë wondered at its loveliness. For, surely, an evil being would have sounded more gorgeous but would have looked false more so than did he in that moment, so natural, nightshirt-clad with mussed hair and dimples in his cheeks.

What a strange world her life had become.

\---

Downstairs, Turkafinwë abruptly stood. “I think I shall spend the night out of doors, Curvo. I tire of the airs in here.”

For the past twenty or so minutes, Curufinwë and his brother (his lifelong companion, the one he could never abandon, the only one who had never left him behind in the dust) had taken up their usual spots near the fire, whittling or just sitting in silence until the deep quiet of the night blanketed their weary souls.

Except, tonight that serene silence was not forthcoming. Instead, Curufinwë had to resist the urge to glance upwards every few minutes, and his scowl was deeper than usual.

Nelyafinwë and his wife were giggling and laughing together.

Really, it was hardly a surprise. Newlyweds and all that. Curufinwë remembered the first few nights (and by that, he meant the first few years) of his own marriage, the excitement in the intimacy of skin against bare skin and bliss of joining together, of reaching paradise and the gentle companionship found in the lazy afterglow. It was really no surprise that his oldest brother was just as susceptible to those purely instinctive urges and pleasures as had he been.

But Nelyafinwë was like a second father to him more than a mere older brother. The kinder and softer paternal presence, overshadowed perhaps by the garish resplendence of Fëanáro in the eyes of the young and foolish child, but in the end still the safety and security of lullabies in the dark and kisses on scraped knees. Less distant than Fëanáro and Nerdanel. More _real_. More _present_. Just _more_.

And thinking about him fornicating…

_Disgusting._

With a sigh, Curufinwë stood as well and stretched. And resisted the urge to retch as he heard another round of giggling waft down from the master bedroom, muted but still audible through the floorboards. From the slightly ill look on Turkafinwë’s face, he guessed that his older brother, who, despite being third, had still been born in years after Nelyafinwë had reached adulthood, was in agreement with his unspoken assessment.

“I think I shall join you,” he agreed.

They made for the door together. Outside, the late spring night was cool but still warm enough to forgo blankets. Tonight, they would have for their roof only the domes of the stars.

_At least Nelyo seems happier than before._

He glanced back, looking up from outside the house at the warm glow of candlelight coming through the second-floor window. The laughter and the sarcastic humor and the half-hidden smiles and the softer temperament. Little things in the grand scheme of the world, and yet they were so obviously in stark contrast to the Nelyafinwë reborn, bitter and broken by the evils of the world now so far away. Little things that made all the difference.

Maybe things would be better with Nelyafinwë’s lover living in the house. Certainly, there would be swept floors and cleaner laundry and better food. Maybe better company

 _At least there is that_ , he thought.

But maybe fewer quiet nights by the fire.

And, with a sigh, he slunk off into the night after the beacon of Turkafinwë’s silver hair. The last thing he wanted to do was admit that it did his heart good to feel that soft burn of hope against the chill of his broken spirit and troubled mind.

Even though it was true.

_At least there is that._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:
> 
> Atar (Q) = Father  
> yonya (Q) = shortened yondonya (Q), my son (informal)  
> Fëanárion (Q) = son of Fëanáro  
> Fëanárioni (Q, p) = sons of Fëanáro  
> amilessë (Q) = mother-name  
> Amillë (Q) = Mother


	8. Truths I Never Wished to Know

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Istelindë made a promise to her husband, and she's trying to keep it. Slowly, she is coming to know her new younger brothers...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Basically, we have the characterization/filler chapter where Istelindë gets some insight into her new family. No specifications are made, but it also covers a little bit of a timeskip, approximately a month. Some of the minor details and character quirks here developed in earlier stories from my prompt anthology.
> 
> Warnings: mentions of murder, Kinslaying, death (nothing too graphic), and burning alive; mental health issues; guilt; unrequited love if you squint
> 
> Maedhros = Maitimo = Nelyafinwë = Nelyo  
> Maglor = Makalaurë = Kanafinwë = Káno  
> Celegorm = Tyelkormo = Turkafinwë = Turko  
> Caranthir = Carnistir = Morifinwë = Moryo  
> Curufin = Atarinkë = Curufinwë = Curvo  
> Amrod = Ambarussa = Pityafinwë = Pityo  
> Amras = Umbarto = Telufinwë = Telvo

Curufinwë grabbed at his chest when he thought no one was looking.

Often enough, Istelindë would see the motion, the way his fingers pressed into the cloth over his heart as if searching, the way they would crawl upwards to his throat, tracing around to the nape of his neck. Sometimes the motion was frantic and thoughtless, a blind reaction. Sometimes the motion was aborted, the fingers pausing in their tracks and falling away, limp and despondent, knowing they would find not that for which they searched.

_Had he died of strangulation?_ She pondered this behavior in her thoughts, too cautious of the fifth brother’s ill temper to ask. For what other reason could there be for a man to grab at his throat so strangely and desperately but for lack of air?

Instead, she asked Maitimo in the dead of night.

“How did Curufinwë die?”

Weary silver eyes looked at her through the darkness. “He was stabbed in the throat and bled to death on the marble floor of the royal apartments of Doriath.”

She knew it would be bloody and awful, for was that not the nature of violent death? Of all the brothers, only Makalaurë had survived the First Age and returned in shame to the Undying Lands. The others all had died, but she had not dared before to ask the manner of their deaths, fearing that they might be angry or stricken with trauma. Not even had she asked Maitimo about his own death, for the thought of him dying…

“Why do you ask?”

The question broke her from reverie, and Istelindë felt a sort of tension, a heated discomfort. The squeezing about her lungs that she always felt when she tried to look at these strange men as _men_ and not as _monsters in the dark._

Memories of Maitimo’s lost hand, of his bleak voice as he spoke of soul-wrenching, body-wrecking, never-ending pain she could not even begin to imagine, as he brushed too easily over the horror of awakening to find his body mutilated and broken like an abandoned doll, still left chills running down her spine. Even now, wrapped up as she was beneath the sheets and the blankets and beside the furnace of her husband’s body, she still felt cold down to her bones. It came from the sympathy, the pounding of horror _for_ a Kinslayer thrumming in her veins, and the secondhand terror, because she did not understand how anyone could have survived such trials and still come out with their mind fully intact. Because she was slowly coming to understand that intact was not a word that could describe any part of her partner.

Would answering his question leave her with this same feeling, this nausea that churned in her gut at wicked knowledge of the evils of the world? Would his explanation leave her twisting and turning in her sheets, sweat-slicked and stricken with nightmares?

Was it fair, that she suddenly wanted to forget all about Curufinwë and his frantic hands? That she wished to embrace the ignorance in which she had wallowed for so long and never be disillusioned by the bitter and harsh tales of faraway lands?

Was it fair, that she wished to save her heart the pain and the guilt of _knowing?_

_But I promised. I promised to try._

“He clutches at his chest and neck as though he is searching for something, as though he expects to find something there,” she whispered like a sinner confessing their wrongs to the sanctity of the stars. And were not his eyes like stars in the night? “I thought that, perhaps, it had something to do with… with how he was killed.”

“In a way…” Maitimo’s voice was so far-off, almost lost. “He used to wear a locket, before. A matching one was gifted to his wife. All I know is that he kept her picture there, and he never removed it. Not for war. Not for betrayal. Not even for murder.”

“It is gone now?” she asked.

“Aye,” her husband confirmed. “The chain was broken when he was slain, and I did not recover it from his corpse. He held it even then, spent the last of his lifeblood not staunching his wound but chasing after a bauble on the floor. I could not bear to touch it, and it would have felt too much like defiling the dead to try to remove it from his grasp. It is now, I presume, rotting and tarnishing somewhere at the bottom of the sea.”

Istelindë tried to imagine what it would be like. To be so far away from home, so far away from a lover and spouse, to cling desperately to a picture in her last moments as her blood spilled out upon the earth and left her cold and devoid.

_He must have loved his wife so dearly, so desperately. Must still love her just as much. And yet..._

No, she would have been happier not knowing. About his death. Or about his love.

“But she is here, and he is alive,” Istelindë said. “Can they not reconcile? Or has she turned her back on him for his part in the Kinslayings?”

“When we set out to the Hither Lands, we swore an Oath,” Maitimo began. Of that Oath, Istelindë certainly knew, for it was that very swearing that had given them cause to slaughter her people. Such an accursed thing, and she wished it had never existed! Such evil presented in such a comely and tempting package, a noble quest for vengeance and reclaiming of birthright! Almost did she open her mouth in protest of his speaking of such things—of his _justifying_ with such things!—but his finger upon her lips stayed her words. And his voice swelled with emotion, with the starkest undertone of fear, fear at the looming unknown.

“We swore an Oath, Istelindë. And, in our final moments, each one of us no doubt felt the same hopeless despair, the same spine-tingling terror. The thought that we were _damned_ , be it to the Void or to the Halls or to some unmentionable and terrible hell we could not even comprehend. Maybe to _nothingness_ or to _utter destruction_. We swore to succeed in our quest and we _failed_ in an Oath sworn to the One, Manwë and Varda as our witnesses.”

His voice softened, and it went from shaky with passion to almost grief-stricken. “I do not think Curufinwë expected to ever see his wife again. I think, from the very moment he left her behind, he feared they would never rejoin or reconcile, that he went to his demise alone. I think he is afraid, even now, of what she will say if ever they meet. Like his father and his mother, like his brothers and his son, that she will turn her back on him.

“And maybe,” Maitimo said unto the dark curtain of night, “That is what he deserves. Maybe that is what _we_ deserve. When we swore an Oath to our father and our God, I do not think we really understood the sacrifice we were making. And even when we came to know what it was that we swore, there was no turning back, no absolution for our actions. We are unforgivable. The Dispossessed.”

His fingers brushed her cheek, and Istelindë did not pull away from the gesture, too intimate a thing to be between mere comrades, mere friends.

“We are Kinslayers. And we cannot earn forgiveness.”

And Istelindë did not dare speak of death again for some time. Not even in the light.

\---

“Tell me your amilessë,” she said one afternoon to Morifinwë as they sat upon a low fence in the afternoon sun, each cradling a glass of cool water in their hands.

Her bashful brother-in-law proceeded to blush, his cheeks outdoing the deep shade of roses for his sudden bout of mortification. _Surely_ , she thought, _it could not be so terrible!_

Unluckily for Morifinwë, her request had been overheard.

It was Tyelkormo who responded to her words in turn. The silver-haired brother sat on her other side, his lips parted widely in a smile entirely too malicious to be an expression of good fun. “Oh, ho! Has little Moryo not told you his amilessë yet? For shame!”

“Get thee gone!” Morifinwë spat in turn. “No one asked your opinion, Turko!”

“Rarely do they ever,” the third brother agreed unabashedly, nodding sagely, “Yet, what kind of man would I be if I sought not to share my opinions with the world? They would miss so many of the wonderful thoughts that I have!”

Istelindë got the impression that this was nothing new. Tyelkormo would poke and prod at his younger sibling, who grew redder and redder in the face, until one or both of them snapped and tackled each other to the ground. At least both were weaponless (so far as she knew) and had her squashed between them like a fragile argent barrier of reason. Of course, if these two huge males decided they wanted to blacken each other’s eyes and bloody each other’s noses over something so petty as teasing, Istelindë doubted she could physically stop them. But…

“Even now, he does a perfect impression,” Tyelkormo told her, interrupting her thoughts. “Go ahead and tell her your amilessë, baby brother. I am certain she would get a good laugh at the accuracy!”

“Now, if he does not want to say…”

“Then I shall say so for him,” the silver brother agreed, as if he had predicted what Istelindë was about to say and took the words straight from her mouth. Except, of course, that he’d gotten her intent all tangled up into something not even remotely resembling her future and no-longer-to-be words. “Very wise of you, nésanya.”

“Tyelkormo…”

“Amillë took one look at his scrunched up, freckled, crying little face and called him Carnistir. Atar was so horrified that he asked her to change it, but, unfortunately for little Moryo, the name stuck. And look how _perfectly it fits!”_

Indeed, Morifinwë was red-faced (as the name implied, and Istelindë struggled not to laugh for all that her lips were drawn towards a helpless smile) and angry. Angry enough that he reached over Istelindë and shoved his brother hard enough to Tyelkormo fell backwards off his perch and spilled onto the ground with a surprising amount of feline grace.

“Get thee gone, wretch!” her poor, red-faced brother-in-law snarled.

And, predictably, this only made Tyelkormo laugh. The silver-haired man picked himself up off the ground, brushing at the stains of dirt and caked dust on his clothes. “No need to be so _sensitive_ , Carnistir. I am sure Istelindë will not think less of you.”

And, as swiftly as he had come, Tyelkormo wandered off, still snickering.

Leaving her with a fuming Morifinwë. Who she might start calling Carnistir in her head even if he gave her not permission to use it aloud. Oh dear…

“It is a perfectly fine name,” she insisted. “There is no need to be ashamed.”

“It is a joke, and a poor one at that,” the dark-haired brother commented, green eyes narrowing as he watched his older brother slink away. “Sometimes, I am forced to conclude that Amillë either was prescient to a frightening degree or had a truly awful sense of humor. Maybe names like Maitimo and Makalaurë and even Tyelkormo are not so terrible, but they only went downhill from there!”

Truth be told, Istelindë found it rather endearing. As endearing, she imagined, as Nerdanel would have looking down upon her squalling young child with the same reddened complexion. A lovely shade, indeed, and speaking to the tenderness of his heart.

“I will not call you as such unless you will it,” she assured him, “But I think it is rather sweet. Your Amillë must have loved your red cheeks so to name you thusly.”

Green eyes stared at her, and they had half-hearted thankfulness hidden somewhere beneath the mortification and the smarting pride. “I cannot imagine why she would find such a thing endearing, but I imagine you are probably correct.”

Hopping down from her own perch upon the fence, Istelindë brushed out her skirts and looked back up at her brother-in-law, the member of the family she was fairly certain served as the chief scapegoat for the humor of the rest. “Women appreciate sensitive men, you know. As much as nice muscles and pretty faces and hunting skills are impressive, agreeable temperament is key to a happy marriage.”

“M-marriage!” he sputtered. “No woman would marry a man such as me!”

_Oh, you think so?_ Istelindë knew that he was just the sort of man she might once have found attractive in her long-past days of girlhood. The young and naïve child she had once been dreamed rather of sweet kisses and soft whispers of love than of the viciously incisive cunning and, in some cases, even cruelty exhibited by the others.

“And when did you become an expert on the mind of a woman?” she pondered aloud, laughing when he looked away and grumbled. “Think you that I know not of what I speak?”

“I _think,”_ he replied, “that no woman in her right mind would marry a Kinslayer.”

To which Istelindë countered, “You can no longer say it has never happened, for am I not here and married to your brother? It _could_ happen to you as well.”

It was far too much fun to rile Carnistir up, she thought, as she ignored his red-cheeked protests and made for the house. She may sometimes have found Tyelkormo difficult, even downright hostile, but she now found that point of camaraderie between them. At least they shared that tiny bit of a sense of humor, teasing poor Carnistir.

Not that she would ever admit to such things aloud.

\---

For all that they were twins, Pityafinwë and Telufinwë were very different creatures.

For one, Telufinwë did not speak.

Yet another question bubbled up in her mind which she hesitated to ask, for the last time she had inquired of death it had earned her only more heartache and guilt in her breast than she had had before. Still, Telufinwë was silent, and her curiosity burned to know the reasons why. His neck was covered in burn scars, so, perhaps, was it the fire which had taken his voice?

But, as the brothers had proven before, the simplest explanation was not always the correct one. Had she not simplified Curufinwë’s motivations just the same?

Before she could push the question away and bury it in the depths of the closet in her mind made for things she never wanted to contemplate again, Istelindë let it slip from her lips. It was sunny outdoors and Pityafinwë had come into the house to refresh and break from the midday heat. She felt safer asking such dark things when the rays of Anar were spilling like golden hope across the wooden floor, illuminating the new rug before the door in all its bold and vibrantly cheerful color.

Of course, her brother-in-law’s face did not match the setting. Pityafinwë had seemed, out of all the brothers, perhaps the least emotional. Like a man whose feelings were buried in a deep grave beneath a mountain of stone. Makalaurë was sorrowful and Tyelkormo was wildly passionate and Carnistir needed more confidence and Curufinwë was plain downright ill-tempered, but their emotions were _present_ , a burning white-hot in their glowing eyes. The older brothers were understandable if not likeable, but the twins…

“Telufinwë is capable of speaking,” the older twin informed her blandly. “I assure you, the fire did nothing to quell his ability to scream. In fact, he did not _die_ by fire at all.”

Maybe she should have asked Maitimo instead.

Because the implication in his words made her throat close with the rising of bile. Because how would Pityafinwë know that the fire had not destroyed his brother’s voice unless Telufinwë had screamed from start to finish, conscious and in agony through the entire fiery ordeal. And it had _not killed him._

She almost prayed he had not lived long afterwards, suffering and slowly dying from his wounds. Already, there was Maitimo’s prolonged torture and the massive, bleeding scar that it left on his spirit, the scar that he tried to hide beneath a patchwork mess of oaths and promises and responsibilities and false strength. It hurt her heart to think that one of her new brothers—maybe more than one of them or maybe _all_ of them—had suffered and suffered and suffered impossibly long years of agony in silence, covered in wounds both physical and spiritual. It hurt that none of that mattered, because so many people would have said that they deserved their fate. And it hurt that she could even do something so blasphemous as feel sympathy and fondness for them when they were murderers of her own kin, that she could sin so completely and traitorously. 

Yet, how could she turn away when they called her “Sister Istelindë” and playfully teased one another in the sunshine and acted like _people?_

“Forgive me for asking. I will not bother him about such things.”

“It is not a secret,” Pityafinwë responded, voice flat and distant, “And you should not feel afraid to ask questions or seek understanding, especially not because you fear our reactions or fear to learn the truth.”

“Sometimes, I do not want to know the truth,” she said, her voice smaller than usual. A show of weakness uncharacteristic of her personality. It was not an openness she would have shared with Tyelkormo or Curufinwë, for they were too quick to exploit weakness. And Carnistir would not have known what to say.

“I wish I knew it not either,” Pityafinwë admitted to her, and she could hear the hint of bitterness in the drop of his voice, the drip of venom mixed with the hollow sound of hopelessness. “You see, Telufinwë did not die in the fire. He died in the water, drowning because his wounds prevented him from swimming. And he did not die by accident or by chance, but through deliberate sabotage.”

“Murder,” she breathed upon the soft wind. “Not battle or… or Kinslaying?”

“No,” her brother said, staring down at his hands curled about a glass of water as though it were rather a glass filled with demons made of fire and diabolical, glowing eyes. “Telufinwë wanted to go back for Nolofinwë’s people, our sworn brothers who Atar abandoned on the cold, dark shores to freeze or starve. My brother argued and pleaded, and he even shouted at Atar, but nothing would move Fëanáro to see reason or have mercy. None would he ever listen to save, for a very short time, our mother. So Telvo thought to return on his own, to force Atar’s hand. And he did, in a way, force Atar’s hand. But not to rescue Nolofinwë’s folk.”

It was sick to think of it. For all that Istelindë sometimes wished her father was kinder and more thoughtful, more willing to look at her life and think of her wants and desires from her own perspective rather than selfishly (or perhaps blindly) focusing only on what he perceived to be that which every woman should want, she did not doubt that he loved and adored her nevertheless. She was his only daughter, beloved and special. She did not doubt that all he did for her, he did with good intent. Even this marriage, this last push that drove Istelindë to flee the Telerin courts lest she be entrapped in a cage of nacreous luxury and loveless obligation, was not done maliciously.

But to imagine a father _murdering his own child_ just because that child, that boy not even fully into adulthood, was rebellious and righteous and kind-hearted and only wanted to _help…_

_I may come to love Maitimo and his brothers more than I ought. More than is right. But I do not think I could ever come to love a man who would burn his son alive just to make a point. Just to get his way._

Fëanáro was her father-in-law. That was an inescapable fact. But, by the Valar, she was glad that he remained in the Halls of the Waiting, forever imprisoned. She did not think she could have ever faced his legendary eyes or done battle with his unearthly charisma. She did not think she could even have shook his hand with poise and disdain, so overcome would she have been with the urge to claw off his face with her fingernails in retribution.

Shockingly, she felt _protective. Of Kinslayers._ Like an older sister looking out for her younger brothers.

Because, so naturally and easily, had come those thoughts.

_If he were to so much as_ glance _at Telufinwë…_

_If he were to so much as_ scoff _at Carnistir…_

_If he were to…_

Part of her knew she ought to banish these thoughts, for they were as dangerous as any blazing hearth fire misused or any poisonous snake loose in the garden. Hatred was a sickness that infected the blood, that suffocated the mind. Still, she could not help but think that she would tear apart _that man_ if he was to _ever_ place _her family_ in jeopardy again, especially for the sake of three glowing rocks.

And yet she stilled and stared at Pityafinwë’s downcast face, and, in her heart, she was both elated and confused. Both so certain of her course yet not certain of it at all.

_When did they start to become mine? When did they start to become my family?_

She could only wonder.

\---

Makalaurë, she found, had no skill for gardening. 

His hands were dexterous enough for the task of planting and pruning and weeding, but often, when he sat down to help her, he became distracted and lost focus of his task, sometimes plucking up an herb in place of a weed or deadheading a live blossom, too focused on a soft melody to keep track of colors and shapes of leaves. She would hear at first the soft hum of his voice in the evening, and, as dusk crept ever closer and cast shadows down across the garden, his voice would grow louder and clearer, more beautiful and, also, more difficult to hear.

An hour or two in, she would be carefully patting the soil or eviscerating a weed, and he would be sprawled on his back beneath an oak or at the center of the clearing looking up at the sky as the first stars appeared, their silver light no longer overshadowed by the brilliance of Anar. But she never complained about his lack of motivation, for she fancied that the night-flowers rejoiced in his impossible voice, the golden notes making them glow in the blackness as the dark and evening cool finally overwhelmed the heat of the day.

They never had need for speaking. His little melodies were not even in words.

They did not, she found, _need_ words.

With their depth, they could mimic the majestic heights and many-rayed colors of the towering mountains. With their softness, they could bring forth a cool and tender breeze across her cheek. With their light resonance, they could tease the stars into swelling and filling the whole of the sky with silver light.

Sometimes, she even fancied that she saw things far away. Maybe they were daydreams or maybe not. Glimpses of a world so alike and yet so unalike to Valinórë. Vales where the grass was blindingly green and mountains that were crowned in a haze of black gloom and unspoken danger. A wide and open plain of scorching dust plied against a river-dotted landscape with the most ancient and wild trees. In that world, there was beauty, but all beauty was contrasted by the fog or a low-lying smoke, every tree so high it seemed to touch the sky an antithesis to something blackened and bent, burned and destroyed beyond recognition.

Music, she knew, was how Eä had been born. Yet, until she heard Makalaurë sing, she did not think she truly understood how that could be so. The Valar and the Maiar never sang for the Eruhíni, never shared the mysteries of their creation.

Makalaurë, it seemed, had discovered some of that magic on his own.

“Do you ever sing ballads?” she asked finally one evening. “Never have I heard you put words to any melody, nor have I heard you play with the lyre, though Maitimo has told me you used to often long ago.”

The sudden silence in the garden was almost unnatural. It seemed that even the insects ceased their buzzing and whirling, the breezes stilling in the trees and the crickets going mute. In the shady darkness, large silver eyes stared up at her from where Makalaurë lay, and they were too terrible to look upon. And yet, all at once, it was impossible to look away, for the sight was bittersweet and speckled with diamonds.

“I have not sung to a lyre or harp for quite some time, no,” Makalaurë finally said, and he sounded almost heartbroken. “There are some things that will never come easily again, I fear, and putting words to my thoughts is one of many.”

“But why?” Though she knew it unwise to push—it always was—but she could not help herself. “Does not singing bring you joy, brother Makalaurë?”

“It did. Does, perhaps, at times.” Makalaurë sighed, and his fingers plucked at the grass as though twanging the strings of a harp in an invisible, silent melody. “I fear I have no songs to sing that do not end in terrible sorrow. I have spent my capacity for lullabies and childhood rhymes and tavern songs, for such things never held my heart. Yet, to even think of singing a ballad now of any adventure in the Hither Lands hurts too much to contemplate.”

“Was there truly nothing there that was good?” Istelindë could not believe that. Could not believe that Ilúvatar had created the Hither Lands in His music only as an instrument of evil and sorrow. “Is there truly nothing—no tale or happenstance—that befell you or your brothers which brings light to your heart rather than darkness?”

Makalaurë rolled onto his side, spilling the long, straight waves of his dark hair over the grass, mingling them with shadows. Thoughtfully, he stared at her, head tilted to one side. “For a short time, I suppose, there was something that might resemble happiness.”

Istelindë abandoned her weeding, instead flopping down onto the soft bed of grass across from her brother. “Then sing to me of that. Tell me a proper tale, brother Makalaurë.”

Her brother-in-law sat up then, leaning back against the trunk of the oak tree. With bated breath, she waited for him as he thought of where to begin, eyes blinking into blackness as his eyelids slipped shut. Like a man preparing to take a great leap of faith, mustering all the courage he could scrape together before facing his greatest terrors, Makalaurë sighed deeply. And then he began his tale.

If she were not already well on her way to being hopelessly in love with Maitimo, Istelindë might have felt her heart swayed by the purity of such a voice. And she suddenly understood that it was not the singing that held Makalaurë’s voice at bay, but the words. The things he did not want to remember, or perhaps remembered too much. Things he did not want to bring back into the world as stark and as new as the moment they had been inflicted.

Like the tales of old, like the Ainulindalë, his voice brought a different world to life.

And he told her about two lonely brothers with their hands bathed in blood, both miserable, brought low by broken promises and hopelessness. He told her of a woman in white throwing herself to her death for the sake of the star in her hands, leaving behind two little boys who hid in her closet and wept for their mother. He told her of the feeling of sparing their lives, how he could not bear the weight of their innocent blood staining his soul, how he longed so desperately for something, anything, that would drive away the loss of his baby brothers and the guilt of the slaughter in the name of an Oath that should never have been sworn.

The tale twined around two little boys who hugged his legs and begged for stories. Who snuck into his bed at night during thunderstorms and after nightmares. They tracked mud all about the fort and broke many dishes and made many messes. And their laughter filled the gray and awful world once more with gentle color, rosy and lovely.

They were the greatest joy, the most beloved gift. He taught them as his own sons, took them with him on trips to learn to ride and hunt, sat with them on the grassy hills outside the fortress and taught them to play the harp and to sing. And, sometimes, when they were too little to know any better, too little to understand the faux paus of their words, they called him “Atar” as he kissed their brows and tucked them into bed.

But, in the end, the world was a dangerous place. Two young boys, not yet blossomed into adulthood, embraced him desperately (and goodness, but he had not quite remembered what it felt like to receive such physical gestures of affection) and cried against his shoulders as they bid him goodbye. What came after was awful, the splitting of the earth and the flooding of the lands and the rupturing of all the beauty of the Hither Lands as war fell upon all their heads. And the Oath hung like a phantom over the heads of the two brothers, a weight that grew heavier and heavier each passing day and with each mile the armies of the Valar advanced upon the fortress of Angamando.

Yet, there were two little boys somewhere far off, safe and secure. And, though Makalaurë sensed his impending doom creeping closer and closer, slowly reaching out to wrap its icy fingers about his throat, there was some hope in that. Some little bit of light in a world where all the light had gone out.

And Istelindë wept, because even the happiness was tainted with the nostalgia and the worry of a father for his sons (even be they not of his blood), and Makalaurë’s pure voice would have left the loveliest heavenly choir green with jealousy at how easily he stirred the heart to aching and the tears to flowing.

With the conclusion of his tale, Makalaurë’s voice trailed away. But this silence was natural and rested upon the back of the tongue like the aftertaste of sweet fruit and warm, honeyed mead. Though she knew the adventure in truth had not ended there—even the Teleri had heard rumors of the raping of the Silmarilli from the forces of the Valar—she was unspeakably grateful that he did not speak of that darkest night. That he said nothing of the flight or of Maitimo’s death.

She was not ready to hear.

“There is no need to cry, sister Istelindë,” her brother said softly, his voice faintly hoarse from its use. “It is over now.”

_That hypocrite_ , she could not help but think with a watery smile.

“Do not say such things, Makalaurë, when I can see that you weep as freely as I,” she said. And then added, “We will have to find some brighter tales for you to sing, or else spend some time cultivating new adventures of a kinder nature. After all, have you not been given the second chance of rebirth? Should you not use this gift?”

It was the last thing a Telerin Princess should be saying to a Kinslayer. It was a betrayal of her kin of the highest order, and it brought a sharp sting of guilt to her chest. And yet… would it not be a betrayal of herself if she remained quiet and said nothing?

Makalaurë’s gaze was downcast, and she reached out to grasp his hand, taking in the white-hot and smooth calluses upon his palm, carved in silvery white. A mark of the evil he had wrought, of how hallowed light wrecked and burned all impurity it touched. “Brother Makalaurë? What say you to that?”

“You are far too kind and far too forgiving, sister. That is what I say.”

But he squeezed her hand, and he answered her smile.

And, from the doorway, a shadow watched with starlit eyes and a faint frown upon his scarred face. But he said nothing, and neither heard as he backed away into the house.

\---

Tyelkormo was an infuriating creature.

Too wild, for he could not be constrained at all to the house or even to the property. Some days, he seemed to be everywhere at all times, his fey laughter ringing in her ears like high-pitched bells as he went about making mischief and spreading discord in all he did and said. Yet others, though, he was nowhere to be seen. For days he might vanish, only to return with his clothes in need of mending and a stag or two thrown over his saddle. None seemed surprised by this at all, or even mildly concerned.

“Where is Tyelkormo?” she would ask at breakfast, and Curufinwë would shake his head and reply that he had been gone since well before dawn and that he knew not to where.

“I am not his keeper,” the fifth brother would say even though they all knew that to be a blatant lie. For none other could keep such a wild being.

Then, again, at lunch he would fail to appear. Wondering if he was starving himself or had simply forgotten to come and fill his belly, she would ask again, “Where is Tyelkormo? Is he not joining us for lunch?”

And the brothers would exchange knowing looks, a private joke amongst them that she failed to find amusing. Sensing that there was some unspoken exchange passed between them all, she planted her hands upon her hips and demanded the truth.

To which Maitimo gently told her that sometimes this just _happened._

“He has been known to vanish. Sometimes only for hours or days, but he has gone alone and disappeared for longer before. In the Hither Lands, we tried to keep him upon a shorter leash, or at least keep better track of his movements, but here, in Valinórë, there is no need to stalk and tail him like a predator chases its prey. He will be back.”

“What if he gets hurt? Injured?” Outraged, she waved her wooden spoon, watching as all but her husband winced back.

“This is just his way, Istelindë,” Maitimo insisted. “Ever since he was a boy. Not even Amillë could make him stay. If anyone could have swayed his heart, it was she. But, sometimes, the wanderlust struck, and he would be gone like a ghost in the night.”

“It drove Atar mad,” Curufinwë interjected. “Methinks that is half the reason he made a habit of it in the first place. He just never learned to stop.”

Istelindë did not ask after him at dinner. Nor the next day. Nor the day after that.

He rode onto the farmstead on the fourth day with that fey grin on his face looking as though he’d rolled through the underbrush. Tears in his clothes, half-hiding little red scratches and scrapes. Twigs and leaves all tangled in his hair, and his braid lopsided slightly. But he greeted her merrily with a kiss to the cheek and hug that nearly broke her ribs. More than anyone she had ever met, he seemed so _alive._

Something wild and free.

“Greetings, dear sister Istelindë,” he cried out, and his joy was too merry and too mad, his eyes glowing too brightly to look upon and not feel the ache as of one staring up into Anar directly. “You have ruined me! I found myself missing dearly your home-cooked meals and the smell of herbs burning upon the hearth fire.”

She could not help but think that she must be lucky to be similar to Lady Nerdanel, if not in face and form then at least in temperament and mannerism. For she feared that, had not Tyelkormo taken a shine to her like a puppy to its owner or a kitten to its mother, he would have found ways to make her life here intrinsically miserable. Such was the way of this whimsical being, this finicky and otherworldly creature of the earth.

_He is more Yavanna’s child than Fëanáro’s in some ways_ , she could not help but think as she pulled a leaf from his mane. _Or perhaps more Oromë’s son, a lover of the earth, close to its Song in a way the Eldar had forgotten in the face of golden and silver light._

Many long ages ago, upon the shores of Cuiviénen beneath the stars, had all elves been thus? Wild beings, in love with the world and in love with each other, in some ways as fey and violent as lightning lashing the plain yet as gentle and skittish still as a frightened doe? Beings who reveled in the moment, in the impulsive and the wonder, rather than focusing so much on all the materialistic treasures, the gems and fabrics and lavish houses, as they did now?

It was clear either way that Tyelkormo was simply not _made_ for the world of a prince. It was no wonder that he had ever been a thorn in his father’s side.

“Come in and have some tea,” she ordered. “And change out of those clothes! I’ve half a mind to make you mend them yourself for being so irresponsible! But only after you’ve had some bread and some bacon. I know how you prepare food, and I cannot imagine you eating well three times a day when left on your own.”

“I am no child,” he said, and yet she noted that he did not disagree with her assessment. Instead, he let her tug him into the house and sit him at the table and feed him a mound of fresh bread and far more bacon than he probably needed in one sitting.

“Next time, at least tell me when you plan to go,” she scolded.

And his look was curious, his large eyes blinking slowly, like a feline observing something twitch and squirm with lazy interest. “Are you not going to ask me never to do something so worrisome again?”

_Did you expect me to?_

“You are a grown man, as you say. I would not presume to tell you where you ought and ought not go or when. It is not my place to deny you something that brings you happiness.”

“Amillë always asked me to stay,” Tyelkormo told her without really telling her anything. And yet, he did not really need to say it, for those words spoke all. “And Atar never asked. He never asked anyone for anything. Obedience was simply expected.”

For all that he sounded not bitter now, as though the long and distant past could no longer touch his spirit, Istelindë wondered if the young Tyelkormo, less maddened by war and less scarred by unspoken horrors, would have sulked and run abroad untamed and uncultured out of spite as much as a desire for freedom. If it had been his way of crying out for help but none could understand the language of his pleas. If rebellion had been his way because rebelling was easier than crying, because tears did nothing except cause pain when they were ignored.

It was hard, acknowledging that this man had once been a boy with a worried mother and an impossible father. That he had once been anything other than this insensible being.

“I cannot imagine,” she said carefully, “That anything I say could tether you down against your will. Words have Power, but only to those who allow that Power to hold them in check, for words are still intangible things in the end. Even the strongest of magics and spells can be countered by a stronger will. What chains could I possibly conjure from my lips that would prevent you from running off again, when the anger of the Spirit of Fire himself could not tame you?”

“Stronger men and women have tried and failed,” Tyelkormo agreed solemnly. “Truth be told, had you tried to chain me, I would have needed to break your chains just to prove to you that it could be done.”

_At least he is honest._

“Well, in any happenstance, at the very least please take enough food for a decent meal every day next time.” That was the extent of her insistence. “I would not have you eating burned meat or raw herbs and growing skinny.”

There was that strange look again. Like she was a being of the likes he had not yet encountered, different and foreign but fascinating nevertheless. He looked upon her like one might gaze upon a new species of butterfly, analyzing the tessellations of its wings as they fluttered softly upon a full blossom. The scrutiny was uncomfortable, resting heavy betwixt her shoulder blades, and she had to tend to the midday meal to avoid acknowledging those too-bright eyes or she feared she might shudder at the touch of his gaze.

“It is rare,” he told her finally, “That one does not seek to change wholly to their satisfaction the things about another which they cannot tolerate.”

Scoffing, she glanced back at her silver brother. “Have none of you men ever heard of the word ‘compromise’?”

“We have _heard_ of it,” Tyelkormo immediately responded, and the somber tone was gone like lightning flashing through the dark sky. The teasing grin was back, the mischief that danced in the mercuric pools of his pale eyes. “Noldorin princes do not compromise. They find a way to have their way. So Atar would have said.”

“Well, were he here, I’d give your father a piece of my mind with my wooden spoon,” she grumbled grouchily, knowing that, in truth, she probably would have been cowering behind her cooking pot if Fëanáro stood in her kitchen. Still, it felt good to say. Cathartic.

“I am certain Amillë would have said the same,” her brother responded.

And they shared in laughter.

And, in that moment, Tyelkormo was so painfully, gloriously, horrifyingly simple and understandable. What a great puzzle each brother sometimes seemed, and yet, in these moments of normalcy, she found every time her beliefs shaken and crumbled like the collapsing stone walls of an abandoned, dilapidated building left untended, for they were hardly puzzling at all. Boys gone off to war too soon, men with the afterimage of innocence there for anyone to see, and yet undeniably steeped in sin and bloodshed. Beautiful jewels and pearls once they had been, but set in an ugly crown, scratched and shattered and _ruined._

And it was sad, because they were beautiful people. People who could make her laugh and cry, who she could imagine loving as friends or more.

People who did not have lives. People who had done great evil. People who were damned.

And she could not help but adore them anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:
> 
> amilessë (Q) = mother-name  
> nésanya (Q) = my sister  
> Amillë (Q) = Mother  
> Atar (Q) = Father  
> Eruhíni (Q) = Children of Eru, men and elves  
> Silmarilli (Q) = the Silmarils  
> Eldar (Q) = high-elves


	9. Unplanned Revelations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A large number of people would like to _think_ they know all about Istelindë's relationship with her husband and judge them both accordingly. Turns out, not many of them have even the faintest idea what she's thinking. Including her husband himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: adults not communicating (they get better), family disputes, confessions, kissing (it's finally happening!), no sex just yet, but they both think about it
> 
> Maedhros = Maitimo = Nelyafinwë = Nelyo  
> Maglor = Makalaurë = Kanafinwë = Káno  
> Celegorm = Tyelkormo = Turkafinwë = Turko  
> Caranthir = Carnistir = Morifinwë = Moryo  
> Curufin = Atarinkë = Curufinwë = Curvo  
> Amrod = Ambarussa = Pityafinwë = Pityo  
> Amras = Umbarto = Telufinwë = Telvo  
> Finarfin = Arafinwë  
> Fingolfin = Nolofinwë  
> Finrod = Artafindë = Findaráto  
> Mandos = Námo

Maitimo was quieter than usual.

Over the course of her short tenure as his wife, living in his house and even sleeping innocently in his bed, Istelindë liked to think that they had become something at least a little more intimate than acquaintances, allies, or reluctant coconspirators. They shared often deep and troubling thoughts with one another in the privacy of their bedchambers, whispering back and forth in the dark secrets that belonged only to the stars, sometimes caught in a web of heavy solemnity but sometimes also in the warmth of laughter and mirth. They rose each morning together, took breakfast at golden dawn together, and Istelindë always made Maitimo’s coffee just with the right amount of cream and gave him muffins instead of pancakes whenever she could because she knew he preferred them (and part of her desperately wanted to subtly showcase her favoritism). While they never held hands, or really had the opportunity to, Istelindë was not afraid to kiss his cheek nor sit at his side in the evening, her hip and thigh brushing up against his and her fingers _accidently_ tangling in his wild russet curls.

She liked to think they were friends. Maybe growing to be something more.

So, to see something so obviously troubling him, and to have him hide his thoughts from her deliberately, was unsettling. For all that they may not _love_ one another as a husband and wife, all other facets of their marriage had been a cordial, or even pleasant, union. They helped one another and supported one another and were truthful with one another.

Eru, but this man knew more about Istelindë than any member of her own family! He laid out her favorite dresses for her to find after she bathed, and he saw that her habit of twirling her hair about her finger was a nervous tick, gently stilling her hands and calming her thoughts, and he rolled over and gave her the privacy his turned back could afford when she wept for homesickness or worry or guilt in the dead of night. About the only thing she had _not_ shared with him yet was her naked body! Surely, he had seen the entirety of her naked mind!

Was she meant to assume that she ought receive the same courtesy or not? Should she question him, though it appeared he wanted not to speak of his troubles to her? Was that what a true wife would have done, let him stay silent? Or would a true wife have been capable of guessing at his troubles?

The silence was oppressive, and Istelindë felt her spine stiffen and her hands twist in her skirts to keep from grabbing at her hair as they bumped and jolted down the road in the cart. Side-by-side, the last time they had come this way together was on the day of their marriage. This new day, however, was the day that they were returning to Tirion, not only to fetch supplies (Istelindë had a whole host of fabric and yarns and threads she wanted to purchase), but also to speak to the  
King. Most probably about their farce of a marriage.

Was this an expression of nerves? She had seen her husband angry, annoyed, amused, grief-stricken and even plotting, but she could not think of a time when she had detected actual anxiety. No situation that Valinórë could hurtle towards the beaten and scarred spirit seemed to so much as make him twitch with fear or with discomfort, for how could anything in this Blessed Realm compare to what lay like shattered glass and broken dreams in his past?

But maybe this was finally it. Something that made Maitimo genuinely _nervous._

Yet, that seemed not right at all.

Yes, they were expecting to face the King and others besides. Istelindë suspected her father and brothers might make an appearance, and she hoped that they would leave her spouse in peace and not try to intimidate a Kinslayer for her sake. Yes, there was also an expectation that some of Maitimo’s extended family—maybe his second half-uncle and a number of his cousins, both friendly and hostile—might gather to hear their tale.

But Maitimo was a master at political maneuvering. At playing tricks with words and twisting them to his advantage. For all that some of the gathered company might spit and snarl at her husband, she could not imagine such scorn bothering him overmuch, for scorn followed Kinslayers wherever they went and had for hundreds of years even before their rebirth. Nor could she imagine that he knew not what words to speak, for he had conjured them so easily upon his tongue even in the face of a sudden and inexplicable marriage proposal thrown at him out of the blue. This meeting they had been planning for weeks, so she imagined that he had plotted and planned for every scenario they might face, for every question the King might throw their way.

Yet, still, he was quiet. His eyes were dull and distant, staring down into the vale of Valacirya that opened up beneath them into an emerald basin, but neither seeing nor appreciating the blazing warmth and heady wild fragrance of the vibrant green forests or the glittering jewel of white and gold Tirion resting at their heart in resplendence. Mayhap she knew not all his mind as well as he knew her own, but she knew that something about this was strange. Unnatural and out of character.

Maybe if she waited, gave him some time to think…?

So, she looked out over the landscape and tried to enjoy the flowers, the vibrant blooming of Yavanna’s vast gardens as the peak of the summer approached swiftly, fertile and heavy and swollen with life. She tried to spend more time admiring how _green_ the summer months had become than paying attention to the tenseness of her husband’s fist where it clutched at the reins and tried to take in every scent of flower and name it in her thoughts rather than analyze the solemn cast to his cheeks and the flat, uncompromising line of his lips. If he saw her glances, he pretended not to see, for he never stirred nor questioned nor even looked her way.

Even when they reached the glittering roads and the golden city gates, even when her inquiry rested swollen upon her tongue, begging to be brought into being, to be heard, she held her tongue in silence. Now, maybe, was not the time for such things. In less than an hour, they would enter the palace doors and be escorted to the King for what some might gently call a meeting but the most pessimistic would label an interrogation.

No, now was not the time.

Still, his silence weighed on her heart. Though she steeled herself against her own anxiety and refused to show in her eyes her uncertainty, refused to let the thought of seeing her family again either bend her spine in shame or soften her features from their determined cast, her heart still beat heavily in her throat like a drum.

More than anything, she wished she could reach out and hold his hand.

If it had been yesterday, or if he had spoken to her, or if he had kissed her on the cheek this morning and praised her coffee and begged like a boy for her muffins, she might have reached out to grasp his hand. She might have held it tight between her fingers, palm-to-palm, his scars to her softness, and she would have been flooded with the fiery heat of his spirit, caught in the glow of the strength that had guided him through all the ages of the world.

But he had not smiled at her or kissed her cheek or even spoken her name that morn. And it seemed like reaching out would be alike to touching a stranger, every bit as wrong and abhorrent as the thoughts of laying with a man she neither knew nor loved.

And she knew not why it hurt, when all of this had been a charade patched and pasted together in the guise of a marriage from the very start. When she had told him herself that she expected only his cooperation and support, not his friendship or his love or his devotion. This was not a love match, but a union of convenience and nothing more. And marriages of convenience did not involve holding hands for support like young lovers in the twilight gardens.

But it still hurt. No matter how little sense that made, no matter how much she told herself it should not hurt, no matter how much her mind hissed that _it did not matter._

Because, somehow, it did.

\---

The palaces of the royal family of the Noldor were just as lavish and beautiful as the graceful arches of silver and the dripping chandeliers and drapery of pearls which were so familiar to Istelindë’s child-self. But they were, rather than pastel and silver and iridescent glowing, instead many-colored and jewel-encrusted. Where the Teleri preferred diaphanous silks and delicate laces, the Noldor decorated in bold color and heavy fabric, and where the Teleri favored airy beauty and smoothed curves, the Noldor instead made their palace of sharp and precise angles and symmetrical, patterned designs.

To Maitimo, this seemed familiar, and if he felt out of place in his simple clothing and dusty boots, he made no issue nor showed any sign. Istelindë, on the other hand, was dressed in the softest of pinks and struggled against the urge to grasp her arms in a lonely hug and hunch her shoulders with discomfort. Like a delicate blossom in a sea of thorny crimson roses.

They presented themselves to their escort, but between them was an empty space. Perhaps formal and acceptable, but unexpected of a supposedly loving couple. Of course, their escort made no comment, and only bowed in greeting. “This way. The King awaits.”

Taken up the stairs, Istelindë traversed mazes of broad halls filled with the finest of carpeting and the loveliest paintings and works of sculpture. Yet another difference, for the Teleri were of the sea and preferred their homes, while graceful, to be open and spacious rather than cluttered with things. Here, every fork in the halls had a table, and every table had ornaments tastefully arranged to complement the color and style and the nearby paintings and the wallpaper and the shade of the floor. Flower arrangements, too, were there, freshly-cut and smelling heavenly, but arranged to a degree of precision that Istelindë wondered oft if they’d passed by the same one already before and were going in endless circles.

Somehow, though, they reached their destination. Nothing outside that door indicated that it was any different from any other door they had passed, for it was of heavy, dark wood with a glossy finish and a brass knob. The Teleri preferred open doorways except for in their bedrooms and privies, and even the concept of a front door had at first been a strange thing to Istelindë when she had first left her pampered life so long ago.

She could see the barely-there resemblance in architecture echoed in her husband’s small house. The precision of shape, the sharp angles and the need for divisive barriers. But little else was similar, for this place was the home of a King and Maitimo’s abode was a simple thing lacking extravagance.

Istelindë found she still preferred the later.

The escort’s knock was soft, and Istelindë wondered if the occupant inside could even hear such an unobtrusive little whimper of a sound. Yet, they heard a voice from within bidding them enter, and the servant opened the door and held it abroad for the couple as they passed within its threshold.

There were more people waiting within than Istelindë would have liked.

There was her uncle by marriage, the King, dressed all in blue wearing the circlet of state, and her aunt Eärwen sat beside him looking as tranquil and regal as ever she did in a gown of paler blue to complement her mate’s. Not surprisingly, Istelindë’s father was there as well, and her eyes flickered from face to face if only to avoid catching his eye or seeing his expression. At least her brothers were not present.

But she recognized some others. Lord Nolofinwë and his wife were there, their eyes empty and their faces blank. And there was a handful of dark-haired males and golden-haired males as well, Findaráto sticking out from their throng and giving her what he must have thought was a reassuring smile as her eyes passed over his face.

Formal and graceful despite his much less beautiful and overstated garb, Maitimo bowed deeply and greeted his half-uncle. “Your Majesty.”

Istelindë curtsied at his side and echoed her husband.

“I find there is no need for such excessive formality today,” the King said, and his face sketched a pleasant smile. “Come and sit, my niece and nephew, and tell me your tale. I find my interest caught by such fantastic happenings.”

_Is he being sarcastic?_

Istelindë, at least her younger self, had interpreted her uncle’s smiles always to be sunny and friendly, had interpreted his gestures to be kind-hearted and mellow, but she had been living now for weeks with seven Noldorin men and she smelled the faintest bit of condescension, annoyance and chastisement in those words. These damned Noldor, they never spoke directly of what they felt or said directly what they meant, yet they were uncompromising and stubborn and Eru forbid someone should not understand exactly what they wanted! It was so _infuriating!_

Yet, this was probably the way Maitimo had been raised, digging through social pleasantries and niceties to find actual meaning in statements. Painting his own words with the same half-hidden acts of insult and sneakily hidden splotches of true intent. After all, for all that he now lived humbly and did hard physical labor most days, Maitimo was the eldest son of the eldest son of a King, and he had undoubtedly been raised with the intent that he might one day sit in the very spot that Arafinwë now sat, doing the very job that Arafinwë now did in his stead. A prince, born and bred for a different sort of war than the one which left scars cutting across his skin.

He held out an arm to her, and Istelindë took it instinctively and let her husband guide her to her seat, not even realizing at first that it was his right arm that she held and his handless stump of a wrist that her fingers danced across. Yet, though Maitimo seemed not to see it, she caught the looks of half-hidden disgust or revulsion on other faces at the sight of blackened, jagged marks carving and swirling up beneath the cuffs of his tunic. Her father’s face twisted.

Istelindë would admit that it was an ugly thing, the crowning scars about the place of his mutilation, but no injury of war or torment could possibly disgust her as did some of the dark looks that passed between deceptively bright eyes. If her jaw had not been set before, too wracked with nerves had she been to be angry, it certainly was now. And, if the sternness of her eyes had faltered with lack of confidence at the loss of her spouse’s support, she knew that hard and cool glare was back in full force. Like the faces of her father and her brothers in their moments of greatest stubbornness, a wall of pale steel and diamond glass.

Maybe Maitimo did not love her as a husband loved a wife. Maybe he did not tell her the entirety of his mind. But he was her partner nevertheless. He was _hers_.

 _Your discontent at the sight of physical ugliness only highlights the stains that blacken and outline the ugliness of your hearts,_ she thought snappishly.

Maitimo sat beside her, in a separate chair but close enough to touch, and she did not hesitate to reach out and lay her hand upon his right arm. Beneath her hand, she felt his muscles twitch and strain, but all she did was wrap her fingers about his broken not-quite-wrist and hold on whilst staring the King dead in the eyes.

“How would you begin your tale?” the King asked, leaning forward.

They had talked about this. Planned it down almost to the word. At least one person in the room (Istelindë’s father) had been deeply involved in their engagement prior to the Darkening, present through every painful hour of negotiation over dowries and marriage contracts and alliances, and had, with his own eyes, laid witness to the fact that Istelindë and Maitimo had _never met face-to-face._ In light of that revelation, the pair had no intention of pretending that they had “continued” or “rekindled” some sort of romance.

Instead, they intended to play it off as an accident of fate.

But, before Maitimo could begin his carefully plotted tale, Istelindë went and opened her mouth. And she said: “I sought him out.”

All eyes in the room were upon her, some wide and some confused and some wondering plainly at her loss of sanity. But, where before all those judgmental eyes in those stoic and harsh marble faces might have left the uncertainty creeping and crawling across her skin upon spider’s legs, now their weight only seemed to bolster her resolve. For there was something she wanted to say. Something like a blinding light slashing through their doubtful and provincial shadows, their loss of faith and their blatant prejudice.

“I sought him out,” she repeated, “Because I wanted to know the man I would have married. And I wanted to know the man who slaughtered my people.”

That was not, of course, the truth. But, in her heart, Istelindë wondered if it might as well have been in the end. And the only pair of eyes that she cared about were his, staring straight at her face for the first time that day. She wished she could look into them, wished she could count the flecks of starlight and the passing shadows of dark iron in their depths, wished she could read the words that must be flying through his brilliant mind, twisting and turning and trying to solve the puzzle of her sudden impulse.

“I sought him out, thinking I would find a monster only,” she continued. “Something slinking through the black shadows in the night. Something of which to be frightened.”

Her hand tightened. “And yet, I have slept at his side for many nights now, and I have never needed to fear the dark, because his eyes are brighter than the moon and the stars. And I have never needed to fear speaking my mind, because he has never scoffed at my wishes or my dreams, never patronized me or condescended at the independence and freedom of a _woman.”_

From the corner of her eye, she saw her father flinch sharply. And, while she did not want to wound him with the spears of her words, neither did she want him unscathed. She and Maitimo had planned to skirt around the issue, to say nothing of her reasons for fleeing, but she wanted now more than ever to say what was on her mind and in her heart, openly and freely.

“I have spoken to his brothers and stolen their clothes and watched them stumble around in their nightclothes like grumbling boys, and I have listened to their tales and heard of their deaths and watched them blush and tease and gripe. I have received their hugs and kisses on the cheek, and they have called me ‘sister’ and learned to pass dishes at the table instead of reaching across others’ plates,” she continued. “I have even heard them _sing.”_

And was it her imagination, Maitimo’s soft flinch?

“And I have concluded that they are _people,”_ she announced steadily. “Not animals. Not barbarians. Not even _monsters._ So surprised are you all that I love my husband and would choose to be by his side, but I have done and seen what you have not. None of you speak to him or spend time with him. None of you even _know_ him. 

“And that I, someone with every reason to hate all Kinslayers, can see these things, but _you_ , his own family, _cannot! I am ashamed for you all!”_

She was still looking at the King, but her words were meant for them all. A sea of hostile eyes now averted from her sight at her words. And she felt no sympathy for any of them, especially when the one who had done the greatest wrong against them was dead, and those true victims of the Kinslayers’ crimes were unrepresented except, perhaps, in her father’s reddened cheeks and his sullen glare.

“This is our tale, King of the Noldor,” she said, “That I met him and learned his character, and that I, a grown woman, decided that I wanted him as a friend and then as a lover and then as a husband, and he chose me in return. Is that really so strange in the end, that you need to call us to your lavish halls and interrogate us before harsh and unforgiving eyes, putting us before a jury predisposed against seeing us as we are and not as we are perceived, as though we were on trial for loving and marrying one another?”

The King said nothing to that at first, and the only sounds in the room were of faint breathing. And then she broke the sacred silence. “I want all present to leave except his Majesty, Aunt Eärwen and my father.”

They waited for the King’s approval. And, slowly, Arafinwë nodded his assent to her demands. Deep blue eyes, glimmering with something strange and visceral, looked over the heads of the couple at the surrounding gaggle of relatives. “I can see that we have, indeed, violated the privacy of my niece and nephew thusly, and openly antagonized them knowingly and in spite. I think Lady Istelindë’s suggestion wise. Please leave us now.”

It was all she could do to _not smirk_ as the interlopers filed out, all refusing to look towards either her or her husband. Even Prince Nolofinwë left with the rest, a sour look upon his otherwise regal features, shooting a sharp look of discontent towards his little brother which the King ignored in blasé fashion.

The door clicked shut behind them all, and then it was just Istelindë, her husband, her father and her aunt and uncle. For a few long moments none of them knew what to say or how to start in the wake of her derisive castigation, the faces of her aunt and uncle pensive and the visage of her father both confused and mildly horrified. As though he could not _believe_ that she had somehow _fallen in love_ with a murderer.

But what she said was true. None of them knew Maitimo. None of them knew his brothers. None of them even knew _her._

What right did they have to decide that they knew enough to dictate who she might and might not love?

“How?” her father finally asked, voice strained. “How could you simply _forgive_ all that they have done as though the slaughter and betrayal of kin unto kin was _meaningless?_ I do not understand how you can even stand to _touch him_ , let alone…”

This disapproval was expected, and earlier it might have sent Istelindë’s heart tumbling down into the pit of her belly like a ball of iron sinking to the bottom of the bay. But she felt exhilarated, even liberated, by her admittance, and by the stunned brightness she could see lurking in Maitimo’s slightly widened eyes when she glanced at his otherwise stony face. Clearly, even though they were spouses and friends, he had not expected her wholehearted support in protection against the onslaught of his family.

“I did not say that I _forgave_ their crimes. It is not as though I am unaware of what they have done, nor that I _approve,”_ she said. “But they went through their Exile and they went through their wars and they suffered, and they died and Lord Námo has deemed them fit for rebirth. It is not my place to punish them for sins of the past, repented or no.

“My place is to judge them _now._ It has not been easy.” For each time she felt that spark of camaraderie, of kinship and friendship, even of sisterly love, she had felt such agonizing _guilt_ building explosively beneath her ribs, writhing and throbbing at her core. “But I am not willing to hold onto the past forever and spend my life being bitter and resentful and unrelenting and even cruel. Then I would be just like Fëanáro, creating the same suffering and discord that his ancient fury and hatred stirred, unwilling to forgive and unwilling to bend, reacting only in anger and hatred and fear. And that is not the person that I want to become, Atar. Too many of our people for too long have held this grudge, and it is time to let go and move on to better things or this shadow will _never_ go away.”

The silence was contemplative after that, and the King leaned towards her with those unfathomable blue eyes, head angled curiously. Maybe her father still looked skeptical and her aunt judgmental, but Arafinwë seemed to _hear_ her meaning rather than just her words. For all that the Teleri were a cheerful, sea-loving people, the royal family had ever been stubborn. Stubborn in their morality. Stubborn in their ideology. Unwilling to change.

But this golden-haired man seemed interested in her words in a way that went beyond merely observing the drama that had become her unpredictable and strange life. It was as if she brought to mind some long-lost, half-formed thought, some whisper of a daydream that had long been left by the wayside, and raised it up to the surface of the ocean of thought and into the golden light of Anar. Some subconscious little gem of a vision had suddenly glimmered to life in those eyes like newborn stars.

And the King was smiling.

“If only all were so loving and progressive, the world might be a finer place,” the King commented, his voice both a subtle praise towards his niece and a prickly little chastisement for those who sought to break her fortitude by bringing up the ugly past.

“I know you must have planned to stay at an inn,” he continued, switching the topic so abruptly that Istelindë’s father sputtered and her aunt’s eyes blinked rapidly, “But I would prefer you both stayed in my home as my guests. After all, we are family, and a poor uncle I would be to see my newlywed niece and nephew stuck in a tiny room in a tavern when they could be staying in the luxury of my home.”

The dismissal of the interrogation was concrete, though Istelindë could see that Eärwen was unsatisfied, glancing sharply at her spouse in that secret language between mates, her expression saying clearly “We will speak of this later”, and the Crown Prince of the Teleri sat stiffly in his chair and was pointedly _not_ looking at his own daughter and her spouse. Mostly her spouse.

Yet, Istelindë was not ashamed. When Maitimo stood, she stood by his side, and her fingers remained about his wrist, her hold strong and supportive. “We would be honored to accept your hospitality, your Majesty,” her husband answered formally with a bow. Deeply did Istelindë curtsy at his side, and she did not hesitate to lean in close and wrap her arm about his fully as they rose so that they pressed together from her shoulder (which only reached midway up his bicep) to thigh. A closeness that spoke of companionship whereas they had entered as two solitary beings seeking to remain apart.

Part of Istelindë knew she did not want to remain apart forever.

That part of herself, she was slowly accepting. One small bout of laughter, one small kiss on the cheek, one small whisper in the dark at a time.

Before, she had thought they would be able to remain as friendly partners. Married, but that she might one day find her soul-mate somewhere and Maitimo would be happy for her and supportive of her pursuing that love. And, in return, she would have done the same.

Except, the thought of him with someone else…

The thought of anyone in her bed but him…

Somewhere along the line, when her back was turned, like thieves stealing into her house in the dead of night and slipping between her dreams, those thoughts had become so intrinsically _wrong._ To even _think_ such thoughts seemed out of place. For she and he should be as one in her deepest, darkest hedonistic mind. It felt as though such separation would cause her whole world, tightly knit into corporeality, to unravel at the seams.

Maybe it was too soon to say she _loved_ him like a woman loves her mate. Maybe it was too soon to imagine allowing him into her bed, to imagine coming together in body as she felt they had already begun to twine together in mind.

But the guilt at the thought that she _could_ love him was gone.

And, in its place, a little spark of _hope._

\---

They were left to themselves to unpack their meager belongings and refresh. Just like the rest of the palace, the rooms were spacious but enclosed, the woodwork dark, carved intricately and inlaid with jewels of every color. She left her slippers at the door, and the carpeting was rich and thick beneath her bare feet, cushioning each step invitingly. And the bed was so _large_ compared to the simple four-poster she shared with her husband at home, the sheets so impossibly soft and the mattress and pillows excessively fluffy and comfortable. In spite of the pressed perfection of the richly-embroidered duvet spread over the expanse of the bed, she fell upon it on her back, wrinkling and dislodging it, and sighed. It was not too different than sinking into a bed of cloud.

Usually, she required not such finery as this, but after such a stressful morning and after spilling her heart from her mouth so boldly, she felt like a small nap would not be remiss. Sighing, she rolled over onto her belly, her feet hanging off the bed, and propped herself up upon her folded arms. Through the loose, feathery strands of hair that had escaped her braids, she could see her husband setting his things aside and pulling at his boots to avoid tracking dirt too far into their temporary living quarters.

“We will at the very least sleep in comfort,” she told him, her voice more cheerful than it would have been this morning. Emboldened, she patted the mattress. “Come and sit with me, Maitimo? It is very soft and inviting.”

Bare-footed, he approached the bed. And yet, he sat not.

She looked up at his face and found an odd look. A frown that seemed more confused than disapproving. A gleam in his eyes that questioned, but beneath it a shimmer of distant sadness resting like a dim and forgotten star in the faraway sky. Sitting up, she looked fully into his face and spoke his name.

“Maitimo? Is something wrong?”

Was the problem from this morning lingering yet?

For a moment, she feared that he would remain silent and turn away. Even after she had spoken secrets about her feelings, even after she had demonstrated her support and loyalty. Even after she had stood before her own father and Crown Prince, his own uncle and King, and defended him and his brothers without remorse to their faces.

But his lips parted to speak instead. And he asked, “Why? Why would you lie in such a way?”

Stunned, she took a moment to even comprehend of what he spoke. And then, almost harshly, she snapped, “I did _not_ lie. About _any_ of those things I spoke. Or do you not believe that I have tried to let your brothers into my heart when I promised you, my husband, that I would? Do you not believe I am sincere?”

He winced visibly, almost as if she’d struck him a blow with hand instead of word. “I… I do not doubt that you care for my brothers. I have seen you with them, teaching them and mothering them and befriending them. Even those who do not want to be befriended. I meant…” He swallowed, and searched desperately for the words that would quell her anger even as he refused to meet her gaze. “I did not mean about my family. I meant, why did you lie so blatantly about loving _me?”_

 _Does he think I do_ not _love him, at least a little?_

How he could think that, she knew not. More than any of his brothers, she spent time with him in a most intimate and private way. Sleeping in the same bed, sometimes waking tangled together, sitting with one another in the early morning and breaking fast in comfortable silence after an evening of whispered truths and peaceful rest. No amount of joking with Tyelkormo or teasing Carnistir or listening to Makalaurë sing of long-distant days could compare to the closeness that they shared in those moments of quiet harmony. It was a sort of oneness that was not wholly alike to true marriage and yet not so terribly different, a feeling she had never shared with another living being.

Did he think that was _nothing?_

“Do you really think that I do _not_ love you?” she asked softly, feeling as though all those horrid tears of despair that she’d felt before her declarations were seeping back into her heart through little cracks in the glass of her soul, those fractures left by the blow of his doubt. “Maybe I cannot say that I love you as a spouse loves another, but what I feel is certainly not at all what I feel for my brothers, and it is so much more than mere friendship.”

“Do you…” He hesitated again, and then asked, “Do you love one of my brothers in such a way? If you would prefer another over me, I would not stop you.”

“What are you even talking about?” What else could she say to that? “Is that why you have refused to speak to me, why you pull away? You believe I love another?”

She tried to be levelheaded, tried to avoid her sudden flash of fury. What had she done to make him think that she would just toss him aside like that? Moreover, what had she done to give him the impression she might prefer one of his brothers? Carnistir, she babied because of his blush, and Tyelkormo she mothered because he forgot to care for himself, and Curufinwë she kept in companionable silence and support. The twins, she allowed to drape themselves over her and doze to her soft humming and fingers untangling their braids, like puppies seeking warmth in the evening by the light of the hearth, but it was in no way something more intimate than she might have allowed her own brothers by blood. And Makalaurë, she just wanted him to be _happy_ and _sing again_ instead of looking so _sad…_

But none of those things were beyond the realm of siblinghood. Never had she kissed any of them on the lips or cuddled into their sides as she did with Maitimo. Always, she played the mother or sister, the older protector role, whereas with Maitimo she enjoyed the sensation of _being_ protected and cradled tenderly. How could he have interpreted her actions towards him as friendship but actions towards any one of his brothers as _romantic love?_

“Maitimo?” she asked again.

And his frown deepened. “I have seen you with Kanafinwë in the gardens at night. Holding hands. And he _sings_ for you, when he has not sung for any other since…”

Though her rational mind told her that Maitimo had probably not intended to _spy_ on her, that he had likely encountered them when he’d gone in search of his wife and brother after darkness fell in the evening, she still could hardly breathe for the sudden rush of embarrassment and slight horror and sickness at the thought of imagining Makalaurë as she often did Maitimo (that was, in fledgling fantasies of their naked bodies tangled together in the dusk). And then the disappointment that Maitimo did not trust that she would have _said…_

“I have not spied upon you since, if it has gone farther than that,” he added hastily, quick to try to assuage what he perceived to be the source of the anger that must have shown upon her face. “That is to say, if you have already gone beyond kissing. I understand, Istelindë, if you would prefer him over me, for he is very lovely in face and form, and his voice is a golden treasure that would make the Valar jealous. Truly, I would not try to stop—”

“No,” she interrupted, and he fell silent. “There is nothing to interrupt. I do not love Makalaurë in the way of a lover. His voice is beautiful and his face handsome, there is no denying those things, but even holding his hand was done in _comfort_ and _support._ And I have not kissed him in any way unbefitting a sister to kiss her brother, let alone…”

She took a deep breath, pulling back the anger and the hurt. Bundling them close to her breast and locking them away. “This is why you have been quiet, husband?”

He nodded slowly, still refusing to meet her gaze.

“Come here,” she ordered him, “And sit beside me. Maitimo.”

Stubborn, bullheaded creature that he undoubtedly was, for once his Spirit of Fire was dulled and tamed enough that he did not protest her words. Without an edgewise word, he sat upon the bed facing out towards the wall, the long braid of his russet hair spilling down onto the sheets at her side. Pushing herself up onto the pedestal of her folded knees, she took the braid in hand and began to unbind the strands, taking note of how cool and soft the fiery locks were against her skin, how they flashed golden in the light of Anar that crept through the opened curtains into their bedchambers. And he made no move to stop her as she worked, combing through knots gently with her fingers until she reached his nape and pulled apart the braiding tight to the back of his skull, spreading the curls all across his back and letting them spill over her hands. Carefully, she gathered the ocean of strands and wrapped them around his left shoulder, leaving the expanse of his back and his neck exposed. Beneath her ministrations, he shivered faintly.

Rising to her knees, her front almost pressed against the broadness of his back. But she was lifted high enough that her lips could have traced the shell of his ear to its sensitive point had she wished. Instead, they hovered nearby, and her chin rested upon his shoulder. “Be truthful with me, husband. Would it have made you unhappy had I chosen Makalaurë instead?”

Her hands rested upon his shoulders, felt their tension trembling against her palms as she waited for his answer. Until his body went slack, slumping faintly. “Yes,” he admitted.

Carefully, she traced her hands down his back, felt the blades of his shoulders and the hardness of muscle quivering. Never had she touched him like this before, neither from behind nor with her palms spread over his body. Carefully, she slipped her arms about his torso, letting her hands rest upon the firmness of his stomach as she pressed herself to his back and felt the heat of his form against her breasts and her belly, as she was lifted by the expansion of his ribs with each breath and took the thickness of his scent in through her nose where it was tickled by defiant curls of red that refused to be bound or tamed.

“Would it please you to know that I want no other besides you?” she whispered against his ear. “Not Makalaurë or any of the others, no matter the prettiness of their faces or voices. You are the one I have chosen.”

He held his breath.

And she felt her heart pounding in her chest, wondered if he could feel it throbbing against his back where she was pressed so close. “Are you not going to kiss me, Maitimo?”

Just enough did he turn his head that their eyes could meet, but he still did not move. Still as a statue he was against her, but she felt him begin to breathe again. “Do you want me to kiss you?” he asked her softly, and she could feel his breath against her lips.

“Yes,” she answered honestly, earnestly. And her eyes were counting that familiar spread of freckles across the bridge of his nose and the curve of his cheeks. He turned in her arms, putting them face to face, their noses almost touching, and she could have named the exact cinnamon shade of his eyelashes, counted them where they ringed the blazing silver of his eyes, darkened with the swell of his pupils. “Kiss me, Maitimo?”

“Whatever you want,” was all he managed to gasp out before his lips were taking hers.

Istelindë had never kissed like this. Chaste pecks slightly offset of his lips, yes, and giddy little exchanges in the gardens in the days of her youth that were too innocent to be compared to this feeling of being consumed and consuming simultaneously at once. His lips were so soft, and they teased her into parting her own just enough that she felt his tongue brush inwards and she tried to meet it with her own. A brief parting to gasp—to angle their faces differently, and she could feel his nose brushing her cheek, his arms wrapping around her, both moving over her body so gently—and they went under again. And again. And again.

Like drowning, but the sweetest sort of drowning. Each time they parted, she sucked in air but longed for his taste again. And each coming together, she reveled in the strange closeness that should have felt odd and uncomfortable—that, in her dreams, had always seemed so foreign and impossible to grasp with another person who knew not her mind or held not her heart. She marveled at how his lips enmeshed with hers and how he let her move him with the direction of her hands that found their way into his curls and knotted themselves against his scalp.

It ignited a fire at the base of her spine, a sudden shudder of want that slid through her belly and curled sharply inwards. Her lips turned frighteningly tender, and every part of her body was suddenly electrified where his hand gently brushed over layers of pink fabric. Without their mouths ever fully parting, she was reeled into his side and held close.

She was gasping when they broke apart. And so was he, hot breaths that were first against her cheek but which she felt move to her throat as he rested his face upon its curve. She felt the flutter of his eyelashes and the brush of his lips. Her thighs clenched, her breasts felt swollen, and it was altogether too much and at the same time not nearly enough.

“We will be expected for dinner,” he murmured, and it occurred to her that they had arrived mid-afternoon and it was already approaching time to consider preparations for the next meal. Though, it did take her a moment or two, for her brain felt foggy, clouded with the memory of his darkened eyes and the heat of his hand upon her hip and the taste of his tongue slipping into her mouth between her too-sensitive lips. “Do you want to refresh before then? I may have… I may have mussed your braid. And your dress is wrinkled.”

“You are not much better,” she said, when the words that tingled upon her tongue were more along the lines of _“Would they not expect newlyweds to get up to trouble when left to their own devices in a giant bedroom with an enormous bed, soft, clean sheets and privacy?”_

His laugh was breathy on her bare skin. “Not much is expected of me regarding looks, I am afraid. Barbarian, remember? But they might frown if you show up looking all rumpled, thinking I could not restrain my passions long enough for you to even avoid sullying your dress by unclothing before we made good use of our new bed.”

“Rumpled,” she scoffed, though he was probably correct. “I suppose a bath would be nice. If only to rid myself of all the traveling dust.”

“I can wait until you finish,” he said, pulling away. And his face looked so much softer, the lines of his stress and worry that had wrinkled his brow now smoothed away. No longer breathless, but his cheeks were still flushed, and his lips uncharacteristically red and swollen. He looked younger and kinder. And he was smiling.

It made him look so beautiful.

She could not resist another caress of her hands through his hair, across his cheek, as she untangled her legs from her skirts and stumbled upright on shaky knees. Barely did she make it to the bathing chamber, closing the door behind her and leaning her weight upon its sturdy foundation, before her knees gave way and she sunk to the floor.

Champagne bubbles rose in her belly, and she cupped her hands over her mouth to stifle the noise that wanted to escape. It was like being nervous and excited and terrified and overjoyed all mixed together in a single stewpot, filling and filling and filling her up until they all began to spill over the edges of her soul and leave her gasping for air. Almost did she long to throw open the doors, to say “be damned what your family will think” and to lie abed with her husband, kissing him, until Anar’s light turned vibrant red and began to fade into night.

But instead she reached for the ties of her gown, pulling them with trembling fingers until they came undone and the fabric fell away. _Later_ , she told herself. _Later._

And she wondered if his spirit, too, trembled with desire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:  
> Atar (Q) = Father  
> Anar (Q) = the Sun


	10. Lovers in the Moonlight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arafinwë is more observant than Nelyafinwë and Istelindë give him credit for. And the couple, now that they've confessed, have no reason not to take advantage of some privacy without Nelyo's baby brothers around...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: unrealistically perfect first sexual encounters, no outright penetrative sex, but lots of kissing and touching and getting off, and everyone knows they're messing around
> 
> That's it. Filler chapter/relationship exploration (and treat, for some people?) where we get some free sex. I'm a little out of shape writing sex scenes, so we'll see how it's received. ;)
> 
> Maedhros = Maitimo = Nelyafinwë = Nelyo  
> Maglor = Makalaurë = Kanafinwë = Káno  
> Celegorm = Tyelkormo = Turkafinwë = Turko  
> Caranthir = Carnistir = Morifinwë = Moryo  
> Curufin = Atarinkë = Curufinwë = Curvo  
> Amrod = Ambarussa = Pityafinwë = Pityo  
> Amras = Umbarto = Telufinwë = Telvo  
> Turgon = Turukáno  
> Galadriel = Artanis  
> Finarfin = Arafinwë  
> Finrod = Artafindë  
> Fingolfin = Nolofinwë  
> Aredhel = Írissë  
> Fingon = Findekáno  
> Orodreth = Artaresto  
> Aegnor = Aikanáro  
> Angrod = Angaráto

There was something different about the couple.

Maybe he was swift to judge, having only seen them together once, but earlier they had seemed cordial—friendly with one another, and a cohesive unit—but not _intimate_. They had been standing an appropriate (if old-fashioned) distance apart, not even their hands clasped between them when they walked. And, though they had moved together in harmony, they had not moved as did a couple who knew one another’s bodies explicitly, who were used to being near one another in the same vicinity. They did not move as _one_ , each predicting the other subconsciously and adjusting without thought as oft couples did.

Perhaps it was because they were newlywed and only just beginning to live together rather than sneaking out to meet one another in secret rendezvous, he had rationalized. Perhaps it would come in time. Surely, though, they had _been together_ as a man and wife came together in the marriage bed, both before and after the official ceremony. To think otherwise seemed naïve and improbable, for why would they sneak about before if not to have sexual relations and why would they wait after marriage when it was legal and _acceptable_ to carry on as such?

No, that could not be right, Arafinwë reasoned.

Now, he was reassessing his guess.

They arrived at dinner slightly late, both having bathed. Nelyafinwë’s hair was still damp and left about his shoulders. None of that was surprising, for they’d been on the road and not even given time to change and refresh before the King demanded their presence in his home. What _was_ surprising was how _close_ they were suddenly standing.

Before, they had been formal and _apart_. Now, Istelindë was always turned towards her husband and he turned towards her, their bodies seemingly drawn together magnetically even when they faced away from the other to speak to separate people. Earlier, during her brave refute of his interrogation, Arafinwë had seen his niece put her hand on Nelyafinwë in a place he knew the warrior would find uncomfortable, and that had reassured him some, but his nephew had flinched slightly away as if not used to the contact.

Now she was practically hugging his arm to her bosom. Moreover, before they had seemed able to look apart from one another, and Nelyafinwë had been oddly silent and contemplative. Now, every moment not spent socializing was spent staring at each other’s faces as though this were the first time they’d seen each other in the flesh. As though nothing else in the world could compare to the fascination each held for the other. Nelyafinwë did not hesitate to reach out with his left hand and stroke his knuckles across her cheek or her chin, teasing them lightly and swiftly over her bare neck when he thought no one was paying too close attention, and she in return had moved to stand almost indecently at his front, her hip and the inward curve of her waist resting exactly at her husband’s crotch. He would only need to just lean forward to press himself against her body to get stimulation.

Every few minutes, he instead would lean down and whisper to her, and they shared silent laughter between them, her face lighting up in a smile at whatever it was he said. Add that to their swollen lips, and Arafinwë hazarded a guess that they had been kissing in the hallway or in their room immediately before coming down to dinner. Both had heightened color, and both seemed to unconsciously brush against and touch one another (not always in the most innocuous places), and all he could see was a couple dancing around one another, both hungering for coitus.

This was a couple preparing to make love.

Maybe they had been hiding it earlier. Or maybe they felt freer to play about without Nelyafinwë’s six younger brothers wandering loose hither and thither. Maybe they had been denying themselves relations because they could not scavenge up enough privacy. But he did not think so.

They did not move like a couple who had already been together. Istelindë was still too shy, her body bending towards her husband’s but staying just far enough away to tempt, and Nelyafinwë was not as bold as would be expected, not pulling her fully against his body, reaching out to give her casual and familiar touches, but instead skirting around that intimacy as if uncertain exactly where he _could_ touch. Just that tiny bit of hesitation gave them away.

_They are most certainly in love._ He could not deny that much. _But they were not lovers prior to their marriage. And they are still not lovers now. Not quite._

_So why,_ he wondered. _Why did they marry if they did not know each other?_

For why else would they have waited? Arafinwë could think of no reason they should not have made love yet unless they had been too much strangers, forced together to combat an ill situation, to consider that intimacy.

_Sly_ , he could not help but think, though he’d already known that Nelyafinwë was a political genius. Istelindë could not have chosen a better partner and potential spouse to use as a tool to escape unwanted marriage and a life at Court. No one would demand that she come back and bring her legal spouse with her, not with a Kinslayer for a husband. And who in all Valinórë could have ordered Nelyafinwë to back off and leave the Telerin Princess be when he did not even listen and obey the Valar, let alone his King and uncle?

They played everyone for fools, and most still had not even noticed. Of course, Arafinwë was not about to say anything. He would just sip his tea and smile secretly in that way that so infuriated his brother and his councilors.

Sighing, he thought it was about time to cease the small talk. “Come, my family, and let us go to evening meal.”

He led them to the dining room, and he seated himself at the head of the table with his wife to his left and his scion to her left. On his other side, he had Nelyafinwë and Istelindë, his newlywed niece and nephew, and then Istelindë’s father, Nolofinwë and Findekáno. Best to keep a good number of people between any Fëanárion and bitter Turukáno, even if his wife was present to hold his ill temperament at bay. Hopefully.

The servants generously poured the wine and the mead, and the King watched as Nelyafinwë laid his scarred arm upon the table and Istelindë laid her hand upon it like one would jealously guard a trophy, her eyes daring from behind the rim of her wineglass. Nelyafinwë allowed her the gesture without question, and this time he did not shudder at the touch.

“My dear family,” Arafinwë said loudly, quelling the quiet din of talk that had circulated the table as the wine was poured and the food brought out to be set upon their plates, “I wish to hold this banquet in honor of the marriage of my nephew and niece, Nelyafinwë and Istelindë, and I wish to further invite them—and their families—to attend the Summer Solstice festivities with us. Now, let us eat our fills and then retire to the fireplaces for tale-telling.”

There were spatters of half-hearted congratulations (though a couple of sincere voices rang out amongst the majority), and Nelyafinwë remained stoic through them all, unmoved by the slight fallacy of the welcome and enthusiasm his family tried to present. His wife, ethereal in silver-white lace with pearls about her throat, as Telerin as a woman could be, smiled brightly and thanked them all in her soft, impossible to disdain voice. All traces of that cunning and perhaps slightly cutthroat woman he knew she must be slipping beneath the metaphorical rug, covered by her jewels and her gown and the deceptive white delicacy of her skin and wispy paleness of her hair laden with shells and pearls.

She was a woman befitting a prince. Had Nelyafinwë kept his hold on the throne, had he become the King that Fëanáro must always have intended for him to be, she would have been a perfect wife. A perfect Queen. A good match for his silver-tongued nephew in both body and brains.

While Nelyafinwë had abdicated and would forever be nothing more than a prince of the Noldorin people, there was no doubt that he could again become a prominent figure at Court, at least on occasion, if brought back into the light. Istelindë might be just the impetus needed to give his nephew that push towards reuniting with civilization and with his own estranged family, her connection with the Teleri requiring bridges to be built and her abundant needs in caring for a family of seven men driving her husband to descend from his mountaintop stronghold more often when the passes were open in the late spring, summer and into the harvest season.

Long had this estrangement, this festering bitterness and rage at betrayal, lingered like a rotting wound upon the flesh of their family. The true culprit of betrayal, the true doer of misdeeds and reckless warmongering, was dead and locked away in the Halls of the Waiting likely until the very End of All Things. While that man’s children were not innocent, not pure of bloodshed for innocent lives had stained their hands, Arafinwë had never believed they were beyond redemption and salvation.

Seeing Nelyafinwë as he was, leaning into his wife whose small hand was stroking over the black, twisted scars on his arm lovingly, looking so strangely relaxed and (perchance) even happy with his lot, brought Arafinwë hope. If a man so mutilated, so deeply scarred and torn apart, who had watched his whole family perish and slaughtered so many in the name of his Oath, could find this happiness, why not the others?

Not just the other Fëanárioni, the King thought. And his gaze drifted down the table. To Turukáno who picked at his food, looking disturbed and distressed despite the presence of Elenwë at his side. To Aikanáro, who stared at the happy couple with a sort of regretful longing that would bring the heart to nostalgic sickness. To Angaráto, another victim of thralldom in Angamando, tortured to the breaking of his spirit, salvaged but not quite saved. None of them were quite saved.

Not yet.

_But I believe they can be_ , he thought, taking in all the beloved faces of his family, from Nelyafinwë’s scarred and freckled cheeks, somehow bending into a smile Arafinwë could not remember seeing since long before the Darkening, to Turukáno’s halfhearted nibbling at his greens, his face white and strained with internal turmoil as, for once, he fought with his inner darkness.

_I believe we can all be saved._

Nothing would have made the King happier.

\---

They made it through dinner.

Istelindë knew that was the easy part.

Now, back in their shared chambers, preparing in their usual routine for bed, she felt her heart fluttering so quickly in her chest that she was breathless. Almost light-headed. Nelyafinwë kept his back turned as she undressed and slipped into her nightgown, and she kept her back turned as he abandoned his fine, heavy robes and outer layers, slipping into his nightshirt.

But it _felt_ different. Istelindë sat on the bed, but she did not slip beneath the sheets and pull them up above her chest, nor reach down to spread the thin skirt over her legs as it rode up and revealed her bare shins. Instead, as she slowly unbound her hair from its braids and set aside her jewelry and ornaments, her eyes were fixed upon Maitimo. His curls were wilder than usual, messed by removing his clothing and putting on new garments, and his silver eyes were watching her, almost waiting for permission before approaching their shared bed.

But he did come to her side, and he sat gingerly upon the duvet, still watching and waiting for her to take the lead, to give him some sign. And the way he looked at her made all her skin feel sensitive. Her nipples brushed the fabric of her gown, and they grew hard. Between her legs, she might have been ever so slightly damp.

Carefully, she reached out, welcoming him to join her fully upon the bed. The weight of his body beside her made the mattress dip, eased her toward him as if gravitationally drawn, and she felt his broad hand at the nape of her neck, sliding through her pale hair, tilting her face upwards. Her whole throat was bared to him, her nightgown slipping upon her shoulder and riding low over the swell of her breasts, and his eyes were darkening rapidly nearly to the color of iron as they rested upon her parting lips.

He kissed her again. And she thought she could have kissed him forever.

Gentle brushes of the lips that deepened rapidly into the breath-stealing dives into each other’s mouths. One of her hands curled in his nightshirt, clutching the fabric hard right where his heart pounded, beating against the pulse in her wrist, just as frantic as her own. She could feel that rhythm now in his kisses and his gasps when he pulled away. She could feel it in the way his thumb circled at the back of her neck and then the pace with which his palm slipped down her throat to her bare shoulder and to her outer arm, stroking lightly with callused fingers.

He rose on his knees, towering over her yet utterly consumed by her, and he rolled them such that she laid on her back in the downy cloud of a bed, her hair haloing her face, pale against her vibrantly flushed cheeks. Between kisses, on bated breath, he paused to let her protest if she would the cage of his body over her own. The way his arms moved to bracket her shoulders and how his knees rested on either side of her legs, the broad length of his torso boxing her in from above.

She did not want to stop. Her hand tugged at his hair, and he returned his mouth to hers. Slipping into her, breathing into her and sucking the breath out of her. He came to rest upon his right elbow to free his left hand, and all she could think to do was moan deeply when the hot weight of his palm rested on her side and slid upwards, burning even through her gown, until it cupped the side of her breast.

Without breaking their kiss, he thumbed the hardness of her nipple. And Istelindë jolted, gasping at the ferocity of the sensation, parting their lips as her eyes flashed open.

“Too much?” he asked her softly between panting breaths.

“No,” she answered just as breathlessly, and she let her hands slide from his hair over his shoulders, then across the planes of his chest. She felt his nipples beneath her palms as they slid, heard the faint groan in the back of his throat when they traced the musculature of his stomach, circling low on his belly and rising up again at his sides. “I want… I want…”

She did not really know _what_ she wanted.

Maybe not to go fully from kissing to intercourse. But maybe something more than just kissing, though that, too, was pleasant. Yet, it did nothing to cool the burn that rested in her belly, that had traitorously slipped down between her thighs. It was a sensation she remembered, the fire of arousal and the tingling sensitivity of her intimate flesh, and she had even satiated it with her fingers a few times when the need outstripped her ability to sleep.

But it had never been like _this_. Like she might combust, burst into flames and drift away as ash on the wind. Like the heat of his spirit was white-hot against her cool softness, urging her on, egging her desire into a full-fledged deluge of _need._

“I want to see you, Maitimo,” she said against his lips. “Let me see you.”

The answering desire in his gaze did not dissipate even when he sat up so that the candlelight and the watery rays of the moon drifting in the window fought to dye his skin both silver and gold. “It is not a pretty sight,” he told her, his voice rumbling lower than it ever had before, rougher and huskier and altogether leaving her trembling in primal instinct.

“I want to see you,” she repeated.

She wanted to see all of him. Beautiful or not.

And he had not been lying. His nightshirt came off, and it was the first time she’d seen her own husband bare-chested. Scars littered his skin, some looking like nicks and cuts, and some looking like he’d been stabbed straight through. Everywhere, from his arms to his shoulders, down over his pectorals and trailing like grotesque abstract art over his fluttering abdominal muscles. There were old wheals of raised flesh from ruptured skin and places where dark shapes stood out starkly like angry starbursts. Whip marks. Burn marks.

Some lines too straight to have been caused by a blade in battle. Marks that looked deep and angry, like he’d been vivisected and sewn crudely back together with little healing and little medicine to ward away infection. His right shoulder was oddly shaped, the bones broken or crushed and not healed well, tapering down to an inflamed joint at his elbow and the ugly remnants of necrotic flesh on his lower right arm.

It was not beautiful. But it was _him_ , and that was all that mattered to her.

And he let her sit up on her knees, let her explore him curiously, tracing each scar to know its texture. Some dipped inwards as if bisecting muscle, and some were raised ridges beneath her fingers. The burns were shockingly smooth, the flesh melted and hard and shining faintly when she looked too close.

His eyes stayed closed, as if he could not bear to see her face as she met with every imperfection. One day, she would lay him on his back and touch every one and ask where they had come from (one day, when she was brave enough to throw away her horror and kiss away his), but for now she began to trace them with her lips. Her hands slipped over him, and her mouth followed their path, traveling upwards and across until she could hear his pants turn slowly to gasping breaths and saw how he’d grown engorged within his leggings.

Was she ready to reach down and unlace him, take him out and feel his heaviness in her palm? Growing up with brothers, it was unavoidable that she’d accidentally _seen_ male genitalia before, but never fully erect, nor had she touched or tended the needs of a man. The thought was both a temptation and, yet, she hesitated more out of worry for disappointing him with her lack of experience than out of fear of seeing him in the nude.

Instead, she moved to kiss his neck—even there, she could see scars, one cut through the underside of his chin too high to be a true killing blow—and then his jaw, covered in little nicks and scattered spots where he must have turned his face away from an explosion or rain of fire, and then up towards his welcomingly parted lips again.

Imagining a man’s arms around her had always left her shaking and nauseous, feeling caged and trapped by some nameless and faceless stranger’s harsh embrace, but the feeling of his arms flexing about her, his hand sliding up her back, catching on her gown as he went, was more reassuring than frightening. She could smell his scent, almost feel it thickening in the air and mixing with the sting of sweat that rested like a glow over his skin, and she felt his hardness pressing tautly against her belly when she pressed herself flat against his torso to reach an angle that allowed her to deepen their kiss.

She moaned against him and he echoed the sound octaves deeper, harmonizing. The bony end of his right arm teased at her hip, and the broad hand of his left slipped down and down until it cupped her bottom, not squeezing but _there_. And goodness, but she’d not known her skin there was so sensitive! Yet, it almost tickled with pleasure, and she made a soft mewl of his name as the hand passed even lower and squeezed like a gentle but firm vice about her thigh.

“I wish to see you as well,” he told her, and his fingers were curled in her gown but not pulling or lifting. “Let me see you. Let me worship you as you have me.”

It took a few seconds for the haze to clear enough from her brain to really _think_ about the request. He was still wearing leggings, still half-dressed, but she would be fully naked if he removed her gown. No barrier between her aching breasts and his rough, scarred chest. Nothing between her naked thighs and buttocks and the broadness of his hand. Nothing but the silvery curls upon her mons protecting her sex from his eyes.

Yet, was there another man she could imagine doing this with, becoming so intimate with, now that she knew she could very well be coming to love him as well as lust for him? Did she fear he would harm her, take her against her will, if he saw her naked form? Did she think he would not cease the very moment she asked it of him, that he was a beast or abuser?

_No,_ she thought. She _trusted_ Maitimo.

“Please,” she assented, echoing her thoughts, “I trust you, Maitimo. Yes, please...” And she was reaching down with her own hands to grasp at the soft fabric, to help him pull it upwards.

It slipped first over her thighs and bottom, then she felt cold air bloom over her sex and her belly, her entire lower half bare. And then farther, sliding like tender fingers over her breasts as she brought her arms over her head and left them bare. A last quick movement and a tug of her loose hair, and the gown slid entirely away and was abandoned, left to float like a quiet ghost down onto the floor and out of reach.

She lowered her arms, uncertain where to put them, whether or not she should reach out to her husband or let them dangle at her sides limply and listlessly.

And he was looking at her. Not at her flushed face alone, for he’d looked upon her cheeks and her nose and her swollen lips all throughout dinner with half-hidden longing. Now he looked at her body, taking in her flawless skin, the antithesis to his rugged and scar-lined body. Soft where he was all hard planes and angles. Small and slender where he carried the broadness and strength of a warrior’s body, of a laborer’s muscle.

When his eyes slipped over her breasts, they felt tight, nipples aching impossibly against the cool night air, and her whole body give a little jolt. And, when they slid over her belly and rested between her thighs, she wondered if she had become so swollen with arousal that the pinkness of her sex was visible even with the veil of her thick curls.

He swallowed loudly, and she could see his throat bob. “May I touch you, Istelindë?” he asked her, his eyes fixed and hungering, his arms extended but not brushing against her pristine skin in the silvery moonlight.

“Touch me,” she ordered him. She reached out then with her own hands, guiding his arms so that the right wrapped around her and held her, and the left cupped the swell of her breast. All she could do was look up at his astonished, entranced face and clutch at his upper arms to balance upon her suddenly weak and unsteady legs.

Though she longed to arch up and take his lips, she let him explore her as she had explored him. Let him measure the weight of her breast in his palm as he leaned down to tongue at her throat. Let him circle her nipple with his thumb until she moaned loudly, exposed all her slender throat in a swanlike arch with a sigh, allowing his mouth to trace her racing pulse, to suckle and send shockwaves of sensation straight down her spine to her core. He drifted lower and urged her back against their mountain of soft pillows so that he could better reach her slender collarbones and trace over the dip at the base of her throat.

His mouth only left her skin so that he could run his hand down her ribcage and spread it across her soft lower belly, just beneath her navel and just above the hair cloaking her sex. And who would have expected that such a touch made her whole lower body _ache_ and her pelvis _arch_ and her legs shift restlessly against the duvet. She almost squirmed, feeling that hand shift towards her hip, fingertips tickling painfully close to her groin but ultimately teasing over her inner thigh. She bit her lip to withhold her little whining sounds, and the noise he made was choked and strangled.

The first tentative touch of his thumb brushed across the lips of her sex, skimming so close to the swollen nub that tingled with a need to be touched, and her body shuddered with the low cry that left her throat. Normally, a touch like that would have been a nice tease from her own fingers, but just the _thought_ of _him_ touching her there augmented the feeling tenfold.

And his body jolted at her heady cry of want, an instinctive response to her visceral sound. “Istelindë?” he managed to say, leaning forward until their foreheads touched, until their noses brushed, waiting with his hand poised between her barely-spread thighs. “I am not inexperienced, but, please, tell me what you want. Tell me if you want me to stop.” He kissed her headily, dipping in and pulling away in a single space between breaths. “Tell me.”

His fingers brushed her again, his thumb slipping along the seam of her outer lips again in an almost-caress. And she found her fingers in his hair and her lips against his sweaty cheek as her hips pushed up towards the caress. “Keep going, Maitimo. Please, keep going.”

“Eru,” he hissed in a desperate prayer against her mouth, “You undo me, Istelindë. So easily.”

Then his head ducked, and he went back to his worship of her throat. He stroked the back of his hand over her sex again and again, and she felt herself crying out softly into the waves of his russet hair as she clutched at his shoulders and scoured her nails softly down his back. Beneath her palms, she felt scars she had not yet explored, a lattice-work of art upon his bare skin, but she was distracted from her exploration by how his knees finally rested fully between her legs, easing them farther and farther apart until she knew he would see her intimately if he but pulled away from where he intently sucked and nipped at her throat and looked down her sweat-slicked body.

Lower, he went, moaning softly a symphony in response to her hands on his body and in his hair, tugging and tangling, a counterpoint to her increasingly loud and desperate cries as his hand became bolder. As his fingers finally delved, sliding over the wetness of her core where she _burned_ for his touch.

No single caress was perfect in direction or pressure, but Istelindë knew she would not last long despite his inexperience with the particulars of what her body liked. His thumb was a little too rough on her nub at first, prompting a squeal, and then gentled on the swollen pearl to her breathy whispers of “softer, Maitimo, softer”. It was _so much_ , the feeling of his calluses somewhere so sensitive, the press of his fingertips against her thighs and circling about her now-dripping entrance but not trying to force themselves in, and she knew she was writhing beneath him, her cries drowning out the groans she could feel vibrating through his chest from where her palms spread across his back.

Slipping just a little further down, his mouth traced a line between her breasts, spreading mouthy kisses between fast breaths. They traced the undercurve of a breast, and then sought out her nipple, closing around the bud and suckling. Each pull felt like a burst of white behind her eyes, and Istelindë could do nothing but push her hands into the thick silk of his hair, cupping the back of his head to hold him in place, begging him to never stop as her pleasure swelled.

She felt it coming upon her, a rising wave of bliss accompanied by whispers of his name on her tongue, a heat that rested deep in her core and spread rapidly outwards. Digging her nails into his scalp, rolling her hips upwards into his hand, she felt the shocking heat tremble through her center and radiate outwards. Quaking, she went tense beneath his body.

“Maitimo,” she gasped out, and she couldn’t think of anything or anyone else. His fiery heat beneath her hands, over her body. The way he teased her through the searing white of orgasm catching her spine aflame and flashing behind her eyes as lightning, striking her over and over with each new wave until she quivered and came apart again. “Maitimo, yes. Oh, yes! Like that, like that! Just like that…”

Until she was too tender and sobbed at his touch. The sensation settled into her skin, no longer buzzing over her but resting deep in her languid muscles and limp bones. Her head fell back upon her pillows, her forehead slicked with sweat and her mouth dry from her panting breaths. But she nevertheless moaned when his hand pulled away, when the heat of his mouth released her nipple and pressed kisses to the swollen buds before migrating back to her parted lips. The whole of his body rested in the cradle of hers, his hips against her pelvis, his arms holding his chest aloft to avoid squishing her beneath his weight as he kissed her again and again almost desperately.

Her body felt languid and glowing. _Very good_. Warm and golden, the build of arousal that had itched under her skin since they had first tried kissing now slipping into the background. Yet, she felt the way his body trembled beneath her hands where they traced his broad shoulders and his quivering back. Her breaths were slowing, her racing heartbeat calming, but she sensed that his body was still tautly coiled and shaking with need.

“Maitimo,” she moaned softly between his kisses. “Let me help you as well.”

In this afterglow, she felt her worries of inadequacy fading. He sat up above her, groaning, and she could see that he was straining against his leggings, a damp spot sitting in the front. “You need not. I can… I can take care of it myself.”

He did not understand, though. Gingerly, she sat herself up, feeling like her whole body drifted through air the consistency of syrup. Yet, she could not deny that arousal was still there somewhere, muted and velveteen instead of raging and electric, no longer like lightning starting a wildfire beneath her flesh. She still saw his body and shivered at the knowledge that he was _hers._ Still thought of her hands around his sex, bringing him pleasure, and felt her belly tense.

“Let me,” she said, reaching out to palm between his thighs, watching how his eyes squeezed shut and his jaw clenched with the hissing breath between his teeth. “I _want_ to make you finish, Maitimo.”

He groaned Eru’s name in vain a second time, and she could see that he twitched slightly in his pants at her words. His protest was not with her ministering his pleasure, but that he might be forcing an unpleasant task upon her when she was fatigued.

_I would never be so fatigued to neglect my husband’s pleasure when he has seen to mine,_ she could not help but think. And her fingers tugged at the laces of his leggings, unknotting them and opening them, pressing the fabric apart around his hips and down his shaking thighs. _I want us to be equals, to take care of one another._

Licking her lips, she took her first good look at him in all his glory. His beautiful face contorted almost as if in pain, his body taut as a bowstring, and his sex heavy between his legs, pointing out and towards her as if begging for her attention. Carefully, almost afraid that she might hurt him, she took him in hand and let his weight rest in her palm, let her fingers trace his shaft, the silken skin over turgid steel. The sound he made in the back of his throat was that of a wounded man, almost more pain than pleasure.

And yet, when she made to pull away, wondering if perhaps there was a different way of being touched that he preferred, he reached out to stop her from retracting her touch, to keep her fingers wrapped around him. “No,” he growled out, voice gravelly and almost slurred, “That is… that is good. Do not stop.”

“I have never done this,” she whispered, her eyes still fixated upon his sex in all its strangeness. “Is there something particular you want me to do, Maitimo?”

When he managed only a choked sound, she glanced up to see that he shook his head. “As soon as you move your hand,” he gasped out, “As soon as you move… touching alone… It’ll finish me quickly.”

Indeed, he was trembling, all that power connected to the organ she held in her palm, his whole body waiting in tense anticipation for the delivery of pleasure. In a way, it was almost heady, and Istelindë realized that _she_ would be giving him that pleasure. In her hands, he, one of the mightiest warriors of the First Age, an infamous Kinslayer whose name was both revered in battle and feared for its ruthlessness, was trembling and almost whimpering, vulnerable before her eyes, his bare sex cupped in her palm. Under her power.

Heat stirred again in her core.

She wrapped her fingers fully about him, squeezing slightly, and she let her grip slide towards the tip of his sex, the reddened and engorged head where he was leaking clear fluid. And he groaned like a dying creature. Still, it was a little dry, and she wondered if he preferred wetness to friction, wondered whether or not this was comfortable.

Gulping, she reached between her own thighs where she was still slick with the remnants of her pleasure, and she brought that wetness upwards, cradling his sex in both her hands as she slickened his skin. His voice rattled, and she glanced up to see him watching with half-hooded eyes, so dark that the silver in their depths seemed to have faded into black.

Moving her hand felt much smoother now, and she let her eyes wander across his belly, his abdominals tensing and relaxing in waves with each stroke of her hands. His hips rocked upon the foundation of his folded knees, rolling upwards into her touch the way she had arched upwards into his. And his head tilted back, his hair spilling wildly all around them as his sounds rose in pitch and in frequency. His whole body leaned back, the muscles of his arms fluttering and standing out starkly as they flexed to balance the weight of his upper body even as they shook with fatigue where they struggled to keep him upright.

Just like he must have sensed her coming to her end, so could she see in his body that his finish approached swiftly. That his breaths were fast and his lips gaping open, that his veins throbbed frantically as blood circulated swiftly, that his sex began to pulse in time with his heartbeat and deepened in color.

Helplessly, she took in his open face, his shuddering, displayed body, his wild, sweat-damp curls, and couldn’t help but speak her thoughts aloud. “You are so _beautiful,_ Maitimo,” she murmured, running one hand up his flexing muscles to rest over his heart. “So beautiful…”

He bit his lip at her words, eyes squeezed tightly shut. “Istelindë,” he gasped out, voice wispy and soft, the reverence in his voice that of a man whispering prayers to the stars in the night. His brows furrowed upwards as if he were in great pain, yet she subconsciously read the open-mouthed expression as overwhelming pleasure. “Faster,” he begged her breathily.

All it took were a few swift passes of her hand a swipe of her thumb over the sensitive head of his sex. That body went taut and then shook with the sound of his breathless benediction of her name. She did not care about the thickness of the hot liquid that splattered on her hands and dripped down onto her folded legs, forgot to think about how she had once found the idea of a man’s release so distasteful, because all she could see was his face as he called for her in his bliss. Ringed with an areola of golden-red curls, flushed so dark that his freckles seemed to disappear like stars in the light of day, sweat beaded and dripping at his temples and his lips parted in a long, low cry as he was undone.

As _she_ undid him. This powerful, impossible man. And he _let her._ Even _begged her._

When he finally finished, she watched the powerful supports of his body collapse beneath the same languid heat that had consumed her in the wake of his ministrations. She released his softening sex and paused only to wipe her hands on their sheets before she caught him and leaned him forward to rest his forehead against her shoulder.

For a time, they stayed still together like that. His eyelashes fluttering against her throat as his panting breaths slowed and his racing heart calmed. Gradually, she shifted them, rolling him onto his side. And, for the first time when they shared a bed, she cuddled herself up against his body, heedless of their drying fluids.

“We should…” He tried to rise, and she knew he wanted to tend to their mess, but she pulled him back down. In the morning, she was certain she would find it gross and feel the urge to scrub the sheets for a good hour to get rid of the stains and the stiffness of their release, but for the moment she did not want to move. She did not want to lose his heat and his closeness, nor the sight of his relaxed face and his parted lips and his glimmering, half-open eyes.

She managed to wiggle the duvet out from beneath them, ignoring the sheets below, rumpled from their play, and pulled it up over their bodies. As her sweat cooled, Istelindë lost the desire to venture beyond the cocoon of warmth beneath the thick blanket, boxed in by the wall of her husband’s body. He was still half-dressed, the cloth of his leggings against her bare calves and thighs, and her naked breasts were against his bare chest, but everything felt so very right. _This_ felt _right,_ like they ought to be curled together so closely, sharing their breaths.

He was still in the midst of afterglow, eyes drooping, but Istelindë had moved beyond that drowsy phase of lazy pleasure. Her fingers teased his curls back into some semblance of order as he rested his face against her shoulder and throat, grumbling softly beneath his breath. She would not have had it any other way.

“Sleep,” she urged him in a crooning voice, even as her own eyes began to finally get heavy. The excitement and the buzzing remnants wore away, and she was exhausted from this day. From facing down her family and his. From staring the King straight in the eye and denouncing the grudging and resentful ways of the Noldor and then staring her Crown Prince in the face and chastising him for promoting bitterness. She was tired from coaxing Maitimo out of his silence and from their confessions, from the burning in her belly that had teased and tortured her all through small talk and all through dinner.

But it was a good tired. The weight of a day’s hard work now done. Not cooking and laundry and washing, but something equally as important.

Her eyes slipped shut, plunging her into blackness. And, at least for now, it felt as though all the problems in her world were far away. The rhythm of her mind was quiet, worries and planning never coming. Instead, there was Maitimo’s warmth as he breathed against her throat and the scent of sex and sweat and _him,_ cinnamon and flame and metal.

She drifted to the sound of his breaths. To the beating of his heart beneath her palm.

\---

When Istelindë and Nelyafinwë appeared at the breaking of fast, Arafinwë could see that the tension had faded. Some of it, at least (for that type of tension took _years_ to fade between new lovers, as he well knew from experience). That intimacy left the pair walking close to one another and touching one another and looking as though, were they alone, they would be kissing one another as well. Anyone who cared to look would have seen it.

Arafinwë, for his part, just sipped his morning tea and nibbled on his toast. Shy about sexual relations, he was not, but it was not an appropriate breakfast topic.

Still, he could see that his wife was amused, her eyes glinting knowingly as the sight of the pair. Eärwen’s brother looked sour, his eyes very purposefully _not_ looking at the couple, and maybe it was better that he remained willfully blind. On the other hand, Nolofinwë just looked put-out and uncomfortable, his unfortunately prudish princely breeding demanding that he put a stop to the couple’s touching and soft words and secret smiles but also whispering that it would be impolitic—not to mention impolite and intrusive—to bring up such talk at the breakfast table. It was not as if the pair were fondling each other beneath the tablecloth, after all. Just brushing hands, touching arms, stroking faces. Intimate, but not obscene.

Just telling. Certainly, to those more experienced couples in the room.

Later, Nolofinwë would gripe and groan about it, and Arafinwë would shake his head at how _Vanyarin_ his older brother was about intercourse and say “What did you expect? This is likely the first time they have had true privacy since before their marriage.” And Nolofinwë would get flustered and stammer and frown.

Later, he and his wife would sit together in the evening and she would smile at him, that smile that never failed to make him weak in his knees. And she would say “I see that Istelindë has her husband firmly wrapped around her little finger,” and Arafinwë knew that she implied that _he_ was wrapped around _her_ little finger as well. Which was very true. He was, and quite willingly so.

Later, he would look back on this and think that, for all the trouble that that sudden marriage had caused—all the headaches and the angry visitors and the traumatized messengers—something good was coming of it. And maybe that was worth a few headaches and troublesome problems.

He should have known that Fëanárioni never stayed out of trouble long.

But it did not occur to him to really think about that until the day of the Midsummer Festival. And, by then, it was already far too late to take precautions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:
> 
> Fëanárioni (Q) = Sons of Fëanáro


	11. On the Importance of Family

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Curufinwë just wants to hide and pretend that nothing is wrong. Things would be easier that way.
> 
> Big sister Istelindë is not having that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: angst, mental health issues mentioned, self-hatred, murder mentioned, thinking about sex, lots of kissing (they're finally in the newlywed phase), masturbation, consensual voyeurism, hand jobs, cunnilingus
> 
> That's right, guys. We get to know Curufinwë better, and then we get some more sex.
> 
> Maedhros = Maitimo = Nelyafinwë = Nelyo  
> Maglor = Makalaurë = Kanafinwë = Káno  
> Celegorm = Tyelkormo = Turkafinwë = Turko  
> Caranthir = Carnistir = Morifinwë = Moryo  
> Curufin = Atarinkë = Curufinwë = Curvo  
> Amrod = Ambarussa = Pityafinwë = Pityo  
> Amras = Umbarto = Telufinwë = Telvo

“What need have we of all this fabric?” Nelyafinwë could not help but ask as he watched his wife picking up yet another silken bolt, her pretty hands spreading across the soft surface in dancing waves.

Truthfully, watching her caress the wares so, he could only now think of her touching _his skin_ as such. Could only remember how she had traversed his scarred chest and belly yester-eve with those very hands, how her palms felt when they writhed and whispered over his back as he worshipped her breasts and stroked her between her trembling thighs. How he would have liked to pluck them away from the undeserving, inanimate fabric she caressed so lovingly and instead press them upon his own body and beg her to touch him again.

Of course, they stood in the middle of a crowded street. The market was alive all around, many men and women weaving between stalls and shops. Not the place to be fondling a lover, not even surreptitiously let alone as blatantly as he imagined she might, for there were eyes everywhere traveling about. Someone would have seen them.

Still, he could imagine.

Istelindë pinkened beneath his gaze, catching how his eyes shifted down her slender body in a way he would not have dared to allow himself just the day before. Yesterday, he could only have imagined what her body really looked like beneath her flowing summer dresses. Now, he knew intimately the picture of her bare breasts and the hourglass of her waist and the triangle of curls guarding her sex. And knowing did nothing to make the _want_ cease.

His lovely wife cleared her throat, and he caught how her eyes traveled over the planes of his body in a glance before she looked back to the bolt in her hands. “Our uncle has invited us to the Midsummer Festival. Surely, you did not think I would allow my family to go underdressed? I will need to hurry to prepare suitable attire for you and your brothers.”

Truthfully, Nelyafinwë had barely heard the announcement last night at the table. He’d been too focused on _her_ and her rosy cheeks and her swollen lips, too busy imagining what she might look like wearing her collar of pearls and nothing else, lying beneath him with her hair spread out upon their sheets. Now, though, he _did_ recall Arafinwë inviting them to the festivities—voice jolly and welcoming against the scorn of many others—along with their families. Plural. Implying that the invitation extended not only to Istelindë’s siblings and relations, but also to Nelyafinwë’s brothers.

“Do you… think it wise?” he asked hesitantly.

Images flashed through his mind. Images of red torch-flames upon swords lifted skyward, and the red glow upon many faces he had since seen only snarling and deformed with rage and with hate. Images of coldness in pale eyes, of his father with a sword at his uncle’s throat in the middle of court at the foot of Finwë’s throne. Images of his brothers griping and cursing the names of their kin, calling them cowards or fools, deriding them for being weak and softhearted.

Perhaps it was the fury and disdain with which Fëanáro had ever spoken of his half-siblings, a vicious and poignant diatribe that Nelyafinwë could vividly picture in his mind’s eye despite how long ago it had been, which tainted all their views and prejudiced their minds. For all that Fëanáro was an awful, traitorous, regretless and remorseless fiend, Nelyafinwë had loved him (still loved him), and he remembered how his father had thrown his hands in the air with rage, how his furious words had echoed through the dark halls of their home, denouncing his treacherous kin with sibilant words spoken between clenched teeth. How those same tones had been in the throats of his young brothers in those dark days after Losgar and after Angamando and after Mereth Aderthad.

None of these things would Istelindë know. To her eyes, his brothers were rather tame. Their fury had diminished after rebirth, simmering under their skins instead of boiling up through their throats. She knew them at their most mellow, working peacefully on the land, hunting silently through the forests, singing sweet melodies in the gardens at dusk.

She knew not how their eyes glinted like violent starbursts just before their swords cut through an enemy’s throat. She knew not what it was like to see hands (hands that Nelyafinwë knew could be oh so gentle) wrapped around another’s throat and strangling their life away. She knew not how their laughter could sound just before they committed murder, so vibrant and wild, free of morality and free of guilt, lost in the rush of bloodshed.

Those monsters lay dormant. For now. But if his brothers were brought forth, if they encountered the ashy resentment, bitterness and derision of their kin again, would those monsters rise up towards the surface? Would he again see gentle Kanafinwë gritting his teeth against the backlash of cruel words and unpredictable Turkafinwë’s grin growing wide and fanged as a predator smelling fresh prey? Would he be forced to watch as Morifinwë’s cruel tongue hissed and whispered curses, or as Curufinwë saw a slight and a threat against his family and readied himself to cut each and every foe to ribbons? And the twins… Eru, but he hated seeing the resentful malice in Pityafinwë’s gaze, hated the thought of the maligning of Telufinwë’s name.

Still, Istelindë looked so earnest as she stared up at him and smiled. “I want them to be with us, Maitimo. They are my family now as much as they are yours. Surely you do not want them to spend all eternity cooped up in the mountains?”

As much as he would have liked to deny the merit of her words, he could see her point. For all that he feared what lurked in the shadows of their hearts, keeping them prisoner was not going to work forever. Now, they were too weary and too tired to wrestle against his control, to openly defy his wishes, but in the future…

He felt Istelindë’s hand upon his arm, and he refocused his gaze on her eyes. So soft and so blue, so patient and yet he knew their stubbornness when he saw it, too. “Give them a chance to prove themselves, Maitimo. Trust in your brothers.”

And she smiled gently. “They might surprise you.”

Doubts still whispered through his thoughts, but he returned her smile helplessly. He did not really want to argue with her, though he was loath to admit that what she said was wise. It was only the stark memory of his father’s glaring eyes, his voice confident and condescending, speaking rudely against his mother’s soft-spoken and well-meaning advice, that held his tongue. Then, already a grown man, he had looked at his father and was torn between confusion and horror at how the man he admired above all others (loved and hated above all others) could treat his mother with such cruel disregard. As if her voice and her thoughts meant nothing at all. As if they were worthless.

The last thing he wanted was to become that man. A man who could not even afford his wife the respect of listening to and contemplating her words.

“I will think on it,” he conceded. Not an outright agreement, but not a ban either.

And she took it for what it was. “Good. Now, help me figure out which colors would best suit your brothers. How will they ever manage to attract wives of their own if they are constantly covered in dust and dressed in brown?”

Nelyafinwë could not help but chuckle a bit, though he allowed her to pull him towards the bolts of silk and velvet. Such a silly thought it was, for he doubted any woman in Aman would be willing to marry one of his brothers. Not even angel-voiced Kanafinwë. And he could not imagine any of them wooing a woman besides. How Curufinwë had managed to get himself married before the Darkening was still a mystery, for he’d been just as quick-tempered and ill-humored then as he was now.

Still, it was a pleasant thought, and he did not want to wreck his wife’s good mood by pointing out that it was unlikely she would ever receive any sisters through marriage. If it made her happy to daydream about weddings and nieces and nephews, he would not put a stop to it. Not if it made her smile and glow.

In the back of his mind, though, he felt something strange. An itch he could not quite scratch. A little train of thought that would not quite rise to the surface and allow his mind to grasp and comprehend its message. He had felt this before, like the universe was urging him to understand that something was shifting, that the world was changing beneath his feet. Before the Darkening. Before Nirnaeth Arnoediad. Before the Third Kinslaying and on the night that he had filched a Silmaril from beneath the nose of Eönwë and paid for it with his life.

He allowed Istelindë to hand him a bolt of golden fabric, placed his hand on its softness as she asked him whether it might suit one of the twins, and he tried to forget all about the little feeling. The quiet instinct that drifted freely in his blood.

Later, he would think that it had been trying to warn him of trouble.

He had just been too blind and close-minded to listen.

\---

The last thing Curufinwë had expected to hear upon the return of his brother and sister-in-law from a visit to Tirion (to the King’s household) was that they were invited, in the King’s own words, to the Midsummer Festival. Not just Nelyafinwë and Istelindë, but all the Fëanárioni as well.

His first thought: _Are they insane?_

His second thought: _I’ll have to deal with that bastard Turukáno._

His third thought: _This is going to end in disaster._

Yet, he did not have the heart to open his mouth and rain down his pessimism on Istelindë, especially when she bundled armfuls of fabric into the house and declared that she wanted them all to attend. Had he been more heartless than he was (as heartless as naysayers would purport him to be), he would have stomped on her poor little heart right then and there, declared he would never set foot in Tirion again (because Eru only knew he was terrified that he might run into _her_ ), and walked away without even listening to her protests.

But he did none of those things. Though he was certain that his expression was every bit as sour as Morifinwë’s and every bit as perturbed as Turkafinwë’s, he bit his lip (until he tasted blood on his tongue) and allowed his sweet sister-in-law to enthuse. He understood not why she _cared_ so much—why the thought of he and his brothers making nice with their extended family left her giddily smiling and almost dancing about the room—but the last thing he wanted was to upset her. Not only would Nelyafinwë threaten to (attempt to, even) rip his arms off, but Istelindë might even _cry._

Curufinwë had never learned how to deal with crying women.

_She rarely ever cried. She was adventurous. Young and naïve, but strong in spirit. A true Noldorin lady, through and through. More than a match for his explosive tempers and his unpleasant disposition. Able to stand up through the gales of his storms, and then soothe his mind in the wake of disaster like nothing (no one) ever had before._

_He only remembered her truly weeping once._

_Vividly, emerald green eyes beneath upturned brows, ringed in red, lashes scattered with diamonds. Her pale, flawless skin had been blotchy, and her voice had trembled._

_She had begged him to stay. Begged him not to take her child away._

_Begged him to turn away from his folly. To put his family—not his father or his grandfather or his brothers, not his lineage or the crown or his birthright—but his wife and his child before all else._

_And he had turned away._

_His greatest mistake. His deepest regret._

_How many hours lying awake, cold and shivering, curled up in a filthy nest on the forest floor, camping in a dimly-lit clearing that reeked of smoke and ash, had he spent thinking of nothing_ but _her tears? How his tongue had swollen in his mouth. How his heart had palpated in the back of his throat. How he had stumbled over what to say when all their conversations had always come so easily, so smoothly and naturally, to his tongue._

 _How many hours had he spent in the night imagining that it had all gone differently? That he had not called her selfish and blind. That he had not called her treacherous and disloyal. That he had not called her wretched and pathetic. That he had not told her that no Noldorin woman worthy of respect would bow and scrape to her husband for scraps as she had then, weeping and clinging to his tunic when she had always been so_ strong.

_He had said those things because his heart had faltered at her tears. He had ravaged her spirit because she brought forward all his doubts._

_Because he had_ wanted _to put her and their child first. To turn his back on his father and brothers. To forget about revenge and war._

_To hold her and wipe at her tears. To forswear the sire he had always despised._

_But he had clung to his supposed morals and their echoing terrors. To the thought that his grandfather_ deserved _to be avenged, that there would be whispers of his fear if he failed to go to war. To the hope that his father might love them (might love him) more for their support, to the sinking in his chest at the thought of more disappointment in those impossibly white-hot eyes. That all these troubles, this awful darkness and all the sorrow, would just_ go away _if they could fix everything and return with the Dark Lord in chains and the Silmarilli back in his father’s vaults where they should have stayed for all eternity, and then he would not have to fear at all. Then they would all be happy._

_He should have listened. He should have stayed._

_Should have, should have, should have…_

_But nothing would change what_ had _happened._

_And all he could see was her crying and crying and crying, haunting him with her red-rimmed emerald eyes and her outstretched hands and her pleading voice hitching in sobs._

Curufinwë hated crying women.

And the last thing he wanted to do was to step foot in the city upon Túna again, not when he knew that _she_ would be waiting there. That she might even be extended an invitation. Because, legally, they were still wed.

Reconciliation between them… it simply was not possible. 

The very idea of looking at her face, at seeing the depths of how he had ruined and tormented her in her sorrowful, hurt eyes, left him feeling nauseous. Even now, watching Istelindë bring out her array of fabrics and insistently pull poor Morifinwë close to compare the shade with his jadeite eyes, Curufinwë felt the dread in his belly, churning and tightening as though it were twisted as a wet dishrag might be to squeeze out the water. He wanted to run out the back door and sick up in the garden if only to rid himself of that bubbling feeling of bile hotly rising upwards in his throat.

What he had done to his wife seemed more heinous than any Kinslaying at his hands. Those people, he regretted the necessity of their deaths, but not the act of killing itself. The stench of blood in his nostrils could not turn his stomach the way as did imagining her lily-of-the-valley scent. And the memory of screaming pleas cutting short beneath the blow of his sword, the shock of silence ringing in his ears in the aftermath, had not a hope of weakening his knees as did the memory of her cries as he abandoned her on the doorstep of their home and surged out into the Darkness with his son at his shoulder.

He might as well have slaughtered her and left her corpse lying on their front step. For he had certainly ripped out her heart and crushed it beneath his heel, killed her in every way that truly mattered. His best friend, his mate, who had loved him despite all his (very numerous) flaws, and he had thrown her away as though she were trash.

_I doubt she could stand to look at me now._

“Curufinwë?” His sister-in-law’s voice broke through his thoughts. “Come here. I have just the thing that would make such a lovely complement to your eyes.”

And he went. Because, if there was one thing he could stand even less than the idea of setting foot in Tirion upon Túna, it was repeating mistakes of the past and harming with intent the heart of his family. Istelindë might not be his wife or the mother of his child, but her sunny smile had knit Nelyafinwë back together at all his frayed seams, had pulled the brothers close where they had been drifting apart into the darkness and madness.

She was family, and Curufinwë had learned from his most damning error to always put his family before all else. Before his wants and desires. Before his dreams. Before his hatred or his fear. Before even his morals.

Still, as Istelindë spoke, as her soft hands held his own and reminded him so painfully of things he wanted to forget, he felt his throat close in terror and his heart threaten to fail.

Cowardice. Ever had it been his fatal flaw.

\---

Exhaustion was in Istelindë’s bones. But it was a good exhaustion, like the ache of muscles after exertion, filled with satisfaction. Already, she’d patched together a tunic in gold for Telufinwë, startled at how well it complemented the golden sheen of his russet curls, and she felt excitement build in her breast for the first time in a long time at the thought of a festival. Normally, she hid away in her cottage during the seasonal festivities, wishing that her parents and brothers would forget to send her invitations to parties they knew she would never attend, begging her to return to a life she did not desire. Now, though, she need not fear being roped into an undesirable situation. Now, she had a husband and six little brothers to watch out for.

And she could not deny that she hoped things would go well.

The resentment and bitterness between family members was evident. During their brief visit, though Nelyafinwë had served as a constant distraction, Istelindë had noted the scowls and dark looks directed towards her husband. There had been pursed lips and chilly eyes and those who refused to speak and pretended he was not even present.

Yet, there had been those willing to reach out as well.

More than anything, Istelindë prayed that her little brothers would be willing to reach back and take the offered truce.

Part of her, perhaps, could sense that things could not stay as they were. What she’d said to Maitimo that morning at the market had been no lie. Trapped up in the mountains like wild creatures, her brothers would deteriorate once more into feral animals. They needed companionship and acceptance, or the cracks that were all too evident in their facades would only widen and deepen.

She wanted Makalaurë to smile again. A real smile of happiness. And she wanted to hear Tyelkormo’s true laughter, not the mocking beast of a sound that cackled from betwixt his lips when he teased and taunted. She wanted Carnistir to feel the acceptance that he had never gotten before from his parents or his siblings, to build self-confidence, and she wanted Curufinwë to seek out his wife so that his fragile veneer of anger would stop looking more and more like fear each day. She wanted Pityafinwë to escape the noose of his younger twin’s torment, and she wanted Telufinwë to find a way to bolster his strength and rebuild himself, from the ground up if necessary.

But none of these things were possible when there was no support. Right now, all these men had was her and her equally-broken husband. A pseudo-mother and father pair. Istelindë had her hands full just pasting and piecing _Maitimo_ back together. She would have neither the time nor the intimate relationship or confidence required to help the others regain their lives.

So desperately, she wanted that for them. She wanted others to see them for what they were. People who had made mistakes, who had done wrong but believed that their cause was just to warrant their ill-conceived actions. People who had accepted their guilt, been served their punishment and regretted their actions.

Murderers they might be, but they were not soulless monsters. And it was time to move on and let the past lie.

Maybe that was why she was trying so hard, encouraging so much, for each of them to pursue love. Looking at Maitimo, at how broken he had been and how much he truly needed her support to soothe away the patches and holes in his mind, she could only guess at how much the others must need this as well.

Thinking of these things, she was almost tempted to return to the sitting room and continue her needlework.

But a gentle touch on her chin brought her back. Maitimo was leaning down over her, and his eyes were molten as his thumb brushed her lower lip and set her skin alight. “Be not distracted by deep thought, Istelindë,” he requested between their mingled breaths. “Come to bed with me?”

And, just like that, all thoughts of working on her newest project vanished.

Because he was guiding her upwards, his hand finding the buttons and catches of her dress and slipping them free. And, in return, she was plucking at the ties to his clothing, feeling both embarrassed that she would be naked but also eager to see him bare in return. Without clothing, they would be on even ground. She could not deny, either, that the thought of exploring him thoroughly was appealing.

Cold air washed over her back, and she let her arms slip out of her sleeves, let the soft fabric slide down over her bosom and hips to pool on the floor at her ankles. All the while, she managed to get her husband’s shirt up and over his head and undo the catches on his leggings, pushing them halfway down his thighs. Awkwardly, between lust-ridden giggles, she tripped over her skirts trying to escape their hold, and he echoed her laughter as he stripped fabric from his legs and tossed it aside.

And, by the Valar, he was gorgeous. Maybe the scars were not pretty, and she could see them starkly now in the light of their chambers where they’d been partially obscured by the dim-lighted intimacy of their first encounter, but the rest of him was beyond compare. Perfectly proportioned, muscles rippling, his face handsome and his expression of desire inviting. Her attraction to his intrinsic strength was a natural and instinctive thing. How his arms were so strong that he could easily lift her and toss her onto the bed, how they would feel if they pressed her thighs open so that he could see all of her, and how they would hold her as she rolled upwards into his body when they made love…

But not yet. She was not ready just yet. Not for that.

Still half-laughing, they began to kiss.

All they had done all day when out of the public eye had been kissing. When they were packing their belongings this morning before departing the palace. When they left the gates of Tirion behind and entered the protection of the surrounding trees. When they entered the mountain pass high above the city. And, of course, when they stopped at the hilly expanse of meadow and lazed about in the sunlight.

It had been tempting even then to reach into his pants, to touch him and have him touch her in return, for she had burned for him then, too. But their kissing, though deep with the growing longing to join, had been the extent of their daring when out in the open.

For now.

Now, though, they were pressed together. His right arm wrapped about her waist and pulled her flush against him, and his left hand cupped her bottom and squeezed. Against her belly, she could feel him growing hard with want, and the knowledge that he wanted her sent a spiral of heat burning through her body, radiating out from her sex and leaving her brain activity veiled in golden fog. Nothing more did she want that moment than for his mouth to kiss hers forever, to stay in this golden oasis, caught in the net of arousal and closeness.

But then his fingers teased over the backs of her thighs, and she pulled away from him with a gasp, letting her hands slide from his shoulders down over his heaving chest. Grinning almost wickedly, he scooped her up and took her to their shared bed. Their bed which they had never actually christened with their lovemaking.

He put her on her back, spread out beneath him like a feast, and his eyes burned across her skin. So similarly to what she had imagined did he proceed that she wondered if he’d read it from her thoughts, his arms pressed her legs open with their inexorable strength, spreading her wide in a way that was indecent and left her cheeks flushing hot. Never had her thighs been opened so except when she herself had lain with them apart and touched herself in the dead of night. And they had _never_ been opened thusly before the eyes of another.

In a rush, she realized that she _wanted_ him to look as she reached down to touch her swelling sex. That she adored the flush that traveled from his cheeks down his neck and spread across his chest in a wave. As she touched herself in the manner she preferred, growing slick with arousal, egged on by his gaze fixated upon her hand working over her clitoris, she could not help but think faintly that this was nothing like she had imagined. All her shyness was gone, swept away by confidence at how he looked upon her naked skin with desire, like she was something he was dying to consume. Like he wanted to breathe her into himself and never allow her to escape.

The heat was getting to her. Feeling the cresting pleasure between her thighs, she let out a moan of his name and threw her head back into the mattress, her other arm raised over her head to clutch at the sheets. Never had she come near to climax so _fast_ by only touching herself, but when he was watching it seemed like every little touch sent swirls of bliss streaming up into her belly and down her quivering thighs.

And he loomed over her, still standing but leaning over her prone body, arms poised on either side of her head as he pressed his mouth against her ear. The heaviness of his breaths mingled with the pounding of her heartbeat in her ears. He was so close to her like this, his erect sex so close to where she touched herself, that she felt the back of her hand brush against him and heard the way his breath caught in his throat. If he just moved her hand out of the way and rolled his hips, he would be rubbing right up against her intimately.

“Are you going to reach your end?” he asked her softly.

And, sweet Eru, she was _so close!_ Gasping against his cheek, she nodded her head frantically, wondering if he had expected her to speak when her entire being was so focused on _him_ above her and around her, his scent filling up her senses and his breaths ringing in her ears. Between her thighs, she teased at her opening—rare was it that she had even pressed a finger within herself, but she circled it now, reveling in how the sensitive flesh buzzed to her touch, how it sent shivers up her spine and left her wrecked—and imagined that it was his sex begging for entrance, hovering just out of reach.

Her other hand gripped his hair, tangling and knotting in his curls. “Maitimo,” she hissed out, able to think of nothing but the name that represented all he was to her. Their intimacy. Their friendship. His body and his touch.

“Finish,” he demanded, almost pleadingly, against her ear. “I want to see you.”

How could she ever have resisted such words?

He pulled away from her at the last moment, and all she could see were his eyes staring down at her naked form as she writhed for him, his muscles twitching and his arms flexing and his cock pointed straight towards her sex where her hand frantically moved. Softly, she cried out, but the pleasure came in a long, hard wave of sensation. It rippled upwards in starbursts of light, and it was only his arms pressing her legs apart that kept them from curling inwards around where she touched her core. He held her open to that he could see—see from her face where her lips parted with panting sobs down over her swanlike throat and her throbbing breasts and her flexing belly to the place where her hand was still nestled, urging her pleasure onward. And the thought that he was watching, the glimpses of his face through the bursts of bliss, how hungered his fire-eyes were as they stared, it kept the waves going.

Finally, though, she felt herself coming down. Stickiness was on her fingers, and she could feel it hot and thick seeping down between her legs and staining the bedspread. Yet, as she peeked up at his face from between pale lashes, there was no disgust to be found. Maitimo looked at her like a man looks at a goddess.

“Let me…” His voice was failing him again, but his hand moving hers away from her tender sex was indication enough that he was not done.

Then, to her surprise, he lowered her legs such that her calves spilled over the edge of the bed, still widespread. And then he knelt there between her knees, lifting her legs to hook them over his impossibly broad shoulders.

Istelindë held her breath, hardly daring to _think._ Of this, she had heard tell, though mostly of women whispering about putting their mouths on a man’s sex to pleasure him. Not so much the other way around. She knew it was something that happened, but she had not dared to think that a man like Maitimo would do something so intimate as put his lips _there._ That he might truly _want_ to pleasure her that way.

And yet, he stopped open to meet her gaze questioningly as she sat up on her elbows. “Istelindë? May I…?”

The words would not come, but she understood. Silently, breathlessly, she nodded. And then watched in fascination (and a bit of horror as the afterglow faded) as he leaned his face close to her there. He was looking at her, at the swollen bloom of her vulva and the pink flesh hidden therein, and there was nothing veiling her most intimate places from his eyes now.

(A whisper in the back of her head wondered if he would allow her the same. She had never seen a man’s sex up close before, explored all of him in depth, and she wanted…)

But then she felt his breath on her, hot where the night air was cool, and his tongue rasped across her swollen pearl. And she could not think of a single word nor control the loud whimper that slipped from her throat at the shock. It was not only the sensation, though the wet heat and texture over her nub so soon after orgasm left her body pulsing with renewed heat, but also the sight of it, how deliberately he flicked his tongue as his eyes drifted up to watch her face. To see her reaction as he repeated the motion and her breath caught on a hiccup and her knees jerked where they were flung over his shoulders. The jerk of her legs banged her heels into his back, and it must have smarted, but he seemed to not even take note.

There were bubbles of glistening energy, building up from wherever his mouth touched, heating up deep beneath her belly. Suddenly, she wanted more. Suddenly, the flicking of his tongue over her clitoris was not enough. Not _nearly enough._

And she could not help but grasp at his hair, breathless. “Maitimo, please,” she begged, wanting to say all these things but unable to summon the words. All she could do was tug at his locks and squirm, rolling her hips up, trying to move his mouth from where it was to where she _desperately wanted it to be. “Maitimo…”_

He gasped out a breath against her, and then his mouth slipped lower. Even though she’d never taken anything larger than her own finger (more out of curiosity than anything else) she wondered what it would feel like for his tongue to slip inside. And it was happening. Happening so fast, feeling so slick and hot and _perfect._ She could see the flicker of light off his cheek where some of her wetness had smeared, and then she felt his tongue dip inwards, searching…

And it was good. So good. Better than her finger had been.

Or maybe it was just that it was _him._ Maybe it was that he seemed to drink her down as though she were a fine wine, his mouth kissing her and sucking her and his tongue delving into her as far as her inexperienced body would allow him to go. Maybe it was that he was so powerful, his form so much larger and stronger than she could ever hope to be, and yet he was fixated on her pleasure, his eyes so focused on her face. Taking in her helpless flush of pleasure and her open-mouthed, breathy cries and the way her eyes rolled back into her skull as the heat that built in her core suddenly rose into sharp, electrifying strikes of bliss.

Without warning, he took her over again. Mindlessly, she rolled her hips towards his mouth, loving the way he used his arms to support her lower body and lift and hold her in place while she trembled and splintered and fell to pieces. She could feel the flex of his muscles against her heels where they dug sharply into his back and each tickle of his hair against her inner legs seemed like a new shockwave of sensation to add to the white behind her eyes.

She was arched beneath him, utterly _his._ And then she let out a choked sound and slumped onto the mattress. Her back was damp with sweat and her hair was tangled and none of that mattered because he pulled away and kissed the inside of her thigh with his swollen lips.

Part of her almost wished he would rise then and slip between her legs. That he would take her then and there, for she sensed her own longing and his. Yet, within that hazy fog of residual bliss, she felt the unease. He stood, and she could see his sex at its full length, and it was so much larger than the single finger that she had curiously pressed inside herself to test the softness of her inner muscles and search for the supposed pleasure spot that resided there. Never had her explorations yielded results, but maybe she just hadn’t known her own body well enough. Maybe it would be better than what he had given her already. Better than his fingers on her clitoris or his tongue surging inside her.

But she could not deny that she was glad when he did not press her legs open around his waist. Instead, he lifted her body up, one arm behind her shoulders and the other under her knees, and set her fully upon the mattress. By the Valar, but she felt groggy and languid, like the room were suddenly too warm for her sweat to dry and cool, leaving her sticky and damp.

He hesitated to kiss her, but she caught at the nape of his neck and pulled him down. On his side, his weight pulled her towards him, bumping her hip against his sex. His moan into her mouth was delightful despite the oddness of tasting herself on his tongue, foreign and bitter, and she reveled in the way the sound vibrated through his naked body and into hers. It teased her, leaving her flush with anticipation and all at once too tired to ever want to move again.

When they parted, she felt his left hand drift down her side, brushing the side of her breast, dipping into the curve of her belly, then out to the flare of her hipbone, sharp and hard beneath a layer of softness, tracing down across her outer thigh. It was an admiring touch, almost worshipful, following the scattering of the light of Isil that slipped in through the open window to fall upon them, fighting against the firelight glow.

Too tired to feel the need for exploration—there was no reason she could not have her fun in the morning, her hazy brain noted—Istelindë instead sought out his sex with her hand. The angle was ridiculous, and she had used a bit of her own saliva to wet her palm, but Maitimo did not seem to find her technique lacking. Or maybe he was simply too high-strung to care so long as she touched him, just as she had barely noted anything about his technique when he’d put his mouth on her because _he’d put his mouth on her_. Maybe it was enough that the fingers wrapped clumsily about him, trying to move rhythmically but mostly failing, belonged to _her_.

She felt his fingers curl over hers and almost pulled away, but his eyes were not glaring or accusing or scolding. Instead, he was grinning almost teasingly, his left hand directing her motions (Had he always done this left handed, or had he relearned it after…?) until the movement was steady and matched the rocking of his hips and the soft, huffing sounds that brushed across her cheek.

Unlike last night, his end was quiet. Just heavy breaths against her cheeks—he was trying to stay quieter, she realized, because his brothers might still be downstairs, and she wondered blearily if they’d heard her before—as he pressed close and shuddered down his spine. Had she not been holding him in her hand as he came, she might have reached out to stroke the curve of his eyebrow as it furrowed in pleasure, to sooth the clench of his jaw as he gritted his teeth against a rumbling growl.

Eru, he was beautiful. Every little scar that cut over his chiseled cheekbones. Every freckle that dotted his long, straight nose. Every little tangled clump of eyelashes stuck together by the sweat that beaded on his skin.

His eyes were closed until the very end, until he came down and gently pushed her hand away. Then they opened, and she counted the flecks of silver. Little stars floating around in the darkness, no longer overwhelmingly hot but just barely glowing. Embers in the wake of a roaring hearth fire, still warm but no longer blazing. Still passionate, but the intensity had slipped away and left behind something dangerously like adoration.

They felt no real need to speak. Instead, he pressed his forehead to hers, and they exchanged little kisses. Little butterfly wings fluttering over each other’s mouths. No need to land or to deepen. Just little gifts. Little expressions of fondness.

His hand continued to trace her body, and she found her free hand tracing his as well. Scoping out the musculature of his arm, tracing the sharp edges of his ribcage down to the jut of his hip. Teasing down his thigh and then back, just shy of his rear, skimming her fingertips over his skin just to see his body shiver at her touch.

“Would you be upset,” he whispered against her lips, “If this marriage became more than a convenience?”

Honestly, she could not imagine stopping now. She could not imagine denying him her body or her eventual love. She could not imagine giving this sudden and inexplicable closeness away, forgetting about the heat of his kisses or the strength of his body or the longing that had set in and nested in her heart.

“No,” she answered. “I would hope that it would become more. For both of us.”

It already had. For both of them.

“We have things to discuss, then,” he said softly. “Children. Plans. Things I am certain I should be thinking of but cannot remember at the moment.”

She could sympathize. “I cannot think of much right at this moment, either,” she admitted. “But things will be different, will they not? I am certain your brothers will notice that something has changed. For all that they can be infuriating, not a single one of them is dim.”

“Let them notice, then,” he said.

His arm curled over her, then, and her leg snuggled its way over his hip in response, leaving them entwined. Lazily, she pressed herself into his chest, delighting in the feeling of safety, in the newness of their closeness and the growing familiarity of his body against her own. And she pressed a kiss over a scar that cut across his pectoral, and the bubbling of joy in her belly combatted the lingering haze of pleasure, overtaking it and bringing jittery life back to her limbs.

They had been playing at husband and wife for so long. To finally exchange the charade for the reality… it was a relief. A joy.

Things would be different. But a good different. A little ray of hope.

\---

Curufinwë had had his suspicions. But, for once, he’d kept his mouth shut and refrained from sharing his every whim and thought with Turkafinwë. This was different than sordid rumors of Nargothrond about some lady committing adultery with their husband’s brother or some married man sneaking out with a sentry for fun in the woods. This was not some nameless, unimportant elf whose life mattered not at all in the grand scheme of Curufinwë’s plotting.

This was about Nelyafinwë and his wife.

Of all the Fëanárioni, Curufinwë was the only one who had ever been married. Certainly, he did not doubt that his brothers were thoroughly deflowered, even the twins, but none of them had ever been in a truly _committed_ relationship. There was a difference between knowing a woman for a single night in the way of a lover and knowing her whole body like the back of one’s own hand because so much time and energy and love and lust had been dedicated to her worship and pleasure. The difference between knowing what _most_ women liked and what a particular woman liked was stark. An intimate knowledge that two people shared.

Curufinwë still remembered things like that about _her_. What position she preferred for sleeping and how she moved in the middle of the night. That she enjoyed when he used just a hint of teeth on her nipples during foreplay. That the well at the base of her throat was tender and she would laugh if he moaned against it. That she preferred the hard depth of his fingers to the soft dexterity of his tongue inside her.

There would be no distance between two people who knew each other so. They would touch freely, entwine easily, and naturally know where to place their hands on one another’s body for either pleasure or comfort or closeness or teasing.

Nelyafinwë and Istelindë had not had that closeness.

They would kiss each other’s cheeks only (never lips or hands or wrists or anywhere else untoward), and they would never cuddle up too close in the evening. Istelindë would lean against Nelyafinwë’s side, but never lay herself into his lap or rest her head on his shoulder. And Nelyafinwë would never reach out and touch her, not even at the small of her back or about her shoulders, always keeping a firm distance.

Early on, Curufinwë had suspected they were _friends_ and not _lovers._

The fact that they never heard _anything_ from the bedchambers save the occasional laughter or whispered words only promoted his theory. Other than the broken bed from the first night (And, looking back, was that not just a tad ridiculous?), there had been no evidence, visible or auditory, to indicate that the pair were intimate with one another.

Tonight, there was.

Of course, most of the brothers who lingered long enough about the house to hear the moans then wrote it off as the couple celebrating being home and back in their own bedchambers. The pair was just a little louder than usual. Particularly Istelindë and her little gasping cries of Nelyafinwë’s amilessë (And Curufinwë preferred not to think too much about what his brother had been up to that prompted such noises).

Curufinwë knew better.

Sometime between leaving home and returning, Nelyafinwë and Istelindë had gone from close confidents dancing about one another, both lusting but neither willing to take the final step, to actual lovers exploring their sexuality and sensuality. No longer was this whole thing some sort of farce engineered like a sneaky move on a political chessboard. Now it was _real_ and _undeniable._ Nelyafinwë was not using Istelindë (or vice versa, as he had feared and suspected), but, rather, they were genuinely in love (or at least in lust and affection) with one another.

It soothed the last bit of Curufinwë holding out against Istelindë. The last hesitation he had over accepting her fully as a sister and protecting her as a member of his own family.

And it solidified the need to face his fear of returning to Tirion.

Istelindë desperately wanted them all to be _happy._ To find love and acceptance. And, while Curufinwë was certain that he would never reconcile with _her_ (that he would never get the chance), he knew he would have to face her or risk never moving on. That he would have to let her go if he ever hoped to move forward.

Just as desperately as his sister-in-law, Curufinwë wanted to escape the past.

He did not know what he would say or do. If he would seek _her_ out or wait until circumstance brought them together. He did not know if his first instinct would be to kiss her senseless or turn tail and run.

But he knew he could no longer sit and wait in silence.

The time for waiting was nearing its close.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:
> 
> Fëanárioni (Q) = Sons of Fëanáro  
> amilessë (Q) = mother-name


	12. Shadows of Losgar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The twins have issues. A lot of issues.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: severe PTSD, selective mutism, anxiety, self-hatred, mental health problems, flashbacks, semi-explicit remembrance of burning to death/drowning, allusion to murder, survivor's guilt, guilt in general, more getting it on (still no penetrative sex yet), kissing, grinding, fingering, biting, brief mention of rape (nothing explicit)
> 
> So... a lot of warnings. But, uh, otherwise, Happy Holidays? I double-posted just for you guys, so you get two sex scenes for the price (in waiting) of one ;) I think after this point we move on to a little more characterization and then start on the romances of the other six brothers. Now I have to get back to writing so I stay ahead.
> 
> Maedhros = Maitimo = Nelyafinwë = Nelyo  
> Maglor = Makalaurë = Kanafinwë = Káno  
> Celegorm = Tyelkormo = Turkafinwë = Turko  
> Caranthir = Carnistir = Morifinwë = Moryo  
> Curufin = Atarinkë = Curufinwë = Curvo  
> Amrod = Ambarussa = Pityafinwë = Pityo  
> Amras = Umbarto = Telufinwë = Telvo

Istelindë was a ray of sunshine.

Truly, Telufinwë knew not what his brothers would do without her.

Even now, she seemed to fill up the whole room with just the sound of her voice and the soft pitter-patter of her slipper-clad feet. Dancing about them, small and sleek amidst their tall and broad forms, she flitted like a hummingbird in excitement. Bright were her blue eyes and blinding was her soft smile.

Her hand was soft against his arm. She offered him a tunic, gold and encrusted with embroidery in her own hand, soft autumn colors against the sleek fabric. The garment was ostentatious, something from the old world, from before the Darkening, like a little slice of the life of princes come back from the dead. It was lovely and soft when he took it from her, lightweight in his arms, catching faintly on the calluses of his fingertips as he slid it through his fingers to take in the leaves and swirls on the hem.

“It will go perfectly with your hair,” she told him, reaching out to touch the long braid that hung heavily over his shoulder.

Never had he worn this color before—he and his brother had preferred simpler things in those half-forgotten days, mostly earthen tones. They were raised on the lawns and in the woods surrounding Formenos, two surprise bundles of joy on the tail-end of a failing marriage, and they had not been accustomed to the lavishness of the city of Tirion as their older brothers had been. Dark colors, burgundy, emerald and even rich brown, were more to his tastes than this brilliant thing that flashed in the sunlight with all the vibrancy of his sister-in-law’s glee and joy.

 _I am certain it shall,_ he wanted to say to her. But, as always, the words stuck in the back of his throat. Caught in a net of terror.

The last time he’d opened his mouth, it had gotten him killed in the most painful, horrifying way imaginable. Long, agonizing, watching his white skin blister and then blacken while he screamed and screamed. Blood splattering his lips, wood biting into his hands as he clawed to find a way out.

Cold, dark water putting out the golden flames. His lungs, already aching from his cries, filling rapidly with water as he failed to find the strength to swim. Burning had been painful, but he’d been able to _breathe._ Beneath the surface of the icy water, he’d panicked and flailed, and his eyes had looked upwards and beheld the reflection of red and gold above, distorted through the veil of flowing liquid.

All of a sudden, he wished he could put the garment down without seeming insensitive. It was hot to the touch, burning against his palms (already scarred and ugly from trying to put out his body and catching alight in the process), and its color was the same ugly, blinding gold that had slashed through the night, that had hunted him across the wooden deck of the ship until he’d had nowhere to go but over the edge. The only blessing was that the red and burgundy embroidery at the cuffs and the collar depicted leaves—pretty, crunchy autumn leaves, flammable in their own right, but gentle—instead of curling flames waiting to lick at his flesh.

He so very much wanted to say thank you, to smile, to ignore how disgusting the softness suddenly felt on his skin. But words would not come. He met Istelindë’s gaze desperately, torn between nodding in gratitude and begging her to take it away.

Worse still, she sensed the turmoil. Her smile dimmed, and Telufinwë felt his heart ache a bit in his chest at disappointing her when she’d been so kind. “Do you not like it?” she asked.

“He usually prefers something a little less brightly colored,” Pityafinwë interrupted at his side, speaking for him as ever he did. “Gold is a little excessive, do you not think so, sister?”

Relief coiled through Telufinwë’s chest, but it was beat out completely by the sudden shame. Relief that he did not need to speak, that his twin understood and sought to protect him from his own terror. And shame that he needed the help, that he was too weak to face his fears, that even something so pitiful and inconsequential as the color of a tunic could somehow bring all those ugly memories to the surface.

Hatred followed. Hatred of how low he had fallen. Remembering silver eyes glaring at him, outraged and scolding, and a voice veiled in fire and ash ordering him to stand down and obey. Remembering how he spat upon the orders, how his heart pounded in his chest as he departed into the night, how it sped at the thought of what he was about to do.

He had been brave then. Foolish, but brave.

Now he was nothing but a coward. And it tasted bitter on the back of his tongue.

Especially when he saw Istelindë’s eyes dim faintly, her teeth worrying her lower lip until it flushed dark pink. “I… I did not mean to offend. I have extra fabrics, so I will make you something more to your taste, brother Telufinwë.” And she reached out to receive the tunic back.

But it felt wrong to give it back.

It had been a gift, something that his new sister had worked hard to make ready, something she had created specifically with _him_ in mind. It was a concept that had eluded him—that had eluded all his brothers—all his life, for being one of seven meant that nothing was ever _for him._ No time was set aside specifically for him, nor affection spared only with thought of his name, nor any gifts ever made from any hands with the thought of his face in mind.

He recalled with an ache in his chest the nights long ago when his mother would sit in her studio and sculpt, when the twins would knock, and she would look up with her sad green eyes. How they would beg to play or to help her with her work, and how she would smile but still send them away. “Go and find your brothers,” she always said, “And try not to get into trouble, my Ambarussar.”

Ambarussar, the pair, even though Telufinwë’s mother name was separate from that of his brother, even though they were two very different people. Clumped together, left behind, forgotten, so much younger than their brothers. How he had yearned to go to his mother, to alone have her attention, to feel her hands on his cheeks or braiding his hair.

And his father…

Telufinwë tried not to think of his father.

It was clear from Istelindë’s words, from her excitement and anticipation as his reaction, that she had bought the fabric and the thread, created the designs and layered them so delicately, thinking of her youngest brother, the Last Finwë, who was always forgotten and overshadowed. Not a word had they ever exchanged in truth—by no fault of her own, of course—and she could have chosen to clump him and his brother together, to speak to Pityafinwë and never meet his eyes, to pretend he did not exist or was half of a whole. But she had not. She hugged him and kissed his cheek, greeted him in the morning and learned his preference for tea over coffee, kept the fire low in the evening because she knew it unsettled him when it burned high, and spoke directly to his face—looking straight into his eyes—even though she knew he would never reply.

Now that she reached out and in spite of the pain that flickered as a phantom beneath his skin, a reminder of what it felt like to be eaten alive by fire and left charred in the aftermath, Telufinwë’s fingers were frozen in place. To give her gift back, ungrateful and afraid, felt like surrendering a great battle. Like rolling over and begging for death.

And Telufinwë had already lost _so many_ battles. All the battles that mattered.

He held onto the fabric, and, slowly, he shook his head in refute. Though he could scarcely imagine himself wearing this fiery color, bathing in the flames that had once consumed his body and his domineering will, he also could not bear to part with the fire.

Pityafinwë was staring at him, surprise deeply hidden in verdant orbs, and Istelindë’s hand lingered in the air questioningly as she second-guessed whether she had interpreted his actions correctly. Just to emphasize his point, he pulled the fabric close, letting it spill down his front, and took a step away to take himself out of her reach. There was a half-second when he wondered if he might be able to smile at her, to tell her without words that it was alright, that he was happy with her thoughtfulness, but the muscles around his mouth could not quite manage the movement.

“Telufinwë?” she murmured. “If you do not like the color, I promise I can change it. My feelings are not hurt.”

That was such a blatant lie that Telufinwë would have released a snort of disbelief. Still, only half of his reluctance stemmed from her clear and painful disappointment. The rest was a rare show of stubbornness. A quality that he had suppressed often, firmly and thoroughly. A quality that many in his family shared, but…

_“You have a gift,” Nelyafinwë said, stroking back his hair as they looked out over the black waters and shuddered in the cold together. “More so than any one of us, Telvo, you are righteous and stubborn, and none can sway your mind once it is made.”_

It was a quality of the past him. The loud, vibrant, dauntless him.

It was a quality that he shared with his father.

He wanted little less than to be like the man who had listened to him beg for the lives of his uncle and cousins and scoffed at his “childish naivety”. To have anything in common with the monster whose stubbornness led them on a crusade, slaughtering innocents to steal their ships, abandoning their kin for sins and betrayals not yet committed, made his stomach churn. He hated to utilize the very same trait—the very same foundation of inner strength in decisiveness—that led his own father to decide that his death was necessary.

Telufinwë’s unyielding beliefs had clashed with Fëanáro’s, and his father was wise enough to know that his last son, the youngest, had the potential to be the most dangerous. The most willing to act in disobedience for the sake of his beliefs. The most willing to look those white-eyes straight on and brush aside his loyalty for the sake of what was _right._ The Telufinwë of _then_ had been _fearless!_

Now, that monster was rising up from his gut, hot and fierce, like a hungering dragon that was stirring from a long, long sleep.

 _Something so simple,_ he could not help but think, clutching the tunic tightly and again shaking his head in denial when Istelindë offered to change it, to make him something more suited to his tastes. _How is something so simple suddenly so important and impossible?_

 _But I do not want to be a coward._ Even though it was golden, and he imagined how he would shudder catching light reflecting the color in the darkness of the night, how it would make his skin itch with discomfort, to be fearful of something as innocuous as a tunic grinded down on the little pride that he had left to call his own. How his father would have laughed at him, seeing him flinch away in instinctual fear!

Fëanáro would have mocked him with harsh, cruel words. And Telufinwë, for all that he hated (and feared) his sire, knew the man would have been right.

_It is pathetic. And I…_

_I wish to be done being pathetic._

This one small battle, he could win. Maybe not his battle with the hearth’s fire in the night. Maybe not his battle with the ocean’s black depths and frigid waves. Maybe not his battle with his own inability to smile. But this one he could _win._

And the light coming back to Istelindë’s smile made his trembling heart bolster. Just ever so slightly. It felt good to be the cause of her happiness instead of her disappointment. And he could not deny that the air tasted cleaner when he knew that accepting her gift was the right thing to do and did it for no other reason than that when all he wanted to do was throw the cloth on the ground and never see it again. The tightness around his chest diminished, and the phantom burning in his palms whispered and died a quiet death.

“If you say so,” Istelindë acquiesced, talking as though Telufinwë had refused her offer with words rather than deeds. “I think you will look stunning, little brother.”

He inclined his head in acceptance, not really caring whether the clothing looked as nice as it was meant to. No man or woman would glance at him twice after they saw the molten burn scars twisting up his neck and onto his cheek anyway.

At least they seemed not to bother Istelindë, who kissed his cheek and laughed brightly in the afternoon sunshine. “I have something for you as well, brother Pityafinwë!”

The older twin groaned loudly, never one to revel in finery. A bit of old fondness stirred in Telufinwë’s chest, remembering a time when it was rare to hear Pityafinwë speak, when their roles had been reversed, when it was a treat to see the quiet twin’s personality rise to the surface and make an appearance even in the form of defiance over dressing up for some event or hosting some dinner. Istelindë would probably never have believed it, but Pityafinwë had been the shy twin. The tagalong. Only getting into trouble because Telufinwë got them into trouble, and always engineering a way to get them back out without being caught.

And there was a lingering sorrow as well. Because he had placed his beliefs over loyalty to his brother as well. Even though he had never intended to die, leaving Pityafinwë behind in the aftermath of his murder (with the knowledge of who had to have been responsible) had cloven a gap between them. Broken the close bond they’d once shared.

A bond that, he hoped, might still be fixed.

He clutched the tunic in his hand tighter. Then relaxed and smoothed the fabric, hoping he’d not wrinkled it too badly.

 _One battle at a time,_ he thought when a feeling of despair at the enormity of that task rose up in his chest, threatening to once again bury the small bit of courage he’d scrounged up from the wreckage of ash and blood in his spirit. _One battle at a time. No need to solve everything in one fell swoop._

After all, that was what had gotten him into that whole mess in the first place. Inflexibility and impatience coupled with fearlessness and unyielding righteousness.

Carefully, as one cradled a glass bauble, he scraped up his courage and boxed it away like the precious treasure it was, letting himself sink back into the comfort of allowing Pityafinwë center-stage. There would be time for more battles later. Time to cultivate a bit more courage and a bit more hesitance, a bit more flexibility and a bit more patience.

He watched his new sister pester and tease his brother, and he thought that there might be hope for them all yet.

_Istelindë can see it. Who are we to say that she is wrong?_

Because, maybe, she was right.

\---

The tunic really did complement his brother.

Pityafinwë would have offered to switch if he thought Telufinwë would agree, even though the vibrant shade of gold would not have gone as nicely with the three-shades darker burgundy hair the older twin sported. To get rid of the tension in those shoulders, stiff and square, muscles trembling in an effort to stay still whilst green eyes swept up and down over the younger twin’s reflection in the silver of the mirror, Pityafinwë would have swallowed his tongue and worn something so blatantly _against_ his personality. Wearing something like that, something fit for kings and princes, it did not sit well with the older twin, who had always preferred to keep to the shadows and control the situation from the sidelines.

 _“You have my temperament,”_ his mother told him once, _“Perhaps more so than any one of your brothers. That is why you were born with Umbarto. He needs someone sensible to counteract his father’s genes.”_

In the end, Pityafinwë did not manage even that simple job. So, he tried his best now, even though now was not as important as then had been. Even though nothing he did in the present could make up for his overwhelming failure in the past.

 _Is this what Amillë feels like every day?_ Sometimes he wondered, thinking of the mother who could not bear to lay eyes on her sons. _Is this how she felt when she failed to sway Atar’s mind away from folly, when things started to fall apart?_

He hated this feeling. This guilt that never left, sitting on his shoulders as a leaden burden, twisting his arm until he swallowed his nature and took the forefront again and again if only to keep eyes away from Telufinwë. To turn away entirely, to push that weight off his shoulders (off a damn cliff into the sea) and never think of it again, would have been a breath of fresh air, a loss of the tightness in his throat. To never look at any of them again, to never have to see Nelyafinwë laughing and covered in blood or Morifinwë weeping like a child in the dark, to never have to remember Turkafinwë and Curufinwë with their faces so twisted in hate that they no longer resembled elves, their swords raised and slicked red…

To never have to look into Telufinwë’s face and see him so broken, shattered glass littering his spirit just behind the dull veneer of green…

What a relief it would be, to just let go.

_Is that why she never wanted to see what we became?_

If that was so, he thought that he could swallow the anger that boiled at the back of his throat, sickly and sour. He wished he could have that ignorance. That freedom.

Instead, he was here. Trying to convince Telufinwë to give up the damn piece of gold cloth that was clearly reminding him all too much of the flames of Losgar. Meeting green eyes the same shade as his own through the silver mirror, watching as the younger twin’s chin jutted out in that way that struck a blow straight to his heart. That left him breathless.

It was that expression he’d worn the night of his death, just before storming out of their tent to confront their father. That expression that Pityafinwë had seen a thousand times on his twin’s face. That expression inherited solely from their father.

Eru, he hated that expression. It always boded ill.

“Fine,” he growled, knowing that acquiescing was a terrible idea (it always was with Telufinwë) but doing it anyway. “Do not come whining to _me_ when you change your mind!”

Green eyes still watched him as he stormed away, stared through that reflection as he slipped through the doorway and slammed the door shut in his wake. It felt like they were still there, watching and judging, resting between his shoulder blades, even when he reached the bottom of the stairs. Each board creaked under the weight of his heavy feet, and he gritted his teeth when he realized he could not just storm out of the house, but had to pause and put on his boots. It would have been nice to escape as quickly as possible, to find some clearing out in the woods, pick a leaf, pretend it was his stupid brother’s fat face, and spend the next hour seeing how many times he could hit strike it with an arrow before it fell to the ground.

Instead, he was waylaid on his way out, only one boot laced, by Istelindë.

“Is everything alright, brother Pityafinwë?” she asked. Undoubtedly, she’d heard him stomping about, slamming doors and hissing slurs beneath his breath.

He wanted to yell at her then. For giving something to Telufinwë that would remind him of things that ought to be forgotten. For driving him to accept her gift with that same stubbornness that was always his bane and curse. For not thinking about her actions properly before making her gift, for not asking advice. For anything and everything, because things like this inevitably ended in disaster when Telufinwë was involved. There would be panic and screaming and probably blood beneath his brother’s fingernails.

_Cursed. They were cursed._

But he knew it was not her fault. That she’d intended only to provide for her family, to help them and treat them with her gifts. That her doe eyes had not been intended to guilt her little brother into taking a gift that left him pained and uncomfortable. That it was not fair to expect this good-intentioned woman to know every pitfall of the Fëanárioni after living with them for just a little more than a month.

“Telufinwë is alright, is he not?” she continued, her voice hinting at nerves. “Did I upset him that much, Pityafinwë?”

The older twin’s shoulders slumped, his anger slipping between his fingers like water and sand. Resentment, he could hold and nurture, but his fury was swift as a bolt of lightning, hot to the touch for but a moment and then cooled by logic and wisdom. It was a trait he had most definitely _not_ inherited from his father.

“He is just being stubborn,” Pityafinwë told her. “I know you meant no harm with your gift, and he accepted it and will not let you have it back now, so there is no point in trying to convince him to let you change it.”

His poor sister-in-law looked heartbroken. “If I had known that the color would bother him so, I would never have…”

“Of course not,” he soothed. “No one said anything, so you could not have known.”

“I just… I never even thought about it.” The way her lower lip wobbled made it clear that she did truly feel terrible, and Pityafinwë wondered (in a faint panic) for a moment if he’d have to explain later to Nelyo what exactly he’d done to make Istelindë cry. But the tears, for all that they shimmered in her blue eyes, never did quite manage to fall.

“As I said, he has made up his mind. Of the whole lot of us, Telufinwë is the most unyielding in his choices, so there’s no dissuading him now.”

“But he is so quiet,” she said. “I would not have thought it to be so.”

 _Once,_ Pityafinwë wanted to say, _once, he was loud and vibrant. Once, he was brilliant and beautiful. Once, I believed he could do anything and win over anyone._

But that Telufinwë was gone.

“People change, but some parts of them remain the same,” was all he could bear to say aloud. “My brother is very different than he was before the Darkening, but this natural part of him remains hidden. It does not surface often, but when it does, I know enough to give up a losing battle.”

By now, he’d gotten both his boots on, and his fingers were itching to feel the twang of his bow jolt against the strength of his muscles and his bones. Standing at his full height, he wished he could just slip out the door without a word. If Telufinwë (the old Telufinwë) had been by his side, all eyes would have been focused on the fiery younger twin, and he would have been able to slip away. Such was as it had always been in childhood.

Things were different now. So different. And yet, in all the most awful ways, so horribly the same as well.

“I need to go,” he said awkwardly, looking away from Istelindë’s expectant gaze. “I need to… I just need to go.”

He left the house then, pausing only to grab his bow before slipping into the woods. And he was grateful that she did not try to hinder him or halt him in his course. Though words lingered still upon her lips, she did not reach out and ask more.

And Pityafinwë found a clearing and a leaf, and he loosed his first arrow and watched it carve the innocent green stem, sending the leaf flying high up into the air. The second arrow he released sliced through its body, leaving a gaping hole and sending it up again in a wide loop. The third punched another hole, and the fourth another, and it never once touched the ground.

But it did not help much to punish this leaf.

To think, all this turmoil over a stupid piece of clothing. And it was all for naught anyway, because the Fëanárioni would never be accepted back into society. Istelindë’s cute little daydream was a farce, and he could just feel in his bones that the Midsummer festivities in Tirion would be an awful and awkward affair. They would be lucky to avoid bloodshed between conflicting family branches. Certainly, none of them would be attracting any attention from single females, at least not the positive variety.

Even imagining Telufinwë, shattered and speechless, unable to even speak or smile at his own family, trying to woo a woman…

Preposterous. It was insanity. The twins had been too young to think about marriage by the time of the Darkening, and afterwards they had no use for such dreams and no reason to cultivate such skills.

But Pityafinwë could admit to himself, even as he halfheartedly took aim and speared the innocent little leaf again, that it would be cruel to try and reveal this truth to Istelindë. Maybe she was lonely and longed for female companionship and understanding, or maybe she simply wanted the best for her little brothers and thought that this was the way to go about it. Maybe it was something else entirely, a feminine and mysterious motive that Pityafinwë had no hope of comprehending, which drove her to insist upon these nice clothes and good behavior and making nice with their extended family.

But he found that he did not really want to disappoint her. Even though he was tired and even though his heart ached too much to do this again. Even though he was certain it would all end in disaster and tears.

Something about her just made him _wish_ he could smile and be optimistic.

Even though there was only a small segment left floating, he shot the tiny leaf again. And it remained speared on the end of his arrow, pierced through and pinned to the tree from whence it had grown. And Pityafinwë felt that his satisfaction had escaped him again. Instead of feeling better, of assuaging his anger (anger that had long drifted away into nostalgia and bitterness), he just felt worse.

Hopefully, this mess would be over and done with quickly. He did not think his heart could bear a long, drawn-out affair.

He did not bother moving for another hour. Not until the sun began to get low in the sky and his shadow was shrouded in a golden glow across the grass. Even then, he wished he could stay here and not be and not think for just a while longer.

But real life beckoned. As much as he wanted to run away, he knew that he could not escape reality forever.

Freedom. He only wished he could taste it.

\---

“I think I may have upset the twins.”

Nelyafinwë paused at his wife’s words, his shirt halfway over his head. Carefully, he peeled it off, tugging his arms and hair free of the garment and letting it fall to the floor. Tomorrow, Istelindë would gripe at him for leaving it in a pile to wrinkle and gather dust, but he found that he did not care in the moment. Instead, he looked towards his wife where she sat on their shared bed, her fingers combing almost morosely through her unbound white hair.

“What makes you think that?” he asked gently. Instead of saying _“The twins are always upset,”_ which would have been closer to the truth.

“I did not realize Telufinwë would be sensitive about the color of his clothing, or that Pityafinwë would be so angry at me for accidently forcing him to accept my gift anyway,” she admitted, and her eyes were downcast. “It was not my intention to make anyone unhappy.”

 _Of course, it was not._ Nelyafinwë knew his wife could be strong and fierce, but he also knew that she was good-intentioned. She had promised him that she would learn to see his brothers as people instead of monsters, and she had. But, now that she saw them as people, she was stumbling upon the minefield that was all their collective problems. All their half-buried triggers and ill-tempered habits and not-so-forgotten terrible memories.

Sitting beside her, Nelyafinwë stroked his knuckles down the silky skin of her bare shoulder and arm, watching how his touch made her body unconsciously shiver. Yet, at the moment, he cared less about inciting sensual reactions and more about letting her know that he was close and listening, gentle and not judgmental. Carefully, he skimmed her delicate wrist and tangled his fingers with hers, pressing his hand together with hers and feeling how soft her flesh was against the ugly burn scars that left his palm leathery and rough.

“Everything makes Telufinwë unhappy,” he told her, and that was mostly the truth. “He might be broken, Istelindë, but it is not your responsibility to keep him happy. The twins were barely out of adulthood when we… when we went to war. But they are grown men now, and they can decide things for themselves.”

 _You could not have forced him to do anything he did not want to do._ Nelyafinwë had practically raised that pair of brats, and he knew better than perhaps anyone but the twins themselves _exactly_ who was the troublemaker of the pair, always coming up with terrible ideas and conning others into participating. Maybe Telufinwë had lost that spark that once had reminded Nelyafinwë so poignantly of their father all those years ago, but he knew better than to think death by fire and water had traumatized the innate nature completely out of his youngest brother. Hidden it, maybe, or broken it into pieces. But destroyed it?

Angamando itself had failed to destroy Nelyafinwë as it had so many other men and women. He had faith that, for all their flaws and cracks, all his brothers were just as adamant as he, just as invincible in spirit. If he could go through all the hellish punishment and torture the world had to offer and come out capable of loving and falling in love, of moving on and building a new life, of watching it all crumble to dust beneath his feet and mustering the strength to start again, again and again, he knew they could all do it, too.

Even if they did not think they could.

Istelindë squeezed his palm, and Nelyafinwë allowed himself to remember other hands gripping his, holding on desperately. He remembered lying in a bed with pristine white sheets, Kanafinwë leaning over him and weeping, looking into his little brother’s eyes and acknowledging that he could not simply roll over and let death take him away. Giving up would have been so much easier, would have spared him so much suffering, would maybe even have made the world a better place, taken the future in a better direction. But giving up was the easy way out, and Nelyafinwë had never been one for taking the easy route.

“They are stronger than you think, than they think,” he told her, “And it will do them good to face their fears. Much as I would like to keep them close and safe, mothering and coddling them will not help them to heal.”

What she was doing for them, it was a good thing. Maybe it did not always garner the results she expected, but Nelyafinwë still firmly believed it was right.

“I just feel terrible that I did not realize…” She leaned against him, her weight against his arm, her mouth skimming over the scars on his bicep.

He shivered helplessly, his mind scrambling a bit at feeling her lips on his skin. Just like that, he found it hard to concentrate on having a serious conversation about Telufinwë, and he lost the will to bring up Losgar, to talk about it frankly with his wife even though now would have been a good time to broach the subject fully and truthfully.

Instead, he rolled them over so that she was underneath him, and he focused instead on her nakedness. On her bare breasts and the glimpse of curls between her legs where they were pressed together, hiding that intimate part of her that he had so thoroughly explored not days ago with his mouth. That he was eager to explore again, over and over, until he knew every little detail of her body as well as he knew his own. _Better_ than he knew his own.

He forced himself to concentrate enough to end their conversation, though. Kissing her mouth softly, trying to breathe the guilt out of her and into himself. “Worry not about the twins,” he crooned to her. “You did not have ill intentions, and they are aware of that. No one will fault you for being imperfect.”

 _Personally, I think you are perfect anyway,_ he wished he could say without sounding like a complete and utter lovesick fool.

Kissing her again instead, he reveled in her moan, in the sweet taste of her upon his tongue as he slipped between her lips. Her hands were upon him, skimming over his shoulders and across his back, heedless of the deep trenches and scars that broke across his once-flawless skin. There was no disgust or hesitation in her touch, only eagerness in the way her fingertips dug into the muscle of his shoulders, gripping hard to match the way her knees parted to admit his hips and squeezed around his sides. All of her body seemed to suck him in towards her, welcoming and hungry to match the blaze that lit in his loins and spread in waves outwards.

They broke apart, and he was leaning over her on their bed, hard and aching and almost pressing against her body intimately. And her hand swept through the hair that was falling into his eyes, pushing it back so that she could caress his cheek. “You are much sweeter than you would have others believe, Maitimo.”

And damn her for saying such things, for instigating the flush that spread across his cheeks! “Do not tell my brothers,” he begged on a laugh, pressing close to breathe in her scent and nuzzle her cheek. “They will mock me incessantly and never listen to a word I say ever again.”

“I shall keep your secret,” she murmured, breath washing over his face. “But only if you keep kissing me, Maitimo.”

“I can live with that deal,” he agreed. And he kissed her again.

And they came together, body to body. Even though he ached to enter her, even though he felt the head of his cock slip against her _there_ and come to rest between her thighs, he resisted the urge to reach down and steer himself into her, knowing she was not ready. Her thighs wrapped around him, heels digging into his flanks to hold him against her as her hips rolled up against him, and he had to pull away and groan into the open, cold night air.

By the One, he wanted her _so badly!_

Especially when he felt her mouth on his neck, now exposed and open to her exploration. Her lips riding over his throat, teasing across his fluttering pulse. Her teeth plucking at his skin in little sharp tugs, hinting at possession, taunting him to return the actions against her neck and her breast.

But he bit his lip and let her have her way. He felt his arms shake, but he held himself up so that her hands could spread across the ugly, scarred expanse of his chest, so that they could dig into his sides and slide down to grip at his buttocks as he rolled his hips into the cradle of her pelvis, rubbing his sex against the heated slickness between her legs.

And he could feel her reach down between them, her soft fingertips finding the place where they ground together. He had no idea what she was doing, and, when her hand wrapped around him and held his sex against her swollen pearl, her voice moaning delightfully at the feeling of grinding together so intimately, he did not care. His head bowed, and he panted in time with the helpless rocking of his hips against her, sweat dripping down across his nose. Everywhere felt too warm, like a burning that was licking up his spine, settling white-hot in the back of his head.

He felt her teeth in his shoulder and could not hold back his startled groan. Part of him realized it was loud enough that anyone in the house would surely have heard, and the rest of him could only think about the fact that she was sucking on the raw skin, that it would leave a bruise. It would be covered by his clothing, but it would still _be there._ Like a mark in his flesh, a claiming, telling everyone that he was hers. That she _wanted him_ and _no one else._

And he needed to pull away from her or he worried he might try to take her then and there in a fit of passion. All he would need to do was pull back a bit and angle his hips and he would press right up against her entrance…

“Wait,” he hissed out between his teeth, pulling away and feeling his entire body protest when her fingers slipped from around his sex, when the wetness of her arousal on his cock met cold air instead of warm and silky heat. Still, she surged upwards against him, almost as if she _wanted_ him to take her, and it took every ounce of clarity he still had to remember exactly why he should be pulling away.

Her eyes were hazy and confused. “Maitimo? Did I hurt you? If you do not want me to, I won’t bite again.”

“It is not the bite,” he admitted, rolling her fully onto the mattress and lowering himself onto his side. “I was worried that I would lose control. Forgive me.”

She blinked at him, still dazed, and her hands reached out to trace across his body with a sort of awed joy. “What if I want you to lose control?” she whispered as she leaned up against him, as the tips of her nipples dragged over his bare skin and her lips brushed across his jaw like little moth wings. “What if I want us to join?”

“Not ready. Neither of us is ready,” he gasped out, knowing it was true. She knew not what she asked. “I do not want to hurt you. We have barely even started to prepare your body.”

And there was that confusion that he hated to see. She was so mature otherwise, so independent and forceful, such a brilliant match for his willfulness and strength that he often forgot that she was a product of the culture of Valinórë. That, for all her resourcefulness otherwise, she had never been with anyone sexually before, that she might have been raised thinking strange things about coitus.

“It always hurts the first time,” she said, and he winced.

Maybe he had never been with a virginal woman before, but he knew from Findekáno and Curufinwë that that was not the case. There might be a little pain, a little blood and tightness, but certainly none of that agony and tearing business that was toted about by misguided females, whispers resulting from consummations on wedding nights that really were probably bloody and unpleasant affairs for all parties involved.

And he had seen things in Angamando that left him feeling sick at the idea of causing his own wife that sort of intimate pain besides. Even if he tried to be gentle now (and he doubted that he could be, because she was so much smaller and because his blood was boiling in his veins with the ferocity of his need for her), he did not think he could spare her that sort of unpleasantness. He did not want their first joining to be remembered by blood on her thighs and in their sheets, by tears and the sight of her face contorted in pain as he forced himself into a space that was not stretched or prepared to take him fully.

He had seen enough of that in the Hither Lands. Enough rape that his stomach turned even remembering it.

“Not tonight,” he said firmly, not allowing her to sway him by kissing his neck, by tracing her hand over his flank and across his hip towards his cock.

“But eventually,” she said softly.

“Eventually,” he agreed, for he did not believe he could wait indefinitely. But he did think he could find a way to make the initial joining less painful. More a memorable joining of their bodies and less something to shove into the back of their memories and forget as an ill-begotten first experiment.

He reached out and spread her thighs slightly, driving back her disappointment by teasing her with his touch. They would start out slowly, and then he would not have to endure the gut-wrenching nausea that fluttered in his belly at the thought of hurting her that way.

Instead of allowing her to take all of him at once, he began teasing her opening with his fingers. For a few nights now, he’d been eager to press his tongue into her, to taste her intimately and breathe in the heady scent of her arousal and need. This was different, though. Harsher and deeper than his tongue. Kissing her, he allowed his tongue to delve into her mouth instead, to feel her eager response in the sharpness of her gasps and the clutch of her hand where it rested on his hip. The other curled tightly in his hair, pulling him forward until he leaned over her, until he deepened the connection of their mouths.

It was then that he pressed inwards, allowed his fingertip to breach her, felt her stiffen faintly beneath his body.

Immediately, he noted her tightness about the digit and was torn between a sudden white-hot surge of arousal and the rising tide of nervousness. Because it was tight and hot inside her, velvety soft and rippling as he slid his finger in deeper and brushed against her inner walls, and the thought of having this heat and softness wrapped tightly around his cock made it jump, left sparks bursting near the base of his spine, his balls feeling tight. But it was also _too tight._ This was just one of his fingers, slender and short compared with his sex.

If he tried to fit himself into her now, he thought he’d rip her open. And imagining that was so nauseating that it actually cooled his arousal. That it was only her hand teasing across his thigh so near to his groin that kept him from wilting a bit.

But then she was gasping against his lips, her hips writhing beneath the intrusion. “Maitimo, that feels…”

“Does it hurt?” he asked against her mouth. Because he desperately did _not_ want to hurt her. He wanted nothing more than to make her feel good, to bring her pleasure from his invasion rather than pain.

“I have done this before with one of my fingers,” she admitted, “But never so deep. It is much different.”

He felt a bit better at that. A little more like he would not send pain shooting through her body if he dared to curl his finger and explore. As much as he wanted to kiss her again, he was too busy watching her face as he teased across her inner walls, gauging whether her lips were parting to gasp in pain or pleasure, whether the way her head pressed back, and her neck arched was a sign that his touch was good.

Carefully, he pulled partially out of her, cold air meeting the slickness on his finger. And then he pressed back into her, mimicking the act of lovemaking, feeling hot beneath his skin at the way she gasped and jolted in response beneath his body.

“Good?” he asked, pressing his forehead against hers.

“Yes,” she told him. “Do not stop, Maitimo.”

He pressed onwards, his arousal igniting full-force again when she began to roll her hips to match his rhythm, when she whispered a litany of “do not stop” against his lips. When she let out a cry and her inner muscles squeezed around him as his thumb brushed across her clitoris and circled the swollen bud. She was so beautiful, a dark pink flush spreading across her body as she tossed her head and pushed her hips down to take him to the knuckle.

This should not have been so exciting. He’d rammed himself in and out of enough women to know that having his finger alone in one should not have left him breathless, that the sight of her writhing and twisting in pleasure should not have pushed him to the edge without even being touched. But it was all so different with her, with a woman who had never experienced another man’s touch, with a woman who was in love with him and who he was in love with in return.

Her hands were shaking against his body, but she still was aware enough of his trembling, of the blush across his cheeks and his panting breaths on her face, to realize that he was as aroused as she. And her clumsy touch, the too-tight squeeze of her hand on his cock, sliding without finesse up to his tip and back down to his hilt, should not have made him lose control of his pace between her thighs, should not have had him thrusting his finger into her harder than he had been.

How did she unravel his control so easily?

How did she have him gasping her name, his lungs struggling to suck in enough air to vocalize even that word, the only word he remembered in that moment? How did the sight of her arching up beneath him, of her thighs trembling as he felt her inner walls convulse about his finger, leave him feeling so shattered?

How did her crying out his name, a crisp, ringing exclamation, bring his pleasure to a boiling point? He squeezed his eyes shut and bit his lip on his own cry as he came.

And then they were lying together, both sticky with drying sweat and shattered, and he wished he could make sense of it all. But he was too tired to try to think about it, too busy trying to be gentle as he pulled out of her, too busy trying not to shake as he lowered himself fully onto the bed they shared. Too preoccupied with how her hand, slick with his release, was creeping across his rippling stomach and how her soft lips were teasing at his own.

“Midsummer,” she told him. “I want to be together on the Solstice.”

And he agreed, because he did not think he would be able to wait much longer. They were circling each other now, two bodies drawn by each other’s gravity, prepared to collide and join together. And he would not deny her that.

A few days still. Time to plan. Time to make sure their joining was as perfect for her as it could be.

He could work with that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:
> 
> Amillë (Q) = Mother  
> Atar (Q) = Father  
> Fëanárioni (Q, p) = Sons of Fëanáro  
> Ambarussar (Q, p) = plural form of Ambarussa


	13. Unrequited Love and Harsh Truths

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some people have to accept some harsh truths about their situations and about themselves. Well, some of them just try to pretend that it doesn't exist...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: angst, unrequited love/infatuation, accidental voyeurism, oral sex, mental health issues, allusions to insanity
> 
> And here we more or less finish setting the stage for the Midsummer Festival to begin.
> 
> Maedhros = Maitimo = Nelyafinwë = Nelyo  
> Maglor = Makalaurë = Kanafinwë = Káno  
> Celegorm = Tyelkormo = Turkafinwë = Turko  
> Caranthir = Carnistir = Morifinwë = Moryo  
> Curufin = Atarinkë = Curufinwë = Curvo  
> Amrod = Ambarussa = Pityafinwë = Pityo  
> Amras = Umbarto = Telufinwë = Telvo

Kanafinwë had noticed that Istelindë was more preoccupied with her husband as of late.

And it was… rather surprising. Upsetting.

It had not taken the second brother long to figure out that she and Nelyafinwë were not having sexual relations before. In retrospect, the lack of noises from their bedchambers was obvious and it was only willful denial that kept their secret. No one made love so quietly that there was never any banging or shifting or moaning, especially not two newlyweds in their first month of marriage! Though he had never said anything to the others, Kanafinwë was certain that at least some of them had also come to the same conclusion as had he.

Istelindë and Nelyafinwë were married for reasons other than love.

That would certainly explain the abruptness of the marriage and Nelyafinwë’s unwillingness to explain further. The eldest Fëanárion had not wanted to expand upon his purported liaison with his former fiancée, had gone out of his way to avoid discussing anything to do with the love affair that had resulted in the swift elopement. Kanafinwë suspected that there _had been no love affair at all,_ that this was all some game that Nelyafinwë was playing.

It was hard to tell whether Istelindë had been a willing participant or merely dragged along for the ride. It was hard to trust that Nelyafinwë would not do something underhanded to someone who seemed so sweet and kind.

But she held her own against all seven of the Fëanárioni, and Kanafinwë had come to believe that she knew what she was getting into.

He had come to see that she was strong and fierce, not some weak-willed girl wrangled into a marriage against her will. That she was beautiful inside and out.

Maybe, foolishly, he’d fallen a bit in love with her. With his brother’s wife.

There were the nights in the gardens where her small hands directed his so gently, where her body pressed in against his side, shoulder-to-shoulder, and she was so close that he could smell the faint sea-mist and sweetness of her latent scent. Those were the nights when he wished that he could reach out and touch her hair, locks the color of the foam on the sea, curling and waving in the evening breeze. When he wished he could reach out and touch her smiling lips, soft pink petals that would have been so tender and velveteen against his callused fingertips. When he wished he could stare into the kind understanding of her eyes for eternity and let her sweep away the ocean of sorrow that crushed him down into desolation beneath the weight of his sins and misdeeds and regrets.

She was not for him, and he had known that truth. Regardless of what deals or agreements she might have made with Nelyafinwë in regards to consummation (or lack thereof) of their marriage, she was still his brother’s wife. Her nacreous glory was a pearl in Nelyafinwë’s palms, to be cherished or crushed at his whims, not a gift unto Kanafinwë, who would have held it to his breast and worshipped it to his last breath.

No matter how much her hand against his made his heart stutter, no matter how much the amazement in her eyes when she heard his voice made the drowning grief flow away, he still bit his tongue on the words that begged to slip out in the twilight, holding back. She had to be the first to make a move, had to give him permission, because he could not bear to betray Nelyafinwë in that way and still end up with his heart broken in the end. It was not in him to face such agony when all his life seemed to be nothing but a long ballad of tragic circumstances and fates that led him to an ending barren of happiness.

He spent his nights wondering, though, if her touches meant more. If her kind words and her gasps when he sang were more than those of a sister to her brother in encouragement. If he might do other things to make her gasp and speak his name softly in the twilight.

Foolishness. Utter foolishness.

Because he knew now that she’d never intended to encourage him into something forbidden or adulterous. And he felt both slighted and guilty in the aftermath, even knowing that it had not been her intent to do him any sort of harm, to lead him astray with her actions or her tender, kind-hearted words.

Still, seeing them together hurt. More than it should have.

It had been accidental. By no means had Kanafinwë intended to spy on them. It was that cool time of evening, the time that he usually spent out in the gardens at his sister-in-law’s side, pretending to learn how to weed and plant just to be close enough to hear her breathe, singing winding and half-written wordless tunes just to hear her compliment his voice and urge him on in that sweet way she always did.

He suspected he would find her out with the flowers. For a sea-elf, she seemed to delight much in the growing of plants, in the tending of green things. It was a characteristic that left Kanafinwë feeling oddly hot under his skin, thinking of her hands tending to other things with delight, caressing skin with the same dedicated gentleness.

Tonight, she was definitely tending to other things.

He needed not to even finish stepping out the back door. Upon the first step, his foot froze, because the air was sliced open and left bleeding harshly with the sound of a deep, rattling groan. Though it took a half-second for his eyes to adjust, Kanafinwë wished he could un-see the scene he had stumbled upon. Wished he could forget the strange and somewhat uncomfortable burst of arousal that ignited low in his belly when he saw his brother’s head thrown back against the side of the cabin, lips parted to release that damning noise of pleasure. Wished he could forget the dappling of starlight on their bodies, hiding them enough that the image of Istelindë kneeling at his brother’s feet seemed more worshipful than obscene. Wished that he had turned immediately around and fled into the house before he had a chance to realize that Istelindë’s head was leaning inwards, that her lips were stretched wide around his brother’s cock, that Nelyafinwë’s hand was trembling where it rested entangled with her pale hair.

Spinning on his heel, he left them to their liaison.

But his face was definitely heated when he reentered the house. And why could he not be so lucky as to avoid his younger brothers?

Curufinwë caught him, and the fifth son’s smirk was positively vicious.

“I thought you knew that Nelyafinwë followed her out into the night. If I had known you were unaware, I would have stopped you,” his younger brother purred. Kanafinwë, ever the saint of the family, was more than willing to admit to himself that he wished he could smack that smirk right off his baby brother’s face.

But he did not. He never did such things. Had not the viciousness for them.

“Maybe we should make your honorary amilessë Carnistir as well,” Curufinwë continued to tease, and Kanafinwë got the feeling that the teasing was more malicious than it ought to have been. “Surely they could not have been doing anything too terrible out there.”

He did not want to say it, especially not to Curufinwë, who had the air about him as someone who knew something no one else did. Suddenly, Kanafinwë found himself shuddering, thinking back to the evenings spent with Istelindë in the gardens, trying to remember if he had seen Curufinwë in the shadows or peeking out the windows. Trying to figure out how his little brother could have known of his unfortunate infatuation with his own sister-in-law and what he would have to say or do to make certain that Nelyafinwë _never_ found out.

“They were… that is to say, she was…” He could not even choke out the words _“sucking his cock”_ because they sounded so crude and unpleasant in reference to a woman he always imagined to be virtuous and perhaps more perfectly innocent than she was in reality. “What does it matter anyway? They are married. If I had known they were looking for privacy, I would never have intruded.”

He brushed past his brother and almost made it to the door before Curufinwë’s voice halted him in his tracks.

“It is for the best that you saw it. It is easier to believe. To accept.”

 _Damn him,_ Kanafinwë thought, grinding his teeth. The ache beneath his ribs was overshadowed by the sudden onslaught of fury, a sharp spear of anger that threatened to burst out of his chest. It did not matter that Curufinwë was right (in fact, that only made it worse) or that none of this should have bothered him so much in the first place. All that mattered was that Curufinwë knew he was in pain and was _mocking him,_ poking and pinching at him as if begging for his façade of tranquility and acceptance to crack and shatter into a million little pieces and reveal the ugly truth beneath.

“I do not know of what you speak,” he ground out, refusing to rise to the bait.

“Oh, I think you do.” Curufinwë stood then, approached him from behind, and in the darkest days of Exile he might have suspected his brother planned to murder him, to slit his throat from behind or stab a blade straight through his chest, pinning him to the door like a helpless, flailing insect.

“I think you thought Istelindë might not fancy her new husband, might prefer someone of a prettier, more wholesome make,” Curufinwë continued, sidling up to lean just inches from Kanafinwë’s back, mouth tickling at his older brother’s ear. “It is alright. I thought that that might be the case, too, at first. Until now, they certainly had not been showing signs of being interested in making their marriage a true one.”

“And why should that bother me?” Kanafinwë snapped, turning in place and trying not to think of how Curufinwë was ever so slightly taller and well-built in a way he was not, how the face that was half-cast in evening shadows was all too much like to their father’s, all fey and grinning with silver-white eyes through the darkness. “Speak not such slander.”

And Curufinwë was as undaunted as their sire had ever been. “Do not bother lying to me, Kanafinwë. I could see it right from the start. For a while, I almost thought she might choose you over him after all, that he might let her.”

Kanafinwë did not want to talk about it, did not want to discuss it. He just wanted to sweep it under the rug and pretend it had never happened at all. “I was a fool to presume.”

“Maybe,” his younger brother agreed, “And maybe not.”

Whatever the hell that meant. Not that it mattered.

“Just… just let it go, Curvo,” he begged, feeling as though he’d not only been kicked in the gut by _seeing,_ in the most visceral way, the truth of Istelindë’s feelings for his older sibling, but also like he was lowering himself to licking at Curufinwë’s boots to try and keep his brother quiet about the whole mess. Like a dog, something without pride, surrendering and yielding. “I saw what I needed to see, and now I just…”

_I just want to forget about it. It was all a dream. A pleasant, stupid daydream that I should never have indulged in._

And he could see the moment that Curufinwë decided to let it lie. Kanafinwë knew his little brother well enough to know that Curufinwë was dangerous, that information like this in the hands of one so ruthless could lead to much misery and discomfort. He had observed his baby brother play with people before, holding secrets over their heads and toying with them until they shuddered and winced back at his very sight, and he suspected that Curufinwë was not above playing with _him_ that way should he get bored.

But Curufinwë took mercy on him, at least for now. It was so un-Fëanáro-like that Kanafinwë felt suddenly a small bit ashamed of how little faith he had in his siblings. Even though he was well aware of the fact that his distrust was warranted.

Why could he not have been born stouter of heart?

But Kanafinwë had been born with the heart of an artist, gentle and shying away from conflict. It was as though he had inherited his father’s creative skill but none of the man’s fire, had retained the charisma but gone without the strength needed to act as its foundation. Always, he had been adrift in life, following in the wake of his brothers, not strong enough to oppose any one of them when it truly mattered.

And he was not strong enough to fight for Istelindë, even if he thought he had a chance to sway her mind. Even if she had not been wed to his elder brother already.

Shame jockeyed for position along with resentment and fear.

“At least you know,” his younger brother finally said, and Kanafinwë was a little surprised to hear fatigue in that voice along with a touch of strain. Like their father, Curufinwë’s arrogance and confidence never seemed to waver or falter. So, for him to show even the tiniest droplet of weakness before another’s eyes, he must be very exhausted and stressed. Either that, or he was trying to establish some sort of camaraderie between them, and Kanafinwë doubted that that was the case. It seemed out of character for his vicious baby brother.

“I need to go,” Kanafinwë finally choked out. And it was true, that his skin itched with the need to be out of that house, away from that garden. He doubted he would be able to return there without remembering the sound of his brother’s pleasure echoing in his ears, without thinking of how her hands were around Nelyafinwë’s cock and her mouth wrapped around its tip.

That she had very clearly chosen her husband over his younger brother.

But he did not want to be bitter. He did not like that his mind whispered traitorously of how she should want him more because his body was whole and not lined with scars of torture, how she should desire him for his gentle disposition and his skills with a harp and with his golden voice over Nelyafinwë’s ragged vocals and difficult temperament. He was all the things that the women of Valinórë found attractive in a mate, more so than any one of his brothers, and most especially more so than the eldest and most ruined of the whole lot.

Yet, she wanted Nelyafinwë.

 _She married him,_ Kanafinwë reminded himself, desperately attempting to justify her strange desires within the confines of his own mind. Trying, also, to think of anything but that, by now, Nelyafinwë had almost certainly been brought to his peak by the soft, weak heat of her mouth. It made the younger brother’s stomach churn slightly, wondering whether his brother had spent himself upon her tongue or upon her…

_Do not think about it. Do not think about them._

_Do not think about_ her.

It was all folly in the end. A stupid, self-centered daydream that he should never have allowed to root in his mind. A ridiculous fantasy that should never have been allowed to propagate out of control within his heart.

He would be happy for them. _He would be._ That was the right course of action. The correct course of action. That was what the old Kanafinwë would have done.

Smile and ignore the slicing, white-hot pain of rejection, of loneliness, of inadequacy. He had been doing it for centuries. Nay, all his long life. The ill-fitting, soft-tempered disappointment of a second son with his mother’s gentle temperament and a lack of stubborn iron in his pitiful, cowardly spine, overlooked, underestimated and dismissed.

Still pitiful and still meek he remained even after all these long years. He might as well continue with the sad little charade through the burning, heavy pang of each heartbeat beneath his aching ribs, against his constricted lungs.

Smile. And pretend nothing was wrong.

\---

“Is it not usually the job of the older brother to care for the younger, not the other way around?”

Curufinwë was not so surprised to hear that voice near, though he had heard not its owner slip into the house. Above all else, Turkafinwë was an excellent hunter and tracker, impossible to spot if he wished not to be found or hear if he wished not to be heard. The third brother was a master at silently stalking, be it prey of the animal variety or something more sinister. Though, in this particular case, Curufinwë suspected his older brother had simply wanted to avoid interrupting a private moment. A surprising bit of thoughtfulness coming from a man who had once created chaos and ruined lives for fun and sport to combat his boredom.

“We cannot all be bound by useless, insipid societal laws,” Curufinwë replied blandly, not even flinching when he found his silver-haired sibling standing less than a foot away from his unguarded back. “He needed to discover the truth of the matter. Or there would have been an _incident.”_

“You used to love those sorts of incidents,” Turkafinwë commented, his grin never fading as he made himself comfortable in a chair before the fire. “At least your method of delivery has not become as soft as your motivations, hanno.”

Curufinwë had been deliberately cruel, not warning Kanafinwë of the couple all but fornicating just outside the back door. It would have been a more delicate and discrete affair to simply tell his older brother that Nelyafinwë and Istelindë were having _private moments_ out in the garden like the lovestruck newfound couple they had suddenly become. Then Kanafinwë would not have had to see her, the woman of whom he was so fond, enthusiastically sucking the cock of his older brother.

But the visceral sight sent a stronger message, more so than anything Curufinwë could have conjured up with words.

_Back off. Nelyafinwë has won._

Truthfully, Curufinwë thought his actions were the most humane way of disillusioning his older brother. Oh, he could have merely _told_ Kanafinwë, just _said it aloud_ , and his brother would not have _believed it._ Through this crueler method, not only was Kanafinwë unable to deny that Istelindë was very much interested in fucking her own husband (imagine that), but, to add insult to injury, the sanctuary of the garden that he had come to associate with the air of a lover’s rendezvous with his beloved would now be spoiled permanently. There might still be quiet friendship, but Curufinwë doubted Kanafinwë would dare to sidle in close to Istelindë now, most especially not in the sullied dark and shattered nightsong of the garden in the evening. Their shared moments beneath the stars with the flowers and the breezes and the soft tunes of Kanafinwë’s golden voice were tainted forever with the sound of Nelyafinwë groaning in pleasure beneath Istelindë’s mouth.

It might not have been gentle, but, in Curufinwë’s mind, it was far from malicious. If anything, his cruelty was a blessing, if a cold one. He did things that others balked at out of mistaken sense of propriety or pity, out of some misbegotten notion of _kindness._

It had always been that way. Even if Turkafinwë was too blind to see it. Curufinwë learned his lessons well. Protect his family. Even at the cost of propriety and morality. Even at the cost of their temporary happiness. Do the things that were difficult because they had to be done, and make it hurt so that the lessons could not be forgotten.

He asked no forgiveness. Did not deserve any. Did not _want_ any. Not for this.

“Kanafinwë will not be heartbroken long,” he said dismissively, settling himself down with his brother by the fire, hoping for a few moments of peace before Nelyafinwë and his bride found their way upstairs and started their nightly half-muffled noise-making. “Out of the bunch of us, he has the greatest chance of actually finding a woman and building a family. Pretty boy, sweet-natured, golden-voiced Makalaurë.”

“You think so?” Turkafinwë asked. “He _is_ the type to wallow.”

But Curufinwë scoffed. “Istelindë is an exceptional woman, but hardly the _only_ exceptional woman around.” Curufinwë knew that well, for he could think of another woman he considered exceptional, more so than Nelyafinwë’s wife could ever hope to be in the privacy of his mind’s eye. “Kanafinwë will see another pretty little songbird and get distracted away from his current fixation, especially now that he knows she has her eye on another prize. In this case, one girl is pretty much the same as the next, and she will be replaced.”

“Cold,” Turkafinwë commented, sounding neither approving nor disapproving of Curufinwë’s heartlessness. “I suppose you are correct. Some other girl might catch his eye during the Midsummer festivities. Or he will catch hers. A pretty face goes a long way.”

Curufinwë knew exactly how far a pretty face could go. It could get a man into a woman’s bed. It could _not_ always get a man under a woman’s skin.

But Kanafinwë had the advantage of a soft disposition as well. Curufinwë had had his father’s stunning features and clever silver-tongued mouth, but he had been (still was) a vindictive, short-tempered and cruel man. That even one woman had found something within him worth cherishing, had deemed him worthy of becoming her companion for the rest of their eternal lives, had been miraculous enough. Now that he had gone and ruined his marriage and his happiness, he doubted there was another miracle out there waiting for him.

But for Kanafinwë? He could picture it.

If it had been not Turkafinwë sitting across from him but another, more compassionate soul, he might have said, _“I just do not want him to destroy himself over a lost cause. He has a real chance at happiness in the future.”_ But the third brother would have mocked him for his kindness hidden under the guise of cruel teasing and harsh truths. Turkafinwë was not heartless, but he was certainly not kind.

“Are you not eager to try your hand at wooing?” he asked instead.

And earned a dark look for his troubles. A strange lack of a smile. “You and I both know that that did not go well the last time.”

“I did not realize we were counting that business with _her.”_

Her, of course, being Tinúviel.

The most beautiful mortal woman to ever walk the earth, or so the stories went. Beautiful in face and form she might have been, Curufinwë could not deny, for she had been beyond breathtaking. Midnight hair to put the prettiest Noldorin maiden to shame, moonlit skin that glowed with unearthly light of the divine, twilight eyes that glimmered with a thousand stars twinkling in the blanket of night. Had he not been tied to a woman already, and quite contentedly so, Curufinwë could have seen the appeal in her full, rosy lips and her heart-shaped, comely face, perfect to an almost painful degree.

But she had not been so pretty on the inside. Spoiled rotten little brat. For all her great beauty sung into lore, Curufinwë could see only a girl who took whatever she desired and thought of none other but herself, ugly and blind.

He had been under the impression that his brother had wanted to bed her (most men did) and saw her as a tool to get them status and power within Doriath and little else beyond that. The husband of Elu Thingol’s daughter would have been second only to the King in authority, after all, and such power was not to be underestimated in times of war. Curufinwë had not believed there was anything more to it than that, however.

Had he been mistaken?

It would have been most unusual. Turkafinwë was not one to be ruled by lust of that sort. Curufinwë’s older brother had spent many months holed up in the Woods of Oromë and the Gardens of Vána, gallivanting about with the resident pair of Valar and their many Maiarin servants. Surely, the maidens who served Vána, of the Ainur in their own right, could have easily outstripped Tinúviel, a half-mortal, for beauty and grace. Compared with those women, women who may have been eager to grant Turkafinwë access to their bodies, freely given for enjoyment of both parties as oft gifts of the Ainur were, what was Tinúviel but an average woman, a little girl running away from home to spite her parents?

“I liked her spirit,” Turkafinwë told him nonchalantly, though his eyes belied his indifference. Kept secrets. “It was a shame how she ended. Truly, she had potential.”

 _Only if one desires an untamed, wild and selfish wife,_ Curufinwë could not help but think scornfully. While he, himself, favored a woman with at least a modicum of intelligence and independence, neither insipid nor clinging, he doubted he could have handled someone as uncontrollable as Lúthien Tinúviel. The woman had run off with a mortal against her father’s wishes and had put herself into all sorts of harm’s way, never mind how terrified her mother and father must have been. Throwing herself into danger, she had so very narrowly escaped the death that should rightly have been doled out upon her and her mortal vagabond of a lover, and only because Huan had sacrificed himself in their stead.

And, of course, their “great” love story was sung into legend. It curdled like sour milk in Curufinwë’s belly.

“I heard she did not pass on like mortals do, despite the tales that speak otherwise,” Turkafinwë continued. “I suppose the Valar are not as forgiving and generous as the stories portray.”

_We already knew that. They cursed us, after all._

Feeling a growing dislike for the direction this conversation had taken, Curufinwë let his disgust show on his face. “Oh yes, because all one must do to earn the favor of a vala is spurn the devotion of their friends, lie to their parents, run away from home, gallivant about unsupervised with a handful of men, sing and dance before a dark lord and almost get eaten by a werewolf on their merry way home. And then lie down and die pitifully over _love._ Truly, even _you_ could do better than to choose a woman such as _that.”_

Silvery eyes glanced at him, a brow raising tauntingly. “My, my, someone is bitter.” And then Turkafinwë gave him that smile that never failed to send shivers down his spine. And not the good kind, of camaraderie and shared excitement over some new, sadistic pursuit. More the “I think he might murder me in my sleep for fun” kind.

“That is rather funny, coming from a man who is so afraid to speak to his own wife that he lives up in the mountains, holding onto his older brother’s apron strings.”

Such words had all the weight of a punch straight to the solar plexus. And Turkafinwë _knew_ that. Never had Curufinwë wanted to punch his brother in the face so badly as he did in that moment. The tongue-lashing smarted fiercely, biting into his skin worse than any blade or set of fangs. It was Turkafinwë’s specialty, burrowing under the skin like a parasite and gnawing holes in the tender flesh. Finding the sensitive spots, the chinks in the armor, and making his blows hurt to their maximum potential.

Abruptly, Curufinwë stood, suddenly wanting nothing more than to be alone and far away from the silver-haired fiend. “I am going to bed.”

“Of course,” Turkafinwë purred, and Curufinwë tried desperately not to react to the insinuation of that tone, to the wicked gleam of amusement that was alight and hellishly diabolical in those eyes. He should not have brought up Tinúviel, should not have picked at his brother’s scabbed-up wound. It had just been asking for Turkafinwë to react in kind. And, for all that some might label Curufinwë the most ruthless of the seven Fëanárioni, he knew the truth of the matter.

Turkafinwë Tyelkormo was by far the cruelest. A wild tempest over the sea, screaming and bashing against the shore in violence. Beautiful from a distance and deadly up close. Too wild and too wicked to ever be tamed, to ever be gentled and loved.

It would be truly miraculous if ever a woman could manage to love that monster.

And Curufinwë hated the fondness that rose in his chest, combatting the bitterness of rage on the back of his tongue, as he walked out into the night. Fondness for that cold, incisive blade of a grin gleaming in the firelight. Reflecting back swords bathed in red and words spoken long ago. Words that should never have been spoken foreshadowing deeds that never should have been done. Bloodshed and violence and malice and vindictive fury. Everything that the third brother was and everything that Curufinwë should despise with all his being.

Being around Turkafinwë hurt in all the worst ways imaginable. No weakness left untested. No untended wound escaping a thorough rubbing with salt. No unspoken rending of the heart left unmolested.

And yet, though he stung at this moment with the blow of that same ruthlessness, he knew that would not have had his dear brother any other way.

\---

Listening through the crack in the door, Istelindë felt her heart sink a bit. She looked up at her husband, catching his silvery eyes, and felt embarrassed and ashamed all at once that she’d given Makalaurë the idea that she might have been interested in pursuing a romantic affair with him, never even thinking about how her actions might be interpreted by outside eyes.

Back in Tirion, she’d thought perhaps Maitimo was overreacting. But, to hear that Makalaurë had read the signs as an invitation as well, that Curufinwë and Turkafinwë had seen it all and thought she was searching for a nicer specimen than her husband to bed, it made her look back on all the hand-holding and compliments and cringe. It was no wonder that Maitimo had believed she fancied Makalaurë. No wonder that he’d become distant to protect himself from what he had viewed as inevitable rejection.

“I never meant…” she began to say. But his finger on her lips halted the words.

“What is done is done,” he told her. “I asked you to tell me truthfully whether you favored Kanafinwë, and you told me you did not. I have no reason to doubt your words. And, as much as I dislike seeing Káno upset…” He paused, averting his gaze. “As much as I would like for him to be happy, I am glad that you chose me instead.”

 _“There was never a choice,”_ she wanted to say, _“It was always you.”_ But she doubted he would believe her.

Instead of allowing herself to mope, she squared her shoulders. “We will just have to find a woman for Makalaurë. As Tyelkormo pointed out, plenty of girls will go for a pretty face. And, with a voice like his, I am certain he will attract attention at the Festival.”

The smile Maitimo gave her was fond, almost teasing. “Sometimes, I find your enthusiasm to be frightening, Istelindë.”

 _Well,_ she thought stubbornly, _someone must be optimistic. All of you are too busy muddling around in pity, holding on to your flimsy little shields of arrogance and disdain._

_Someone must look out for you when none of you will look out for yourselves._

“I am afraid you lot are stuck with me now,” she said, giggling softly and pecking his lips with her own, “Enthusiasm and all. Now, let us go inside and pretend we were not eavesdropping on Tyelkormo picking on everyone and pouting about Lúthien Tinúviel turning him down in favor of a human mongrel.”

Maitimo shook his head and rolled his eyes, but she could tell that his exasperation was feigned. “Do not let him hear you say such things. You might become his next target.”

The words sounded playful, but there was a hint of seriousness beneath.

 _You do not fully understand what you deal with,_ they warned.

 _Well,_ she wanted to refute, _maybe Tyelkormo does not fully understand what he would be dealing with either._

She would find a woman who could put that silver-haired monster in his place if it was the last thing she did. Even if she had to hunt down Lúthien Tinúviel herself and lock them up together in a closet until they… ah… 

Well, hopefully she did not need to resort to Tinúviel. There were other women out there with whom Tyelkormo did not already have a sordid and contentious past. Just not so many who could catch the third brother’s eye with their wild ways. But, surely, there were qualities that he liked in a woman beyond an adventurous streak and a tendency to get involved in all manner of trouble?

 _This might be more difficult than dressing him up nice and parading him about,_ she could not help but think with a frown. No mere pretty girl would be able to stand being in Tyelkormo’s presence for more than a few minutes. He’d be nitpicking their clothes and mocking their feelings within moments of the introductions. They’d be running away in tears before he could even be forced to offer them a dance. The last thing Istelindë wanted to do was explain to a bunch of lords why their daughters were overwrought and weeping.

And it was not as though she could just ask him to behave. Asking Tyelkormo to behave was like asking the winter to be warm or asking the rain to not fall. It just went on doing what it was doing as though no words had even been spoken in the first place.

The frown that slowly formed on the bow of her lips must have given away her less-than-optimistic ponderings, for Maitimo leaned down and distracted her with a quick kiss. His scent, a hint of sweat and sex mixed in with his natural spice, pulled her in again (stoked the sparks of arousal in her belly that had been fading after their encounter but which now were rapidly being revived) and she could not help but imagine the softness of his lips in many less innocuous places. They had only just mutually decided not to lose any clothing while out in the yard, but she was beginning to second-guess that decision as she grew light-headed, her brain filling with fog. She would be happy to lose half her clothing in the grass if he would put his mouth a little farther down, especially on her sensitive, perked—

He pulled away with a soft laugh, cutting her fantasies short, breath warm on her cheek. “Look not so serious, meldanya. I am certain you will come up with a plan, but it need not happen immediately. We have a few days yet.”

“I just want them all to be happy. Like us. Like you,” she whispered back, still feeling dazed and a bit hot beneath her light summer gown.

Maitimo let out a thoughtful hum, and she suddenly had the realization that he may not have as much faith as she that his brothers could obtain that kind of companionship and happiness. Part of her wanted to insist vehemently, because she was coming to appreciate and care for his brothers as though they were her own, and she had faith in them. While perhaps marriage was an ambitious goal, she _did_ at least desire to see them come closer together as a family and begin to heal from the past. But the rest of her realized that all her new brothers (and her husband) shared this sense of pessimism about whether they could (or even deserved to) have a second chance after their rebirth. Carefully, she ran a hand down her husband’s chest, then back up, feeling puckered scars through the layers of his clothes as she moved her hand to curl through the curly hair resting heavy upon his shoulders, finally coming to rest at the back of his neck. Beneath her touch, he shivered and sighed.

“You _are_ happy… are you not?” Gently, she stroked her other hand across the sharpness of his cheekbone, her thumb tracing beneath his eye, then circling down to follow the contour of his parted lips. “Maitimo?”

“I am… Of course, I am,” he answered, though his smile was hesitant, his brows furrowed. In those eyes, she could see the faint darkening of their silver glow, shadows hovering just out of sight, and, beneath her hand, she felt his jaw tense and relax. A woman who knew him not so well might have seen that diffidence and interpreted it as discontent with their coupling, but Istelindë knew better than that. She still had work to do in convincing him he _did_ deserve to be happy with her, that she _wanted_ him to be happy with her, that it was even _alright_ for him to be happy when he still carried the weight of his crimes in the invisible bloodstains on his hands. 

Quickly, though, he hid his doubt from her eyes, leaning in to brush back her hair from her ear, tracing his lips along the shell. “You are so much better than I deserve. You have spoiled me for any other, meldanya. Let me show you my appreciation…”

It was a distraction, plain and simple, but she knew that she could not expect to make too much progress all at once. A little bit at a time, she would break down his barriers at a pace that did not send him reeling back in alarm. Until then, she would (quite happily) go along with his seduction. They _had_ decided to wait until they reached their bedchambers later tonight to continue, she recalled once again, but Maitimo’s mouth trailing down to plant little suckling kisses in the hollow beneath her ear, teasing slowly down her throat, interspersed with little nips of his teeth that barely pinched her skin but sent little shocks of warmth down her back to her core. And she felt herself giving in to her passion just as quickly as mere minutes before. Hang not losing clothing in the garden.

As he nibbled at her collarbone, she felt nimble fingers plucking at her gown, tugging it down over one shoulder, and she helplessly released a long sigh and let her head lean back against the door. The heat of his mouth brushed lower… then lower…

“Mmm… Maitimo,” she moaned softly, feeling his mouth close over a nipple through her gown. Logically, she knew they should stop, or she would have to sneak through the house to change to avoid her dress clinging in inappropriate places, but the way he tongued at the hard, little nub and then pulled it deep into his mouth did wonders at convincing her to forget all about such practical concerns.

Her hands fell to rest on his shoulders, her knees suddenly feeling weak as he pulled back and blew cool air across the damp fabric. Gooseflesh spread down her body, and she felt a throb between her legs. It was a good thing she was caught between the hard planes of his body and the heavy wooden door, or she would have slid down into a limp puddle on the ground.

“Aiya, Maitimo,” she repeated, eyes fighting against the need to flutter shut. “Should we… Should we continue here…?”

Looking up at her, he offered her a grin (shockingly boyish and light) and pressed a kiss to the nipple poking insistently against the fabric of her gown. “I wish to return your favor, vessenya. Lend me your assistance?”

With his left hand, he pulled the hem of her skirts upwards. Feeling heat flood her cheeks, she grasped the fabric and lifted of her own accord, higher and higher, until the cool night air washed up across her thighs. Yet, she still managed to look at his face despite the shyness that made her wish to avert her eyes.

And, of course, he was flushed and looking so very beautiful. With another quick peck against her lips, he sank to his knees. Within moments, she felt her undergarments being tugged down and down, until they tangled at her ankles and she delicately lifted each foot so that they could be pulled free and set aside on the steps. And she could have sworn that she was going to very literally melt at that moment for the heat in her face and her belly, for the slick wetness that she felt against the insides of her thighs meeting the cold air as he hooked a knee over one of his shoulders and leaned in.

Closing her eyes, she bit her lip against the cry that rose in the back of her throat with the first brush of his lips across her sex.

Returning her favor indeed.

\---

Letting out a sigh of disgust, Turkafinwë eyed the back door, still cracked open just a hair, and wondered if his brother and sister realized that anyone in the house could have heard them going on pressed up against the wood as they were. Had it been anyone else, he would not have cared—Turkafinwë had both accidently and purposefully interrupted plenty of liaisons leading to a variety of mortifying and entertaining situations as a result—but there was something about knowing that it was Nelyafinwë and Istelindë making those faint whines and groans that left him feeling a touch put off.

Of course, he had noticed how his oldest sibling had subtly begun to change beneath the loving and caring of Istelindë, and it was impossible to miss how close they had become. Going away to Tirion and coming back clinging, holding hands and finally making use of their bedchambers as husband and wife.

Ever had Nelyafinwë been plagued with a sense of unease, of shame and of failure, compounded tenfold after Angamando and all that had happened there that his older brother had never spoken of nor shared with a soul. Not his brothers, not Findekáno. It was a weakness that Turkafinwë had never dared exploit all those years ago, suspecting that Nelyafinwë teetered unpleasantly close to the edge of madness, and, though much time had passed and fey passions cooled, he dared not touch upon it now. Yet, since Istelindë had come into their lives, and even more so in the past few days as they seemed to acknowledge their mutual feelings and grow into their marriage, that same unease was slowly dissipating. Calmed and soothed away.

Part of Turkafinwë was… perhaps jealous.

Not of Nelyafinwë’s claim on Istelindë, not like Kanafinwë’s ill-begotten infatuation with the first woman to hold his hand since their young years of innocence. But Turkafinwë had always known that, of all his siblings, Nelyafinwë was the other who had struggled the most with their shared curse of fey blood, of the lust for the kill, of the rising darkness of the spirit. Even now, it never quite went away, that thirst to do harm to others if only to keep from thinking about… everything else.

Perhaps, as an outsider, he was blind to the truth. Perhaps his brother still felt it every bit as potently and irrefutably as Turkafinwë. But, lately, Nelyafinwë had been _smiling._ Not the hollow, almost vicious smiles of a man smelling blood in the water, or the self-disdaining wry smiles of a man who hated every inch of his being.

Full, wide smiles. _Real_ smiles. Whenever he held Istelindë’s hand squeezed tightly with his left, whenever he leaned against the doorway and fondly watched her at bustling about work, whenever she leaned over and rested her head against his shoulder in the evening by the fire. And then he would lean down and press a quick kiss to her temple or forehead or nose, sneaking the displays of affection like a child sneaking sweets before dinner. Light-hearted and saccharine-sweet as a young, untroubled couple in love, no other cares in the world.

Ever since Istelindë had joined them, Nelyafinwë seemed so… at peace.

Another round of sounds came from outside. A soft squeal, and an answering half-muffled chuckle that quickly dissolved into a groan.

Well, having sexual intercourse often probably helped as well. Turkafinwë would not have minded having some nonjudgmental, friendly female companionship either. It _had_ been quite some time. Perhaps the party would be useful for something after all, if it only turned out to be a good time to satisfy his base urges.

As it was, he decided he, like Curufinwë, would be spending the night outside as well. Not that he minded overmuch, for it was both cool with the onset of night and quiet so far up in the mountains. Sleeping beneath the stars always brought peace to his otherwise restless spirit.

Even if, in secret, perhaps a small part of him felt sorrow that this was all he would ever have as solace. The sweet night-sounds of the woods and the open dome of the heavens.

He bricked that away behind the scorn. Where it belonged. Out of sight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:
> 
> Fëanárioni (Q, p) = Sons of Fëanáro  
> amilessë (Q) = mother-name  
> hanno (Q) = brother, informal  
> Ainur (Q, p) = angelic beings  
> meldanya (Q) = my dear/beloved  
> Aiya (Q) = O (exclamation)  
> vessenya (Q) = my wife


	14. In The Calm Before the Storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tension has been building between them... and not just unresolved sexual tension. Some other stuff gets resolved, and everyone arrives at the party... So far, things are going okay... or not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: talking about murder, insanity, psychopathy, dealing with grief in unhealthy ways, suicidal ideology, description of successful suicide, dysfunctional family interactions, tiny bit of flashbacks and PTSD
> 
> Here we begin the morning of the Midsummer Festival. Istelindë gets a full disclosure on Maitimo's past, and then the fun begins.
> 
> Maedhros = Maitimo = Nelyafinwë = Nelyo  
> Maglor = Makalaurë = Kanafinwë = Káno  
> Celegorm = Tyelkormo = Turkafinwë = Turko  
> Caranthir = Carnistir = Morifinwë = Moryo  
> Curufin = Atarinkë = Curufinwë = Curvo  
> Amrod = Ambarussa = Pityafinwë = Pityo  
> Amras = Umbarto = Telufinwë = Telvo  
> Mandos = Námo  
> Fingolfin = Nolofinwë  
> Turgon = Turukáno  
> Fingon = Findekáno  
> Finrod = Artafindë  
> Finarfin = Arafinwë

There was sunlight peeking in through the curtains.

Like she did every morning, Istelindë felt her consciousness rising to the surface, her body arching into a languid stretch as she blinked against the golden light flashing across her face. At her back was the warm, solid form of her husband, and her stirring within the gentle embrace of his arms had him letting out a sigh and shifting beneath their sheets.

Against the nape of her neck, she felt first the warmth of his breath and then the tender kiss of his lips. “Good morning, vessenya,” Maitimo purred against her skin, his voice low and rumbling through his chest, pressed flush against her back. It left her breathless.

Rolling over, Istelindë cuddled in close, meeting his mouth in a chaste kiss. “Good morning, vennonya.”

Perhaps they should have been getting up immediately, but Istelindë did not mind spending a few extra long minutes abed, exchanging swiftly-deepening kisses. Instinctively, she curled her fingers into the mess of his unbound russet curls, and she moaned against him at the feeling of his hand sliding down her side and over the curve of her hip in a trail of fire. The heat was stirring deep in her belly, low and scalding, and she couldn’t help but think…

Maitimo had promised her tonight. The night of the Summer Solstice.

They would be together as husband and wife.

But it was only the morning, and there was work to be done. Brothers to wrangle into submission and husbands to coax out of reclusion. Their mouths parted with deep sighs and panting breaths, gentle puffs across her skin, leaving her lips tingling. “I suppose we should arise,” Maitimo murmured, staring up at her as she pushed herself up into sitting position. “Are you sure… that we should do this?”

For a long second, she thought he was talking about… later that night… but then her mind caught up. “Maitimo,” she said softly, “I think that nothing will ever change if we do nothing but hide away. I hate seeing you miserable and your—our—brothers miserable. I know that I have been hinting about trying to get your brothers married, but I really hope more for the beginning of reconciliation between you and your family. I just… I want others to see what I see. That you are not the monsters the stories ruthlessly make you out to be.”

Slowly, he pushed himself up to rest against the headboard. “Has it ever occurred to you that, perhaps, sometimes we _are_ the monsters they make us out to be?”

His eyes were brighter than any star in that moment but filled with such grief and shame that her breath was caught in a net of heartache, tugged away from her as fish were tugged from the sea by the fishermen of her people, left to suffocate on the air. That doubt that she so often glimpsed, just a hint, stole back into his expression and left it a shade too pale and too tired, stretched and resigned, frowning at the corners of his lips. She hated to see him so distraught, even if his grief was half-hidden beneath half-hearted attempts at stoicism, and she wished she could sweep in all away, paint the color back into his cheeks beneath the stark darkness of his freckles on white skin. But it was clear that this topic had been on his mind this whole time, sitting on the tip of his tongue, that he had wanted to say it but hesitated to bring it forth, knowing that it would sadden Istelindë for all that it was heavy with truth.

“Yet, you have been nothing but kind and caring towards me,” she contradicted, reaching out to grasp his hand and squeeze it tight, her soft palm to his smooth, hard scars and rough calluses. “I do not believe that you or any one of your brothers are irredeemable, uncontrollable, bloodthirsty monsters waiting for the opportune moment to strike while my back is turned, Maitimo. Do I think that you and your brothers are capable of doing terrible things…? Yes, I know it to be so. But I do not believe that that is who you are, or who they are.”

“You have such faith in us,” Maitimo said, voice low and soft. “It will not be easy, attempting reconciliation. We attempted it once before, and it got us naught but more grief and more isolation.”

“Maybe things were too raw, then,” she pointed out, leaning in to rest her weight against his chest in comfort. Her hand slid down to halt over his pectoral, his heart pounding against her palm, steady and strong. “Maybe it is time to try again. Here, in Valinórë, where there is peace, where angry spirits can be soothed and bitter hearts sweetened. You have been through enough, you have faced death and you have been reborn by the grace of the Valar. _Let_ yourself have that peace. In your life. In your heart and in your mind.”

“We do not _deserve_ it,” he husked out, breath rustling her hair, voice taut and strained, pulled tight with stubbornness, with what she had come to recognize as hatred. Of himself.

“Maybe it is not about _deserving,”_ she answered. “But, truly, can you honestly tell me that everything you did, you _truly_ did out of malice and greed? Out of lust for a handful of glowing rocks and the need to have Moringotto’s head cut loose at your feet? Is that really why you went to war, why you followed your father into folly, why you continued on your fell quest long after he died?”

She pulled back, looking up at his face, now whiter than spilt milk. Seeing the way his teeth cruelly sliced against his lower lip, the way his eyes looked down to avoid her gaze, the little dent that formed between his brows as they furrowed as if in pain. “Of course, it was not for malice or greed.”

As much as she wished this conversation could wait, that she could spare him the pain of dredging up his heartache and his shame, she knew there was no putting it aside now. Not unless they wanted it to spill over and taint their first night together as husband and wife in truth. The very last thing she wanted was for him to feel unwanted or unworthy when all she wished for was for him to feel the same pleasure and bliss that she felt at his side.

If they needed to fight their way through this demon, she hoped they could do it while the morning sunlight glistened upon the crowns of their heads. Safe here, at home in their bed, beyond the reach of prying eyes and ears. In their little sanctuary, together.

Sucking in a deep breath, she forged ahead into dangerous territory.

“Then why? Why did you do it?” Gently, she lifted his chin, traced the sharpness of his jawline and the nicks where his skin had been ruptured and healed back together again. Her regard pulled his eyes up to meet her own as her fingers moved to caress his cheek tenderly. “Maitimo, why did you do such things? Tell me.”

“At first, it was because Atar ordered it. He had this way about him, this charisma, that could never be resisted nor denied, pulling all around him in—into his lies and schemes. And I was a coward and followed blindly to my bitter fate like a fool. And then, later, once he was gone, I was all my brothers had left…” She could see the helpless gathering of tears, closer to the surface than ever she had seen, held back but still audible in the strained shake of his voice, still tangible in the way he trembled beneath her touch. “I wanted to die, after Angamando. I wanted to be finished. I would not have cared if I was damned, if I ceased to exist entirely. I just wanted the suffering to be over. But I did not want such a fate for my brothers, who I had cared for and loved like my own all my life. It was the only thing that made me arise from my damned sickbed and keep going. Even that, though, was tainted in the end. Even that was forgotten somewhere along the way…”

“Maitimo?” As he spoke, his voice rattled more and more, deepening and thickening, until he could no longer hold back the tears. And she longed to soothe his clearly-troubled spirit in any way she could. “Hush, my Prince, take your time and rest your spirit if you need. It… it can wait if you need to stop.”

But he just shook his head. “You deserve to know. To know that, by the end, I did not even _cry_ when my brothers were killed. I was consumed by the need to get revenge, and I _enjoyed_ the blood that I shed. It was easier that way. Easier than being stricken with grief whenever the darkness took another away. Easier than feeling sorry for myself because I had failed to protect those I loved. Feeling that darkness, it chased away all that pain. Everything I wanted to forget. Gone. Just the way I desired. And it left behind nothing but the fey beast hungry for blood. I _was_ the monster they named me, Istelindë.”

Hearing such things, she should be terrified. If he had said such things earlier, before she had shared countless nights with him, kissing and cuddling and making love, before she had seen his stunned and desperate expression when she chose him over his brother, before she had shared her secrets with him in the dark at night, she might have been terrified enough to flee. Before all of that, she would have felt the chill creep down her spine, knowing she was abed with a cold-blooded murderer and that his six brothers haunted the house and the woods like murderous phantoms crawling through the unknown of the black night beyond this small, isolated world so far away from home.

But he was _crying_. And no man who had no regret or remorse in his heart for his wrongdoings would be _crying_ , showing such _weakness_ where she could see, on display in the sunlight of early morn. Carefully, she reached out, her hand grasping at the empty place where his wrist terminated in a bumpy, discolored mess of flesh and bone, and she pulled him forward and down, uncaring now of wasting daylight away in their bed.

Almost gratefully, he rested his head on her shoulder, huddling into her despite being so much larger in size, so much stronger in body. He hid his face against her collarbone and wept quietly. Only the tiny hitches in his breath and the hot dampness upon her bare skin gave him away as she combed her fingers through his hair and waited.

Waited until he took a deep but shaky breath. “You deserve better,” he whispered into the veil of her hair, the softness of her skin.

“Maitimo,” she soothed, “Will you tell me the end of the tale? If what you said was true, if there was nothing left yet unsaid, Lord Námo would never have granted you rebirth, as he never granted rebirth to Fëanáro in the years after the end of the Exile and the warring abroad. Surely there is more to your story.”

“There… there is,” he admitted. “I was foolish… perhaps, outright stupid… but I saw the last sliver of a chance for salvation—for myself and for Káno, the only two left—and I stole from a servant of the Valar. After the war was over, after the fighting was done, after there was a tentative peace, I went after the remaining Silmarilli, plucked from the Iron Crown by Eönwë himself, and I shattered the quiet. Their temptation proved too great, and I was too weak and too broken and too frightened of failure…

“But, when I finally held what I sought, when I finally grasped a Silmaril with my bare hands… it burned me.” The words were spoken so softly that they almost disappeared beneath the twitter of birds and the breeze at the window, a confession of some unnamable evil that was beyond Istelindë’s ken, that could not bear the light of day. “Such hallowed artifacts cannot be held or possessed by those who have done great evil and sullied their spirits. I had what I wanted, but it was a hollow victory, and the pain of having my flesh branded and burnt, of being rejected, of having that last little shred of hope for salvation thrown back in my face… I knew it was all for naught. Everything I had done, everything I had fought for, everything my brothers had _died for._ I knew I had become something I hated. Something like _him._ Like _Fëanáro._ I… I went mad, and I… I ended it. Finally, I ended it. Just like I had wanted at the beginning, after Angamando. I ended it.”

Istelindë was forever grateful for the heat of Arien’s rays creeping across her body and casting glimmering white designs against their bareboned walls and soft sheets, because the darkness of hearing the confession in his raw, whispered voice would otherwise have crept deeply into her heart and settled in a layer of poison. As much as she hated what he had done, as much as a secret part of her whispered that he had reaped what he had sown, this was a man that she adored, even loved. To hear him talk of his death at his own hands…

It made her feel ill. Her hands clenched tightly at his hair, knotted at the back of his skull, held him close so that she felt his breath, felt the expansion of his ribs and the shudder of his sighs and the shakes of his sobs. Felt that he was _real_ and _alive._

She knew those days were long gone, that he had no intention of ending himself again by his own hands. She _knew_ that. But the thought of him dying…

Part of her did not want to know what had happened…

But the rest of her needed to be there for him, needed to know the truth from his lips, needed to accept what had come and gone, needed to know or they would never heal the scars left behind. “You can tell me anything, Maitimo,” she murmured when he fell silent with hesitation. “You need not fear my judgment. I am your wife, and I would have there be no secrets between us.”

For a long moment, he remained stuck in his silent contemplation. But then he deflated against her, tension draining as his shoulders slumped forward, curling him further into her embrace. His arms went around her, the fingers of his remaining hand tangling in the ends of her loose hair and twisting it gently. “It is not pleasant, Istelindë. The way I died. It destroyed my body so thoroughly that there are no scars to mark its passage.”

He was giving her an out. He knew that, often, in the past, she had heard too much and wished to un-learn whatever secret nuance of darkness and despair she had uncovered with her curiosity. But not this time. Not this time.

“You can tell me, melindo,” she soothed.

“I wanted to burn it all away, everything that had transpired,” he admitted. “I wanted to burn _myself_ away. What was there left for me but damnation? So, I found a chasm filled with fire, with the earth’s blood, and I threw myself down into the earth’s heart. I do not even remember hitting the rocks, though I must have broken bones for I remember having twisted limbs. I just remember burning. The pain is… indescribable.”

No scars remained on his body from that ordeal, but she imagined what it would have been like, catching fire, the intense heat on every inch of skin, how he must have screamed as it ate his body away bit by bit, layer by agonizing layer. But, more so than even imagining her lover in such physical pain, imagining him falling to his death, it was imagining him in a state of mind where he had put himself to such torment _willingly_ that made her heart ache even more.

“I am sorry,” he added, “For the things that I did. I _am._ But it simply is not enough. It can never be enough.”

Hugging him close, she let him feel her squeeze around his shoulders, embracing him close in acceptance. “It is enough for me, Maitimo. Let me forgive you. Forgive yourself and keep living. The past is not something that can be changed, but you can change your future, vennonya. It is time to stop looking back and to start looking forward.”

Limp against her body, he released a choked sound, half-denial and half-heartbroken relief. “How could you ever forgive me something like this?”

“I just can,” she soothed, kissing his temple, humming a soft melody beneath her breath as she rocked him slowly. “I… I love you, Maitimo. Surely, you know that? My forgiveness is mine to give as I will, and I have given it to you. I do not wish for you to feel guilt when you are with me, to have doubt tainting our love because you believe you do not deserve this shared happiness. Just like I do not wish for you to give up on reconciliation with your family because you feel you deserve not their regard or their love. Let them see what I see within your spirit, and within those of your brothers, and let your family make that choice for themselves, to forgive or to wallow in their bitterness on their own terms.”

They stayed that way, wrapped together as the sunlight crept farther and farther along the bed and the floorboards, the only sound in the room the softness of her singing beneath her breath to fill the quiet, to cover his muffled cries. Until, finally, Maitimo raised his head with a deep sigh.

The remains of his quiet tears were wiped away with the edge of the sheets, though the redness lingered around the edges of his eyes, half-hidden beneath the cinnamon of his lashes. Leaning down, he pressed their forms together, forehead to forehead, sharing their quiet breaths between their lips, so close that all Istelindë would need to do was lean forward to meet him skin to skin in a kiss.

Instead, they lingered together, staring into each other’s eyes. “You know that I…” He cleared his throat, face heating. “I love you, too, Istelindë. I never expected something like this to come of a silly marriage proposal, but I… I _am_ happy. With you. And grateful that you chose me, even if it was just a happy accident.”

She let out a tiny, watery laugh, feeling her own eyes stinging with the first hints of tears. “I am glad, too. To be here with you.”

They were running behind schedule. No doubt, their brothers were wondering why they had not arisen from bed (or, more likely, assuming that they were too embroiled in one another to notice the passage of time), but neither of them cared. Istelindë thought she could have stayed like this forever, brow-to-brow, her hand entwined with his, their breaths mingling like two beings become one.

Their brothers could wait. Just a little while longer.

Everything could wait.

\---

This was a terrible idea.

After a gruelingly long morning of travel, being loaded into the back of the cart like spare carcasses for trade and moping in the silence and the heat all the way from the mountains down into the vale, and then sitting through the wide-eyed stares and open-mouthed shock of the local people and the traveling folk gathered for the festivities, all paused in their tracks as the infamous family passed by, Morifinwë now felt both exhausted and uncomfortable. Like a piece of meat on display.

And they had not even begun the awkward social interactions yet.

If it had been anyone else who had asked this task of him, Morifinwë would have scoffed and snarled in dismissal, would have given them his darkest sneer, turned away and gone about his business quite happily never interacting with his extended family ever again. After all, the resentment was not a one-sided affair. It was, in fact, quite mutual, at least, for his part. Perhaps Nolofinwë and his family despised the Fëanárioni for perceived betrayal (never mind that Fëanáro had been the primary culprit in that particular broken bond of brotherhood), but Morifinwë deeply disdained—even hated—them just as much for how they had treated his brothers in response. For how heartless they had been about Nelyafinwë’s suffering and Kanafinwë’s depression and Pityafinwë’s grief and Telufinwë’s death.

Even now, he could feel already the stifling, acidic nature his darker side rising to the forefront, knowing he would be seeing again those faces who had once sneered down their noses at Nelyafinwë’s attempts as making things right, who claimed they were _superior_ to his family, somehow morally in the right. As though Morifinwë’s family were singlehandedly at fault for all the evil deeds that had been done in those dark days, as though no blood painted the hands of Nolofinwë’s folk upon the shore of the bay in the long night. As though, were their places switched and it was Turukáno or Findekáno or Artafindë standing at Losgar looking back across the black waters in regret at abandoning their kinsfolk to die, they could have resisted or suppressed Fëanáro’s will any more successfully than had his sons.

Nelyafinwë had begged their father to turn back and rescue these people, facing down Fëanáro at the peak of his wild madness and lust for revenge. Telufinwë had been _murdered_ trying to carry out the deed himself, proving that the Fëanárioni were right to be wary, even frightened, of their sire’s retribution. And, still, there was nothing but dismissal, even hatred, in the eyes of their uncle and cousins, as though all the sins of the fey father were sins of the sons as well.

He remembered how Nelyafinwë looked when his abdication and attempts at apology were met with cold eyes and cold words. Nelyafinwë, still freshly-marked with the wounds of his captivity, arm still in a sling because he was too weak to lift it, still bruised and battered and so, so tired, had been earnest and desperate for support and guidance. To then be rejected by his family—not only that, but by his former closest friend, Findekáno, who had remained silent and refused to lend support in Nelyafinwë’s time of greatest need—had given his older brother a hollow, haunted look that had never gone away. It had cut more deeply than perhaps had any blade or whip of the torture-chambers of Angamando and scarred just as cruelly.

If there was one thing that Morifinwë had never been able to do, it was forgive and forget. Especially those who had harmed his family.

So, he doubted this evening would be as pleasant or go as smoothly as Istelindë hoped. Picking at the black velvet and silk of his tunic, tracing over the delicate silver embroidery with appreciative but resigned eyes, Morifinwë wondered how disappointed she might be by the end of the night. Well he knew that she simply wanted the best for them, but…

A knock at the door interrupted his musings. So, it must be time, then.

“Brother Morifinwë?” It was Istelindë, her voice soft and sweet as a songbird. “Are you ready? The festival has already begun.”

With a sigh, he resigned himself to his fate. It was only one party. Before the Darkening, he had suffered through hundreds of them as a gangly, awkward, tongue-tied youth wishing to be anywhere else but trapped in a room with endless people he cared not for and forgot as soon as they disappeared from his sight. At least, now, he had the advantage of being fully-grown and hardened in spirit. If nothing else, his scowl would keep unwanted company away.

Stepping out of his small guest quarters, he found that Istelindë had her husband and all her little brothers gathered in one place, nearly bouncing with excitement. Their garb was not nearly so ostentatious as it might have been in days of old, their tunics of simpler cuts with tasteful embroidery rather than an unnecessary amount of ostentatious gold and jewels studded here and there like colorful birds seeking attention and displaying to chase off other males. Only the oldest brother, the head of their House, was wearing full robes over his pale silver tunic, their color a rich lavender, velvety soft and lovingly adorned. Even without a circlet to mark his status, Nelyafinwë looked every inch like the Prince he was. And, at his side in white and delicate yellow, Istelindë looked like an angel.

Meanwhile, Morifinwë just felt a little ridiculous. Already, he could feel his cheeks heating as all eyes turned towards him, and his fingers tugged at the edge of his sleeve, twisting the fabric slightly between his fingertips.

“Good, all of you are ready,” Istelindë said, moving from one brother to another, tugging at their clothes and pulling at their hair until it suited her whims. It was terribly (heart-wrenchingly) reminiscent of their mother, how she used to needle them into good behavior and proper dress for these functions while Fëanáro stood in the background huffing and tapping his foot impatiently upon the floor. Except, instead of a vaguely annoyed father, there was Nelyo, doing that fond half-smile, wearing those wide, quizzical eyes, like he could not help but find Istelindë’s enthusiasm contagious, like he could barely believe that she was real.

The contrast made Morifinwë’s chest ache sharply. He ignored it.

Morifinwë, of course, was her final victim. But he let her poke and prod, let her untangle his fingers from the hem of his sleeve, doing a check to see if his fingernails were cleaned and groomed, and that he had not accidently unraveled any embroidery with his picking. “You look perfectly handsome, brother Morifinwë,” she assured quietly, and he felt his cheeks grow even warmer. “No need to be so nervous.”

Honestly, he could not tell whether or not she was teasing.

But he _could_ hear Turkafinwë snickering somewhere off to his left. The fourth brother cast a disgusted glare at his older sibling over the top of Istelindë’s head. At least Curufinwë was staying quiet, though. Turkafinwë, he could deal with. Curufinwë…

Well, the family’s resident bully was looking a little pale in the face at the moment. Morifinwë would have been unsettled, too, if he might accidently run into his estranged wife and potentially face her wrath at any moment. A part of the fourth brother genuinely hoped that, when they were reunited, Lindalórë punched his ill-tempered little brother in the nose. It was nothing less than Curufinwë deserved.

The rest of him rather hoped that, after she had given him a stunning bruise to mar his pretty face, she would kiss him better, and they would make up afterwards.

Maybe that was unrealistic, though.

Finally, he was wrenched from his thoughts by Istelindë clearing her throat. “Please behave,” she told them all. “I am not expecting perfection, but no fistfights, no name-calling, no threatening. It would mean a great deal to me if we could present a united front as a family.”

Of course, she would guilt them into being on their best behavior, and probably not even intentionally. It was just in the way she looked up at each of their faces, so earnest and expectant, like she truly _believed_ they could be presentable, civil beings in the face of their extended family and the public eye, but also like she might give them a piece of her mind with her wooden spoon if they failed to meet her standards because they simply did not feel like making the effort. Morifinwë already felt a little like a scolded child—he genuinely did not want to _disappoint_ Istelindë, who really seemed to have their best interests at heart—because he knew that he had been contemplating what he might do if he ran into Nolofinwë or Findekáno or (especially) Turukáno. Any one of them (all three of them) would be vastly improved by a bloody nose and a black eye.

But, like Turkafinwë, who appeared to be sulking a bit with his arms crossed and his eyes averted, and Curufinwë, who huffed and scoffed and flushed a delicate pink, Morifinwë knew he would try his best to keep his new sister happy. Even if that meant clenching his fists until his nails bit into his palms to keep from giving Turukáno exactly what he deserved or grinding his teeth until his jaw ached to hold back the acidic comments that rose to the tip of his tongue at the thought of his half-uncle Nolofinwë.

Giving them all a sunny smile, Istelindë reached over and entwined her arm with Nelyafinwë’s, leaning close. The handsome couple led the rest of the family, who trailed after the pair, caught in various states of anxiety and distress, to the vast, open throne room where the King would no doubt be holding his court for the duration of the festivities. Even though it had been such a long time since Morifinwë had had to attend anything so formal, he still remembered this feeling, like a buzz of nervousness beneath his skin, knowing that all those eyes would immediately turn in their direction and _stare._

Morifinwë had _always_ hated the staring.

At least their entrance was not a particularly flashy affair. If it had been just Istelindë and Nelyafinwë together, the couple could have slipped in and made their way towards the throne with minimal fuss involved. The people, while they were not particularly _comfortable_ with Nelyafinwë, perhaps had begun to become accustomed to the idea of his physical presence in Tirion.

However, this would be the first time that all seven sons of Fëanáro would be present in a single public location since shortly after the Darkening on that night that all of them would give anything to forget. Unsurprisingly, the group of six tall men with stoic faces surrounding the couple made the other people of court stop and stare. Yet, any time Morifinwë met their eyes with his own dark look, they rushed to glance away. Like averting their eyes the other way, fluttering their fans or dusting invisible dust from their robes, could hide what they had been doing or the interest they wished to deny. All around the small family, conversations faded out, the peoples of court parting like water parts for the bow of a ship, cut in two and arching away to leave Nelyafinwë and Istelindë a clear, unhindered path.

Fear. Morifinwë could see fear in their eyes, could see pupils that narrowed and then blew wide. He could see their cheeks going pale, breath catching in their throats as though sucked straight from their lungs. The animalistic warrior, the creature who had spent centuries bathing in the blood of its foes, could almost _smell_ it in the air as a bitter, tempting fragrance. And he knew by the way Turkafinwë’s spine straightened and Curufinwë’s eyes brightened that they felt it, too, under their skin like electricity. Across their tongues like copper and fine wine.

But they were not here to make trouble. Just a few minutes spent on “friendly” greetings, and then they could part and go their separate ways for the evening. For his part, Morifinwë planned to stay here exactly as long as was considered polite before slinking back to his guest quarters to hide for the rest of the evening and into tomorrow morning. Until it was time to leave this thrice-cursed palace and its unwanted memories behind. All corralled together like this, it felt so much like those long-past days of trailing after their father, a cohesive (or not-so-cohesive) unit of unnamed sons who could never live up to the splendor of their sire.

Except, now, it was Nelyafinwë at the lead in Fëanáro’s stead, every bit as intimidating and forbidding in face and form. For all that, though, Nelyo had always adored them all, though he hid it well from outsiders. Morifinwë did not mind having Nelyo in their father’s stead, a comforting presence rather than a source of further anxiety.

But the staring. It was getting irritating already.

What felt like far longer but must only have been a minute or two had passed since they made their entrance. The golden throne stood encrusted in all manner of boldly colored jewels, many faceted personally by their father’s own two hands, and it looked hauntingly the same. It was crowned in an array of vibrant summer flowers, and it may as well have come straight out of Morifinwë’s childhood memories, overlaid with the distant past. But, instead of their dark-haired grandfather smiling benevolently down upon them, eyes bright at the sight of his oldest son, there was Arafinwë, golden-haired and arrayed in white and blue.

Though, their more tolerable half-uncle did wear that same enigmatic smile, marked as Finwë’s child by merit of expression alone. Morifinwë half-expected that they would be paraded before the King one-by-one, but Arafinwë stood from his chair, arms raised as he moved down the steps to greet them on even footing like comrades or friends. Like family.

“My dear nephew and niece,” the King nearly exclaimed, sounding far happier to see them than was believable. Color Morifinwë suspicious. Frowning, the fourth brother watched as the golden-haired half-vanya pressed a kiss to each of Istelindë’s cheeks and then each of Nelyafinwë’s, embracing each in turn, as though there was nothing wrong at all between their families. Like the rift was bridged and the betrayal buried and left in peace.

Nelyafinwë accepted the gesture gracefully, but Morifinwë could see how his older brother’s back tensed with discomfort, his stance growing wider, grounded, and his head held a touch higher, alert, as he stepped back from the loose hug. “My thanks for your kind invitation, your Majesty.”

“No need for that,” Arafinwë said, brushing the formality aside. “Uncle Arafinwë will do just fine. This is a night for celebration! Drink, feast, and make merry! And let me extend again my congratulations on your marriage!”

Morifinwë bit his tongue on a scoff. He had forgotten how much he hated the feigned emotion and flowery drivel that spewed from the mouths of people at court. Add in his tendency towards extensive prose, and Uncle Arafinwë was sometimes the worst of the lot. At least there was no poetry involved. Yet.

The night was still young, and much wine yet to be touched.

“And, I see you have brought your brothers,” Arafinwë added, leaning slightly to the side to peer around Nelyafinwë’s towering height. “Be welcome, my dear nephews. I know it has been some time since you have been in Tirion, but, for this night, my home is your home. Make yourselves comfortable.”

Morifinwë could not help but think that such an invitation was dreadfully dangerous, especially when directed towards someone with a blatant lack of moral compass, such as Turkafinwë, who was likely to take those words literally out of spite. This was the moment when the third brother would break their promise to Istelindë to behave like princes, where he would say or do something either appallingly rude or entirely inappropriate, and the fourth brother could already hear the gasps fly through the air and see the look of shocked offense that would overtake his uncle’s face. And then Turkafinwë, being Turkafinwë, would give Arafinwë that smile that always made the blood run cold, like a hawk looking down at a lonely, vulnerable rabbit just waiting for it to spring to its demise, daring the older male to say something against his inherent disregard for social convention.

Except, Turkafinwë stayed quiet.

A long, tense silence. And then Kanafinwë stepped forward slightly, hesitantly, feet light as though waiting for something to jump out and strike from the shadows. “Our thanks, Uncle Arafinwë,” he murmured, voice as clear and deep and beautiful as the angel that he absolutely was not. “It is an honor.”

No one snorted in disgust. It was a miracle. Though, Morifinwë almost gagged biting back an unflattering comment that rose like bile on the back of his tongue.

Nearby gawkers were slightly dazed from the timbre of Kanafinwë’s voice, but the shock of it lasted only moments on Arafinwë, whose smile widened and whose eyes spoke of sudden discomfort. “As I said, make yourselves at home. And, please, should there be any _problems,_ do let me know.”

It was, more or less, a kindly way of asking them not to do any physical harm to any person who dared maliciously slander their House within their hearing. Personally, Morifinwë cared rather little for what these air-headed courtiers thought. He might even be interested in some of the things they would undoubtedly whisper about Turkafinwë. As long as they went after neither Telufinwë nor Istelindë, he thought he would be able to keep his temper in check. Given that the speaker was not a family member from Nolofinwë’s line.

Still, Kanafinwë nodded along politely, agreeing in a soft voice with those terms. Gently, their second oldest brother steered their uncle away in small steps, sacrificing himself to the altar of much small talk and poetic waxing to avoid giving the rest the opportunity to ruin everything right from the start. That left the remaining five brothers in that awkward silence of discomfort, uncertain what to do with themselves now that they were free.

Well, no one was brave enough to speak with any one of them, let alone address them as a whole. Even now, as the talking around them began to revive from its temporary pause with all the air of a skittish beast peering out from beneath the boughs of the underbrush, Morifinwë could sense the unease hidden just beneath falsely jovial tones. He could see the way eyes glanced in their direction from their corners, swiftly darting away to avoid detection, and resisted again the urge to say something uncouth as he might have in the long days of Exile when their company was naught but other miserable, ill-tempered warriors who wanted little else but to return to home and bed. Seeing as how any conversation was going to be hard to come by (not that Morifinwë _wanted_ to speak to any of these people), he might as well go and avail himself of some wine. The sooner he was drunk, the less painful this function would be.

Slipping away as a ghost, he slid through the crowd silently as was his wont, almost unnoticeable except when he was blatantly not. Had he a better sense of humor, he might have found it humorous to see how the courtiers jumped in place and went silent like startled mice beneath the eyes of a hungry feline whenever they realized he was nearby. But enjoying that sort of teasing was more of Turkafinwë’s territory than his.

Instead of pausing, inserting himself into an awkward social situation, and watching his prey squirm, Morifinwë made for the refreshments. Just a few yards, grab a wine glass, and retreat to a quiet corner to glare and brood until it was time to make his escape.

At least, that _was_ the plan.

Up until he felt something small and soft collide with his chest, a hiccupping gasp ringing out. Always steady on his feet, a warrior whose firmly-rooted stance was second nature, Morifinwë barely budged an inch at the impact, and it was pure instinct alone that had him reaching out and finding what his brain sluggishly determined to be shoulders, using his grip on the slender joints to steady the petite, teetering form that nearly careened off his chest and onto the floor.

Though, he was not agile enough to save the wineglass, allowing it to slip through his fingers when they had instead sought to catch the interloper into his space. The sound of glass shattering against marble made him wince. More for its loud, spine-tingling screech than out of worry for breaking undoubtedly expensive glassware. It was bound to happen at some point later on in the evening, if only because drunken revelry was not a particularly gentle affair.

Blinking, he glanced first down at the litter of shards scattered about his feet, intermixed with the spreading of a puddle of rich, burgundy wine (that looked far too much alike to the spread of blood from a living body), and then up… up… up…

At a face. Blue-eyed, rounded about the cheeks, with a soft chin and full lips. Brushing against his knuckles, gone white as his hands squeezed upon those shoulders, were golden curls.

A woman. This was a woman.

Sweet Eru, this was a _lady._ A lady who now had flecks and streaks of red splattered across the front of her pale green dress and whose white-slipper-encased feet were in danger of being consumed by the spreading pool of wine (blood) or being sliced open by the shards of glass littered all about upon the floor. Yet, instead of looking down at her stained clothes in despair, instead of taking in the possible soaking of her feet or the danger of the broken glass, she was staring straight up into his face with something resembling pure terror. Her eyes were so wide, their color the deep blue of flawless sapphire, and her pupils shrank in panic.

And, of course, he could feel the heat crawling across his skin, tingling and burning its way up to fill out his cheeks. Curse it to the Void. And then the accompanying sense of breathless panic grabbed him by his throat.

_What am I supposed to do now?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:
> 
> vessenya (Q) = my wife  
> vennonya (Q) = my husband  
> Atar (Q) = Father  
> melindo (Q) = lover (male)  
> Fëanárioni (Q, p) = Sons of Fëanáro  
> vanya (Q) = a person of the Vanyar


	15. A Series of Daring Rescues

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crisis averted for now! Mostly, anyway...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: flashbacks, PTSD, social awkwardness, semi-explicit descriptions of death/murder, bullying, madness, allusions to sex, potential cousin incest, cultural differences, scheming
> 
> In which we come into contact with another OFC. We'll learn more about her as we go, so this is just a first dip of the toes into the pool, so to speak.
> 
> From this point on, we'll be dealing with characters from different cultural backgrounds. If you're looking for perfect, harmonious, utopia-society type stuff, this is _not_ the story for you. As you've already guessed, the elves are just as patriarchal and (sometimes) misogynist as every other culture in Tolkien's universe, so don't be surprised, either by the fact that it exists or that there _will be_ characters who expect women to act in a particular way and treat them in a particular way that modern readers might find offensive but that female characters (raised in these societies) might not necessarily interpret as such--this has already been demonstrated a little in this story, but it's going to become more apparent as we go. Also, differences between the Vanyar, Noldor and Teleri (and how the view each other) will begin to become more defined. All of it is my head-canon since Tolkien didn't give us a whole lot to work with.
> 
> Sorry for the rant! I just wanted to clear all that up early! Enjoy!
> 
> Maedhros = Maitimo = Nelyafinwë = Nelyo  
> Maglor = Makalaurë = Kanafinwë = Káno  
> Celegorm = Tyelkormo = Turkafinwë = Turko  
> Caranthir = Carnistir = Morifinwë = Moryo  
> Curufin = Atarinkë = Curufinwë = Curvo  
> Amrod = Ambarussa = Pityafinwë = Pityo  
> Amras = Umbarto = Telufinwë = Telvo  
> Finarfin = Arafinwë  
> Mandos = Námo  
> Fingolfin = Nolofinwë  
> Varda = Elentári  
> Aredhel = Írissë

The last time Kanafinwë was physically in the same location as Uncle Arafinwë was the night of the First Kinslaying. After the first blood had been shed upon the docks of Alqualondë, and the Curse of the Noldor had been spoken upon the lips of a servant of Lord Námo into the long, unbroken darkness.

It left the second brother feeling cold in his bones, shuddering slightly even in the warm, muggy midsummer evening. For a moment, it felt as though the blood of that first night were still splattered across his face and dripping from his hands, hot and damp and reeking of death and metal, drying in a tacky mess beneath his fingernails. Kanafinwë resisted the urge to pick at them, knowing that there was nothing there to be removed despite the itch. If Arafinwë remembered the same (How ever could he have forgotten?) or cared, he made no visible indication. Face and form were open and merry, cheeks flushed pink with what Kanafinwë would have thought to be the effects of alcohol and jubilance, his uncle was smiling and welcoming. Yet, as Arafinwë pulled him along, Kanafinwë could see no haze of drink in those deep blue eyes, sharp and clear as a cloudless sky.

Even in the presence of the most mild-mannered brother, Arafinwë was showing signs of unease, hidden underneath a tranquil gleam of stars. The older male was watching, alert.

Calmly, Kanafinwë offered a bland smile. “Long has it been, Uncle Arafinwë.”

“Too long, dear nephew,” Arafinwë agreed as they circled back towards the throne. From the corner of his eye, Kanafinwë could see Nelyafinwë and Istelindë off to one side (already socializing and politicking, unsurprisingly, given his elder brother’s disposition) and his little brothers dispersing into different directions.

A breathless sigh of relief fled his lips. Perhaps that was for the best. Together, they were much more likely to get into trouble than apart.

“You still sing, do you not?” his uncle continued. Kanafinwë’s eyes refocused on the older male’s face, pushing the other distracting thoughts from his head.

“Naturally,” Kanafinwë said, voice perhaps slightly more clipped than he had intended. Singing was… complicated. Once, when he had been young and filled with the light of Aman, singing had been all he wanted to do with his time, all he could think about at all hours of the day and night. Once, it had been his whole life, and he had been consumed into the intricacies of his art with all the single-minded vigor and focus that his artisan’s blood afforded, the constant play of melodies and harmonies, of soft ballads and lyrics, dancing ever across his thoughts and through his dreams in fractal-patterns of crystalline tones. It left him just as distracted as a thoughtful Fëanáro contemplating his next project beneath the heat of the forge fire, fiery eyes distant and mind occupied with calculations and schematics, or a daydreaming Nerdanel in her studio in the twilight hours of evening, hands sculpting and mind a thousand leagues away.

Would that it were still so simple. Once, music, composing, singing… it had been his greatest comfort and joy.

Now, like every other thing in his life, music was tainted with the shadow of ugly things best left forgotten. There was naught about which to sing that brought not heartache forth and chased away any joy he might tentatively grasp. It left his heart cold and void to the thought of sitting down with his harp where once it would have crested with bliss at putting his fingertips to the delicate strings, in harmonizing his words to sweet notes.

Yet, lately, he had dared raise his voice in song more often, usually beneath Istelindë’s urging, for he had enjoyed seeing her soft smile and her glittering eyes filled with admiration. Mayhap, he had been doing it for the wrong reasons—wooing his brother’s wife through song, secretly hoping to lure her attention away from her husband—but it had brought a bit of lightness back to his spirit. Until he had begun again to put his thoughts into words and his words to a melody, he had not realized how much he _missed_ it. Even if no words could be conjured that did not make his chest ache with sorrow and grief.

Still, those moments of comparative peace and comfort, taken in the darkness of the night with none but Istelindë and the stars and the silent little herbs as witness, were intensely private. 

Knowing what was coming, Kanafinwë steeled himself to state a rejection, already parting his lips upon the words at the moment that Arafinwë began to speak.

“Long has it been since any have heard your voice raised in song,” his uncle said. “Tonight is a night of celebration and joy. Surely, you would not mind sharing such a gift with us, dear nephew? It would be quite the treat. Many are there here who have never heard your voice at all before, some who were not yet born before the Exile.”

Kanafinwë swallowed sharply. He could do this. He _could._ A simple “no”. That was all he need say. No. Politely, respectfully, “no”.

Except, as always, the words would not come.

“I… would not know of what to sing,” he admitted quietly. “Not much have I to say that would reflect the joy of this occasion. Nor, I think, that those in attendance would wish to hear.”

“Nonsense,” Arafinwë refuted immediately, giving Kanafinwë that broad, waxy smile that left the second brother fighting back a deep scowl. At both his own innate cowardice and his uncle’s presumptuous dismissal. Had he been less of a mind to maintain the peace, to make more than a token effort at getting along with his extended family—if for no other reason than that it would please Istelindë, and he shamefully was desperate for her approval—he might have rudely told his uncle exactly what sort of things he might sing about that would leave the room full of pale, bloodless faces and stricken hearts. Heaps of corpses rotting on a field of dust, mire and blood, gathered into a stinking mountain of flesh and metal and bone. Fire-ravaged land as far as the eye could see, black and starkly naked, removed of life and barren with poison and taint. White-tiled floors slick with blood and organs, slippery beneath the boots, and the cries of the dying and the hunted in the distance, seeking help that would never come.

It was tempting, for just a moment, to conjure forth those images, to make a point and show his uncle how insensitive he was being. But Kanafinwë had never been the sort to do such things, not like Turkafinwë or Curufinwë. Ever did he bend in the breeze, conforming to his surroundings and taking new shape, adapting rather than resisting, acquiescing to avoid conflict. With a deep breath, sighed out between his clenched teeth, he dismissed the urge.

“Truly,” he insisted softly, “Of what would I sing? This is hardly the venue for tales of the Hither Lands.”

Arafinwë made a soft, thoughtful noise. “Perhaps not. Still, there must be _something_ you could sing of that is less… offensive to delicate sensibilities. You still know the old hymns and songs of the season, do you not? Those have not changed a bit since the days they were first sung in the light of Aman.”

Traditional music. Boring. Yet, Kanafinwë was willing to take the easy route to escape. “Perhaps, later, I shall consider it, Uncle Arafinwë. For the moment, do tell me how my cousins have been. It has been equally long since—”

The sound of glass shattering interrupted his words. For just a moment, Kanafinwë was somewhere else. Glass all about his feet. Glass and blood and the smell of fear and death, the signs of struggle all about and bodies littering the floor. For just a moment, he felt the rise of sickness up the back of his throat, dizziness resting as a heavy cloud about his eyes as his vision swam in and out of focus.

And then clarity. He was here, in Aman. It was just a broken wineglass, surely.

Turning to look, he caught sight of a female being lifted up into the air with a quiet shriek, her gown dotted with wine but her white-slipper-clad feet dangling well above the mess. Groaning softly when he saw who was doing the lifting, Kanafinwë wondered with a bit of detached curiosity if any of his little brothers had been taught simple etiquette at all as children or if those lessons had just gone in one ear and out the other. At least Morifinwë had not thrown the poor maiden over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes, instead setting her upon the chair of his curled arm, elbow tucked beneath her bottom like the seat of a throne, as he moved her away from whatever mess was propagating out across the floor.

“Oh my,” Arafinwë murmured at the second brother’s side. “Perhaps we should…?”

“Be not alarmed,” Kanafinwë immediately soothed with a sigh, catching at his uncle’s sleeve before the King could make for the sight of discord. Nelyafinwë’s russet hair was already visible through the crowd, parting it open for his passage, heading that direction. “If it was Turkafinwë, I would be concerned, but Morifinwë is harmless.”

“Harmless,” Arafinwë stated wryly, eyes narrowed. “An odd statement to make of a Kinslayer, think you not, nephew?”

It was the way distrust layered that voice, sharp beneath the genial veneer of a welcoming, loving uncle, that made Kanafinwë’s face darken with a deep frown near to a scowl. A rare expression for the gentle-hearted second son to wear indeed, for he was oft moved more towards sorrow by the unfairness and cruelty of the world than to anger. Yet, to hear such statements made about his brother still made that unholy fire burn in his gut every time, roiling and twisting with a life all its own, threatening to rise up and spew out in a tide of vile, thorn-encrusted snarls.

Instead, ever the best at controlling his more violent emotional outbursts, Kanafinwë hissed a breath between his clenched teeth. “And, yet, you would make statements about his character based on facts that you know only through conjecture and rumor. Or did I forget your presence in the halls of Menegroth when Morifinwë was slain without ever having lifted his blade against another?”

Arafinwë’s face went white as milk. And Kanafinwë could not bring himself to regret speaking of such dark and evil times in the open so frankly, for it was satisfying to see both the realization and the horror in those eyes that had ever seemed to hold naught but half-hidden disdain for Kanafinwë’s family.

Of the seven brothers, two had done no worse in the spilling of the blood of kin than any member of Nolofinwë’s House, who were just as guilty of the slaughter of weaponless mariners upon the docks of Alqualondë as any follower of Fëanáro. Yet, Morifinwë and Telufinwë were held in the same contempt as the rest. The injustice of it made the older brother’s heart race with fury, made his fingers tremble and long for either the strum of harp-strings against their calluses or to wrap about the perpetrator’s throat and squeeze their slandering breaths straight from their bodies. As ever he did, though, Kanafinwë ignored those urges and kept his hands tightly clenched into fists at his side, nails biting into his scarred palms with unforgiving strength enough to slightly break the skin. He had denied himself the solace of the first outlet for centuries, and he had given in to the dark desire of the second only once before on the field of battle.

Breathing out a long breath, he felt the tension of his shoulders drain. Slowly, he uncurled his fingers and let them trail limply against the soft fabric of his tunic. “Let us not speak of such things,” he then said, glancing away from his uncle, pleased to see that none else had heard his ill-thought-upon comment, too distracted by the distant drama unfolding. “I could use a glass of wine, I think. Mayhap once the celebration has been moved outside, under the stars, I will consider singing. After tempers have calmed through drink and revelry.”

“Perhaps that is for the best,” Arafinwë agreed, voice ever so slightly hesitant. And it could not be denied that, for a short moment, his uncle must have seen Kanafinwë’s rage, even hatred, towards those who would do harm to his brothers, even mere verbal blows. The second brother knew it was not a pretty sight, rare though it was. He knew what he and his brothers looked like caught up in rage.

Too much like their father. Too much like Fëanáro gazing out of a distorted mirror, fiery eyes come back from the dead to haunt and hunt the living.

Watching the way his uncle averted his eyes, pallor still resting over his cheeks as he made to take another draught of wine with a large gulp, Kanafinwë, for once, did not mind carrying that ghost in the paleness of his irises and the fire of his fury glowing beneath his skin. Not if it taught these people to be wary of speaking things they knew naught about.

For that privilege, he would gladly carry his father’s spirit for a night.

It was nothing short of what these people deserved.

\---

_By the Lady Vána and her sweet gardens! I am airbourne!_

One second, Eruanna had had her feet planted firmly upon the ground, and the next she was high up enough that she could see over the heads of the entire crowd from one end of the giant hall to the other. Beneath her bottom, she could feel the curl of an arm, but it felt as though it were made of stone and trembled not a bit beneath her weight. It held her aloft with ease as her rescuer (?) carried her over what she now realized was a large mess of wine and shimmers of shattered glass glinting in the torchlight, slivers and shards that would surely have, at the very least, ruined her slippers if not also severely injuring her feet as she waded through their glittering spread.

_I should watch where I walk more carefully,_ she noted distantly, mind still undone by what had just taken place, by the knowledge of whose arm, exactly, was holding her up.

It only took seconds for them to be clear of the mess, his boots no longer crunching as the heels bit down on bits of glass. Carefully, she felt herself lowered until her feet delicately touched the floor. Landing, she swayed like a blade of grass in a strong breeze, knees not feeling yet quite like they were made from tendon and bone rather than bits of fluff and twig.

“I think I might faint,” she admitted aloud.

“My lady? Are you… well?” His voice was deep, as deep as she had expected it to be from looking upon his stony face and towering form. It rumbled up from within his chest, and she felt it in the hands that rested upon her upper arms, keeping her steady as she rocked on her heels with all the balance of a newborn filly. “You are not harmed?”

Was she imagining it, or was that… concern?

She knew not that Kinslayers knew how to be concerned about clumsy young maidens whose heads spent more time in the clouds thinking of flowers than grounded in reality where they belonged. If she had just been paying attention to where she walked instead of thinking about other distant matters, this would not have happened. She would have blissfully gone on with her existence without ever crossing paths with a well-known Kinslayer.

Even now, as she slowly looked from the ground up towards his face, she felt her heart frantically racing in the back of her throat, pumping blood so hard that she was surprised it could not be seen in the pulsing of her veins at the base of her throat or in the graceful curve of her wrist. These hands which touched her arms so gently… they were hands which had ended lives, which had shed the blood of innocents, and they were rough but warm where they brushed up against her skin.

And his face, no longer caught in a deep grimace as it had been when she had but glimpsed it earlier, was rather beautiful. His cheeks were burning red, scattered with a network of freckles (a Kinslayer with freckles seemed so out of order) that would otherwise have been endearing, and his eyes were vibrantly green, reminding her strikingly of the greenhouses of Valmar in which she oft spent her time learning and tending to the flowers and ferns.

“My lady?” he repeated again, leaning in closer.

“I… think I am unharmed,” she managed to squeak out. Barely. It felt as though all the air were squeezed and twisted from her lungs, for she dared not draw breath beneath his gaze, no matter how openly concerned it appeared to be. Demons, after all, often came dressed like angels, and she could not believe that such a person could possibly be genuinely concerned that she might have cut herself on a piece of broken glass.

Even when her words brought forth a deep sigh. The Kinslayer (she knew not which he was, though she knew his infamous sire’s name) straightened to his full height, and it made Eruanna feel even tiny. She was not a short woman by any means, but, comparing her against an unusually tall male…

_He could crush me. Without even trying._

For an awkward moment, they stared at one another. And the nearby people stared at them staring at each other, whispering voices beginning to hiss sibilantly behind fans and into cupped ears. The red of his cheeks darkened further, and Eruanna felt her own heating as well at being the center of such attention. Embarrassed, her hands curled in the folds of her ruined dress.

Thankfully, they were interrupted by the arrival of a stunning woman, pale-haired and blue-eyed, dressed elegantly but comfortably in the simpler, looser style preferred by the Teleri. A copper-haired shadow followed in her wake, footsteps heavy upon the floor where hers were silent. “Ah, brother Morifinwë, what on earth happened?” she exclaimed, taking in the scene before her with her hands on her hips.

Beneath Eruanna’s disbelieving eyes, the terrifying vision of a Kinslayer dressed in black and silver seemed to hunch slightly in upon himself, and his fingers curled viciously around the hem of his sleeve on the opposite arm, twisting and pulling the fabric. “Forgive me, sister Istelindë. I meant not to make a scene.”

Of course, Eruanna recognized that name. Who did not, what with it being spoken from one end of Valinórë to the other? Which meant that the tall man hovering over the woman’s shoulder was the firstborn son of Fëanáro in the flesh.

Shivers went down her spine.

“I am certain you did not intend it, little brother,” the woman soothed, reaching out with her tiny white hands to untangle the man’s fingers from his sleeves. “Still, it is typical to as a lady’s permission before picking her up without warning.”

“But I… her feet…” The man sputtered. “I panicked…”

The smile on Istelindë’s face grew wide. “Oh, Morifinwë,” she crooned, voice fond as she reached up to pat his cheek. At her back, her husband raised his hand to cover his mouth, and Eruanna stared in horrified fascination as the demon of legend, Nelyafinwë Fëanárion, tried to hide the fact that he was biting back laughter at his younger brother’s expense.

Then, Istelindë turned towards Eruanna, still frozen in place and uncertain what to do now that she was the center of the attention of not only most of the room, but also a woman who had married a cold-blooded killer in defiance of her own family.

“Are you harmed, dearest?” Istelindë asked her in a soft voice. “No cuts? No splinters? Those slippers certainly would not have protected you from any flying glass.”

“N-no, Princess,” she answered immediately, caught between the urge to dip into a curtsy (she was now standing before royalty unexpectedly, and she felt dizzy) or turn on her heel and run away. “I am quite unharmed.”

The taller woman brushed her slightly disheveled curls back from her face and then looked down at her clothes. “Well, Morifinwë did save your slippers, but your dress… I think perhaps we should find you something else to wear, dearest. Worry not, we shall just slip away for a few minutes and let the men calm down.”

“T-that is not necessary, Princess! Truly!” 

“I insist.” And Eruanna felt overwhelmed by the beautiful woman’s smile, by the bright kindness in her glimmering blue eyes. Next to someone so gorgeous, so confident and glowing like a star filled up with soft white light, Eruanna felt young and giddy. Shocked enough that she did not resist being pulled along in the direction of the door to the hall.

Istelindë paused only long enough to receive a kiss from her husband (so tall he made even the slightly taller woman look tiny, made Eruanna feel absolutely dwarfed) before sweeping them out of the hall. Still quietly stunned, Eruanna followed the other woman without further argument, passing between the two towering, well-muscled forms of the infamous Fëanárioni, less than a foot from touching either one of them. And then they were out in the hallway, the din of the party dimming the further away they slipped from the open doors and the bright lights and the merry voices primed with drink.

It passed by like a dream, the world gone watery and wobbly. As oft she did, Eruanna felt herself getting lost in her thoughts. Thoughts about how she had just had an encounter with two of the seven Fëanárioni and come out unscathed but for a stained gown. Thoughts about how beautiful her savior’s freckled face was, how his eyes were the green of the fresh spring grass in the gardens of Valmar. Thoughts about how warm he had been, how his muscles had rippled beneath her as she was carried, and how he had broken not even a sweat at lifting her thusly. She was distracted enough such that she barely knew where her feet were taking her, only that she followed the trailing softness of Istelindë’s pale yellow dress.

“Please, let me offer apologies on behalf of my little brother,” Istelindë said, pulling her back down to earth. “Morifinwë might look a little frightening, but he is usually very sweet, and I am certain he meant not to startle you. His intentions were good, even if his actions were a bit ungentlemanly.”

It took a few moments to put to words what she was feeling. Had it been anyone else (especially any other good-looking male or potential suitor) who had acted thusly, Eruanna probably would have been acting the giggling, flattered young woman despite her faint embarrassment at having an accident as such in a public place. It might even have been sweet, how he had panicked and picked her up (so easily!) to keep her from hurting her feet, how he had stuttered and blushed afterwards like a bashful young man who had never interacted with a young lady before.

Those thoughts were at odds with the knowledge that he was a murderer. He was nothing like what she would have imagined a Fëanárion to be. Not cold. Not heartless. Not carved from stone, dispassionate or vicious or cruel, with an expressionless face to match.

He had picked her up to keep her from staining her slippers, from possibly cutting her feet on broken glass. What kind of cold-blooded killer did such things?

Calming now that she was out of the public eye, the young woman let out a soft breath. “I… would not consider it ungentlemanly. Just… surprising. For someone like _that._ Like him.”

It occurred to her a moment later how offensive that might sound. Istelindë had turned around to look at her, and Eruanna wanted nothing more than to sink into the floor. This woman was _married_ to a Kinslayer, seemed quite happily in love with one, and seemed to consider her husband’s brothers to be as her own. And, of course, Eruanna went and put her foot into her mouth, saying such things!

“Forgive me,” she rushed out. “I meant no offense! I am just surprised!”

Feeling young and scolded beneath the woman’s glance, Eruanna looked away in mortification. It was not often that she felt so out of her depth. For all that she sometimes was lost in her daydreams and could occasionally be a bit clumsy, she was hardly this shy normally. With the other young women of the court of Valmar, she was bright and open, and she enjoyed the attention of a fair few suitors. Yet, not a single man of Valmar was anything like Morifinwë, with his dark looks and his star-bright eyes and his flushed cheeks. Not so sweet and not so handsome and not so _confusing._

And then there was Istelindë. A Princess of Alqualondë, much older than Eruanna’s few centuries. Graceful, beautiful, married, confident. And she was making a fool of herself before such a woman. A woman who, in another life, might have become Queen of the Noldor.

Istelindë’s eyelashes fluttered against her cheeks. “I know you meant it not like that,” the other woman finally said, leading her into a room off to the side. “I can hardly blame you for being surprised. I, too, was not expecting such a diverse array of personalities amongst my new brothers when I married, though I suppose it was foolish to think they would all be identical and act as I imagined Kinslayers to act.”

The room they entered was clearly one of the nicer guest suites of the palace. The bed was huge, and Eruanna blushed to see that the blankets and sheets were slightly rumpled, evidence that the married couple might have made use of the surface for intimate acts. She tried not to think about that too much as Istelindë began digging through a closet, searching for something in particular whilst humming beneath her breath. Taking that time, Eruanna looked about the rest of the room, at the masculine toiletries on the dresser, at a brush with curling red hairs caught in its bristles, at dusty boots resting against the wall beside the door, all speaking of the second person sharing the space with the pale-haired beauty.

Finally, Istelindë let out a soft, pleased exclamation and pulled a gown from her collection. Immediately, Eruanna felt as though she should say something. Already, the Princess was holding up the fabric, a mixture of gentle shades of deep rose and pale, icy blue and snowy white, flowing and sleek like liquid-turned-fabric, with a high neck but open shoulders and back to leave skin bare. It was nothing at all like to the dresses donned by the women of the Vanyar, too light and airy, too suggestive and open. Even so, none could deny that it was a lovely work.

“I cannot possibly take this!” she exclaimed, knowing immediately that such a thing was of fine craftsmanship—she could see the layers of barely-there embroidery in silver and white, in pale pinks and cornflower blues—and must have taken forever to make. Either it had been an expensive purchase, or it had taken the single woman many long hours of work. “What if I tear it? Spill more wine upon myself!”

“Nonsense,” Istelindë dismissed. “I know it is a bit more in the style of my people than yours, but I think it would still look lovely with your coloring. What say you? I have other things in white and pink and green, as well as some bolder colors, but nothing so festive as this. You would look absolutely lovely! I even have some combs to braid into your hair to match if you would let me put it up! It has been ages since I had the chance to braid another woman’s hair, so it would be a treat.”

It was such a kind thing that Eruanna could simply not say “no”, even though something so shameless would never meet her father's approval should he see her wearing it this night. It occurred to her even as she gave her assent that Istelindë was a woman who lived alone with seven men (so far as she was aware), and that, perhaps, she was seeking a few minutes of purely female companionship.

“Excellent!” Setting the gown out upon the top of the blankets, Istelindë began to help the younger female out of her red-splattered skirts. “I will try to be expedient such that we miss not too much of the festivities. We shall have you all fixed up in no time, little sister.”

The enthusiasm was catching, and she could not help but begin to relax, to forget about who this woman was and who she was married to. The sisterly treatment, the bright smile, the way Istelindë almost danced on her feet as she circled the younger woman, led to a smile slowly creeping across Eruanna’s face as well. Even amongst the younger ladies of court back home, it was rare to find someone so kind and generous, and it made Eruanna’s heart feel light. Her own older sisters, caught up in their studies and their work and their service to Elentári, rarely had time to spend with her and even more rarely made such effort.

Carefully, she caressed the folds of the skirts as she stepped into the new gown. It was not the tightly-cinched sort of gown she was used to, but fell instead loosely over her body, down around the slopes of her shoulders and arms, resting over her more like liquid than fabric. She sighed in helpless bliss.

Istelindë circled back around. “Perfect!”

It was very different from the pale layers of cream and yellow, the overlay of lace and pearl, that marked the Telerin Princess. Instead of feeling like royalty, Eruanna felt a little like one of the Ainur, something made of wisps of cloud dyed watercolor by the setting sun. A sky-being.

She felt shockingly lovely. Like she was walking in a daydream come to life.

All of this because of a broken wineglass and an awkward Kinslayer.

Who ever would have thought?

\---

Unfortunately for poor, red-faced Morifinwë, the sound of drama drew Turkafinwë like the stench of rotting flesh attracted vultures and flies. Not one to pass up an opportunity to pick on his self-conscious younger brother, the silver-haired fiend circled around and found his oldest brother already present at the scene, though both Istelindë and the young lady who had been hoisted into the air had already fled.

From the upturn of Nelyafinwë’s lips, quivering slightly, it was clear that the oldest brother was struggling against his own amusement, trying to be supportive rather than mocking. Turkafinwë, naturally, had no such qualms.

“Quite the show, little brother. I would doubt you had it in you had I not seen it with my own two eyes,” he teased, coming up behind Morifinwë, whose whole back went stiff with alarm and discomfort at his sudden proximity. “You literally run into a beautiful woman and make an absolute fool of yourself. Why am I not surprised?”

The look that Morifinwë sent him might as well have been forged of sharpened blades dipped in poison for its incisive resentment. “Must you buzz around? Is there not anyone else here you could be bothering?”

“When I could be buzzing around my _favorite_ baby brother? Not a chance.” Leaning in close, he offered his brother a somewhat nasty smirk. “She was rather pretty. Did you get a name before she ran away screaming at the sight of your face turning the same shade as a tomato, _Carnistir?”_

It was petty and childish, and it worked every time. Like clockwork. With an audible snarl, Morifinwë made a lunge towards him, and only Nelyafinwë stepping in between prevented them from starting a fistfight right then and there. The older brother’s faintly amused smirk was diminished, his eyes growing dark and scolding as he used his singular hand to push Morifinwë back a handful of steps.

“Ignore him,” Nelyafinwë advised. And it was good advice. But Morifinwë had not the temperament for taking that kind of abuse without retaliation, and the sneer on his face was an ugly thing as he backed away, eyes almost _daring_ Turkafinwë to speak again.

Of course, he had to oblige.

“Just going to take big brother’s orders, like an obedient little pet?” he hissed out with a grin. “So _dull,_ Moryo. Hiding behind Nelyo like a babe in arms.”

“That is quite enough,” Nelyafinwë interrupted, and he genuinely sounded annoyed now. The glare he sent towards Turkafinwë was less that look of black annoyance reminiscent of days gone by as a prisoner in Fëanáro’s household, instead reminding him more of his mother when she was tired and stressed and her boys’ misbehavior only made it worse. Long-suffering. “Turkafinwë, nothing untoward happened; there is no need to kick up a fuss about it.”

But Turkafinwë never allowed himself to be cowed, especially not by another man. Not even his oldest brother, the closest thing to a true father he could ever remember having. “It is hardly my fault that Moryo is too much of a coward to fight back. Spineless, sensitive, shy and _weak._ It is no wonder no woman has ever glanced at him twice.”

He could see Morifinwë’s teeth flash, like fangs in the moonlight, as he let out a snarl that sounded not quite Eldarin and tensed like a cat preparing to make a leap for a bird. The satisfaction of knowing he had riled up his baby brother had Turkafinwë waiting with baited breath for the fallout, his blood rushing just a little faster and his heart pounding eagerly, anxious for the fight. In the back of his mind, he knew that he should not be doing this, that Nelyafinwë was going to be furious and Istelindë was going to be so disappointed, but the rest of him knew only the aching soreness of boredom and the creeping feeling of despair in the dark corners of his mind. The high of a fight would sweep all of that away, and he would be—

“Now, now, cousin Turko, are you picking on your little brother again?”

_What?_

The interruption almost physically threw the third brother off balance. Hazily, he recognized that voice, like a low ringing of bells in his memories. Her eyes spoke to him of the fire in the skin as it was bitten by the cold, the palest shade of icy blue, and her white face was wreathed in inky black hair in his mind’s eye. Turning to look back over his shoulder, he spotted her there, looking just as he remembered.

Írissë. Still beautiful, wearing that same teasing smile on her cranberry-stained lips. Still dressed in silver and white, forgoing the bold, dark colors her people favored. Her hair, which had ever been long and loose in the wind, was tied up in elaborate knots and braids at the back of her skull looking full and heavy.

For a moment, he did not know what to say to her. They had always been on speaking terms, for they had grown up wild together, but they had certainly grown apart with distance and time. Nothing like the pair of troublemakers of their youth, tracking deer through the woods together, competing at the hunt and at counting the number of tears and snags in their clothes and twigs caught in their hair. But once had she come, in the days of Exile, seeking her cousins, and then she had disappeared altogether, and he had no knowledge of where she had gone or what had happened to her, except that, at some point, she must have died.

Coughing lightly, he turned towards her, distracted from his current prey. “I am always prepared to pick on Moryo. He is such an easy target.”

At his back, he could hear his little brother hiss like an angry cat, but Írissë only laughed, leaning in towards him with her arms spread out. “You never change, do you? Well, does your favorite cousin get a welcome back hug or no?”

They had once done this ritual, too. Him lifting her up and swinging her around like she weighed naught but a sack of feathers. In this crowded room, he did not squeeze her tightly around her ribcage and lift, did not swing her in a wide circle just to hear her laugh, but he did lean down and accept her embrace, arms around his neck, lips pressing to each of his cheeks in turn. It had been so long since anyone had been so… unwary… in his presence that the whole thing felt rather unnatural, like a hallucination or dream. Even Istelindë was wary when he was near despite her acceptance of his nature, her fear hidden but still present when she was too close to him without her husband at her shoulder for protection. His own brothers often felt unsafe in his company, even Curufinwë at times.

But he sensed nothing from Írissë. The hunter smelled no fear.

As soon as she pulled away from their embrace, her arms wove through his and tugged. “Come along and leave your brothers be. I need a man to act as a shield against unwanted advances, and you shall work perfectly!”

“Unwanted advances?” he asked even as she started to pull him away.

“You might find it surprising how many men see a widowed woman and believe she must be desperate for male comfort and companionship!” Just like the Írissë of old, the one who pouted when her brothers tried to corral her inside and complained incessantly about the “womanly” crafts she was being forced to learn by her mother, this one seemed to scoff in disgust at the restrictions and stereotypes imposed upon her gender by society. “If I needed a man to be happy, I would certainly go in search of one myself. I hardly appreciate the condescending attitudes and the poorly-worded propositions, though those are not so bad as the men who come knocking at my door wanting ties to the family.”

She spoke to him so openly, as though they had never been parted, as though they were the same people as they had been once. And part of him… appreciated it. Her annoyed words, tinted with displeasure but also an undertone of mocking, brought a quirk to his lips and a feeling of fondness to his chest. A snort of laughter forced its way out.

“However I might be of service, then, cousin dearest,” he purred, “I would be happy to assist so long as it is not _boring.”_

“We can scare as many spineless courtiers as you like,” she reassured. “What say you to that, hm, cousin Turko?”

“You still know the way to my heart, Írissë.”

“Indeed.” She laughed again, patting his arm. “Let us be on our way. I have a vested interest in the wine table, and there are lots of unattached men in the way that need be cleared. Be my knight and chase them away with your vicious grin.”

“It would be my pleasure.”

\---

Letting out a long-suffering breath, Nelyafinwë watched his cousin dragging his crazy little brother away by the arm. Coyly, she glanced back, sending him and Morifinwë a quick wink and a saucy grin before she and Turkafinwë disappeared together into the crowd and were swallowed from view.

Leaving him alone with his _other_ little brother. “You let him rile you far too easily. Turko only teases you the most because you react the most vividly.”

“Shove it,” the fourth brother muttered, arms crossed. Like this, he looked so painfully like the young Morifinwë, the one before the Darkening and Exile, before the Curse and Oath had ruined everything. The half-pout and the glare should have left Nelyafinwë more annoyed than he had already been, dealing with Turkafinwë’s unwanted antics, but he instead felt a rush of affection and stifled the urge to ruffle his little brother’s hair. The childish timbre of the whole interaction reminded him shockingly of _innocence._

There were so many worse things Turkafinwë could have said, so many more sensitive topics he could have broached, but he chose to stay with something relatively innocuous. It was reminiscent of childhood bullying rather than the all-out malicious mental warfare that had been building as the insults crept into more and more dangerous territory.

Eventually, it would have spiraled out of control were it not for Írissë’s intervention. But she had arrived at the opportune moment and offered Turkafinwë a distraction more tempting than one of Morifinwë’s temper tantrums. It had never even occurred to Nelyafinwë to think that the pair might still get along after all this time, that they might fall back into being close companions and friends with nary a hesitant breath. But that certainly seemed to be the case.

Thoughtfully, he hummed, glancing in the direction they had gone. No screaming or blood yet. That, at the very least, was a promising sign.

“I suppose we should wait on the womenfolk to return,” he finally said, breaking their silence, “And _you_ should apologize and introduce yourself properly. Honestly, I know that Atar is not much of a good influence when it comes to behaving in public, but I could have sworn that Amillë and I taught you all at least the basics of manners and etiquette. One should probably not go around touching a woman’s bottom—whether to rescue her feet or no—without introducing himself first.”

“It was just my elbow,” Morifinwë complained. “Besides, I doubt she would want to be anywhere near me after the fright she received. Maybe it would be for the best if I made myself scarce for the time being.”

_Coward,_ Nelyafinwë was tempted to growl out, followed swiftly by, _Turkafinwë is right. Grow a backbone, brat._

But he was an adult and beyond using such childish means of manipulation. Instead, he just let out a disappointed sigh. “Moryo, one little apology will not do you harm.”

Those verdant eyes suspiciously stared up into his face. “I sense an ulterior motive.”

“I have not the faintest idea of what you speak,” Nelyafinwë denied. “All I ask is that you behave yourself. Is that too much for your older brother to wish?”

Morifinwë hardly needed to know about Istelindë’s daydreams of marrying off all his little brothers. While some of them (Turkafinwë) would be impossible to pair off with a respectable female partner, he thought that the middle brother would be one of those most likely to both attract and maintain female company what with his shy nature (hidden beneath all that posturing and scowling and snarling) and his sensitivity. The fact that Morifinwë had conveniently involved himself with a woman without prompting left his wife with an opening to work towards her matchmaking goals, and Nelyafinwë was hardly going to stand in her way.

He knew better than that.

So, he would offer his advice and then leave the rest to his wife. From that point, it would be out of his hands.

Beneath Morifinwë’s stare, he offered a blithe smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:
> 
> Fëanárioni (Q, p) = Sons of Fëanáro  
> Ainur (Q, p) = angelic beings  
> Eldarin (Q) = of the Eldar (high-elves)  
> Atar (Q) = Father  
> Amillë (Q) = Mother


	16. Of Success and Failure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some things go well, some things do not...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: awkward social interactions/flirting, people getting drunk and being idiots, violence, fist fight, insults, talk of people being burned alive
> 
> Midsummer continues, Carnistir gets introduced to the girl he spilled wine on, and everyone tries (and fails) to get along. We meet another new character <3
> 
> Maedhros = Maitimo = Nelyafinwë = Nelyo  
> Maglor = Makalaurë = Kanafinwë = Káno  
> Celegorm = Tyelkormo = Turkafinwë = Turko  
> Caranthir = Carnistir = Morifinwë = Moryo  
> Curufin = Atarinkë = Curufinwë = Curvo  
> Amrod = Ambarussa = Pityafinwë = Pityo  
> Amras = Umbarto = Telufinwë = Telvo  
> Turgon = Turukáno

He hated when Turkafinwë was right.

He hated the gleam that came to those silvery eyes, their triumphant glow as that silver tongue incessantly mocked and belittled. He hated the smile, sharp and gleaming like a knife in the moonlight, showing teeth in the grin of a successful hunter about to ensnare their prey. He hated allowing his brother the satisfaction of seeing his realization, the defeat in his eyes and in his body language as his shoulders hunched and he was forced to look away and acquiesce. It made his pride sting in the worst sort of way, like a wound left open to the elements, burned with the salt of his own sweat, reddened with the onset of infection, to admit to his own wrong and to his cruel older brother’s right.

But, in this instance, the third brother absolutely was right. Not only had he been rude and uncouth in front of a well-bred lady he did not even know—Picking her up without her permission, what had he been thinking?—but he also had the gall to be pitifully hopeful afterwards that he had not bungled their first meeting so terrifically that she would flee in the opposite direction at the mere sight of him. It made his heartrate speed, pulse racing beneath the membrane of his skin, pumping hard just beneath the surface, to think of coming face to face with her again when she and Istelindë returned from whatever female pursuits they carried out in secret, for she had been a lovely woman indeed, and it was rare that Morifinwë had the courage to interact with a woman. Even rarer was the situation in which he captured and held her attention when there were so many other potential suitors with more charm and social grace.

It had already been an hour and they had yet to return. The lack of conclusion, good or bad, to his waiting was leaving him floundering.

Like a scolded dog, Morifinwë trailed after Nelyafinwë as his older brother went about his business, mingling like he was born to it, easy of tongue and etiquette in a way the fourth brother could never hope to be. While it was, admittedly, quite enjoyable to watch the way courtiers nervously twittered and fidgeted beneath the attention of the eldest son of Fëanáro, he found that his mind was wandering this way and that, caught in a dance of anticipation and vicious realism, far too much to pay close attention to the happenings. He could hear Nelyafinwë’s rough voice echoing in the background, voice dancing through long-forgotten pleasantries, but it was all blurred beneath the overwhelming sheen of embarrassment that hovered over Morifinwë’s thoughts like a thick blanket of smoke.

His cheeks were still faintly red.

At least he could admit to himself that he found the young Vanyarin lady—whose name he still knew not—to be quite breathtaking. She was the sort of open, vibrant creature that he never would have dared to approach intentionally, for all that he might have seen her and daydreamed about having her focused attention. Young Morifinwë, less experienced and hardened in the ways of the world, would have been outright panicking still at the thought of facing her again.

As it was, grown Morifinwë had to clench his fists tightly to keep from tugging nervously at his clothing, no calmer but minutely better at hiding his distress than his younger incarnation. Much as he wished to both speak with her again and never face her in the light of day simultaneously, he knew that Nelyafinwë had been right. At the very least, a gentleman would apologize.

That did not stop his heart from settling somewhere in the back of his throat when Istelindë reappeared at her husband’s side. And, on the tail of her pale yellow, lace-encrusted beauty, was the young lady. Her stained green gown was gone, banished in the wake of its ruin. In its place, there was flowing rose-colored silk, the style speaking to Istelindë’s preferences but the colors nevertheless complementing their new mistress well. For all that she appeared nervous, she was also a vision, like late dawn breaking across the sky in gold and deep pink.

Morifinwë felt his flush worsen against his will.

Her eyes trailed across the pair of Kinslayers. First to Nelyafinwë, who wrapped an arm around his wife and greeted her with a chaste kiss upon her full lips, attention occupied elsewhere. Then to Morifinwë, who had to struggle against the urge to immediately pretend to be looking anywhere else, to make himself scarce such that he need not face down the fearful throb of his heart in the back of his throat. Instead, steeling himself against his own cowardly nature, he allowed their eyes to meet and watched as she stiffened slightly and let her eyes fall into downcast position in his stead. Beneath his gaze, her cheeks went faintly pink, a far more fetching blush than Morifinwë’s own vivid red curse.

Glancing in the direction of his older brother, Morifinwë saw that the kiss between his brother and sister-in-law had ended, and the older male had turned his attention upon his younger sibling. There it was, the raised eyebrow and the expectant silver eyes. 

Right. Apologizing.

Swallowing back any trace of his own nervousness, he approached his target with the alert posture and readiness of foot that he might have approached an armed foe. It felt far too much like walking to his doom, reminiscent of the feeling of going into battle. Which was ridiculous, because this woman was completely harmless.

Readying himself for disappointment, because he remembered the fear that welled in the deep blue of her eyes when he drew near before, because he knew it would be back now if he dared to look too closely, he paused in front of her. “My lady…”

His tongue felt swollen, and forming words suddenly seemed to increase in difficulty by tenfold. What was he even meant to say? Words had never come to him easily, not like they came to so many of his brothers. Anything that left his mouth now was merely going to sound ridiculous and scripted, a stunted stumbling through pleasantries carrying all the grace of a drunken orc.

“I… I apologize for my actions earlier, most especially if I frightened you,” he finally choked out, staring at her face but just south of her eyes, unable to maintain anything resembling eye contact. “That was not my intent.”

To his ears, it seemed rather inadequate. But he could not summon the mental clarity for more flowery prose than that. His teeth clamped down upon the back of his lower lip.

“A-and I suppose I would apologize for running into you as well,” he added hesitantly, hating the slight stammer of his voice, the lack of confidence it so poignantly portrayed. “I should have taken more care to watch where I was headed.”

“No,” she interrupted, and his heart lurched inappropriately hard in his chest. The tangle of nerves left his belly flipping uncomfortably in a way it had not before for anything short of the sight of the most gruesome bloodshed and mutilation. It was what he had been expecting, to have his apologies thrust aside, for that had ever been the way of his own family in days long past, but he had been hoping—

“No, I mean, it was not… not your doing only, my lord.”

It took a moment for those words to really register in his mind, to sink in like sunlight soaking his skin. Warily, his gaze drifted up, meeting her big blue eyes. At least she did not outright flinch back from the contact, instead looking up at his face with a distressed cant to her brows and a strangle wobble in her lower lip.

“I am prone to daydreaming my time away, and I was not paying attention either,” she added. “What I mean to say is, I apologize as well. For running into you. I should have been watching more closely as well.”

Well.

They fell into an awkward silence, seemingly neither knowing what to say to the other. There was naught to do but stare, but where was he supposed to look? It felt too intimate to hold eye contact for any longer, but his gaze naturally drifted down the curve of her throat to the silken wave of her gown laying across her breasts. It was uncouth to stare as such, no matter that he noted first the soft smoothness of her skin, cream and unbroken by the freckles as dotted his own, then helplessly observed that the size of her bust seemed to fit her perfectly. Not small, but not so large as to be out of proportion with her slender form. Just right. And, also, something he should not be noting. Swallowing, his gaze instead dropped to the floor.

“My lord, I—”

“My lady, perhaps—”

Both started to speak and then stopped. Morifinwë snuck a look back up at her face, only to find that her eyes were lowered again, settled somewhere below his face. For a moment, he wondered if she was admiring back.

 _No,_ he thought, _that is ridiculous._

Except, it perhaps was not. A lady would never admire a Kinslayer for their soft spirit or attempts as playing the gentleman, no matter what Istelindë said when she was teasing, but looks were a different tale entirely. Morifinwë was tall, second to Nelyafinwë only, and he was built the way only a man who made war could boast, musculature sculpted for the use of the broadsword and the spear in the heat of battle beneath the heaviness of armor. While he did not think his face was much to admire, no slender, soft Vanyarin courtier would ever have such a physique as his. If that was the sort of thing the lady preferred.

Were he a more charming male, he might have gone along with the assumption that she, indeed, found his form as pleasing as he found hers. Had he been Turkafinwë, he might have stepped closer, coming into the sphere of her personal space, voice dropping and quieting to play at the illusion of privacy. Had he been Kanafinwë, he might have spoken softly and seduced her into relaxing, until the straightness of her spine surrendered, body curving in towards his as he drew her in, closer and closer.

Nevertheless, he was not like his brothers. Not interested in a short tryst in which is partner wanted his form but not his being, delighted by his strength but disgusted by everything else. He had tried that but once and never tried again. It was not his way and never had been.

 _Soft-hearted and sensitive,_ Turkafinwë often called him. And he knew that it was true.

So, while the part of him that preened beneath any female attention was flattered, the rest was wary. Wary of letting himself get caught up in something that would end in his own heartbreak. Morifinwë had enough problems without lovesickness coming down upon his head (and heart) as well. Especially for a Vanyarin lady who should never glance his way again once they parted ways.

“I accept your apologies,” he said stiffly, stepping back, shoulders tense and eyes looking just over her shoulder. He tried to focus on the wall instead of admiring the pink bow of her upper lip, imagining how it might look kiss-swollen, or examining the broken arch of a pale brow that looked like it would be soft beneath his fingertips as he smoothed it back into relaxation. Better to notice naught at all. Soon enough, he would deliberately forget every detail of her face. “Please, once again, do forgive me for impinging upon your evening.”

She said nothing, her silence damning. Swiftly, he turned on his heel. He could make it back to Nelyafinwë, head high, without showing just how frazzled he was at the encounter. Just a few steps, and he could put his older brother’s impossibly tall form between himself and this woman whose name he still had not asked and whose name he did not really want to know if all it would lead to was distraction and daydreams that would never come to any form of fruition.

“Wait.”

Halfway to taking a second step away, he halted, glancing over his shoulder.

“I… I accept your apologies, too,” she said haltingly, and her hands were clasped together, fingers moving anxiously where they twined. “Think you that, perhaps, you might spare some time to dance with me later, my lord?”

Morifinwë knew not what to make of that.

“You need not subject yourself to such a thing just to spare me perceived embarrassment,” he finally answered, lips pursed. “An association with my family is not one which should be made lightly.”

“I know, but…” The lady hesitated again, and her hands suddenly stilled. “You have been kind to me, and your sister has been as well. Is it so terrible that I might want to spend some time with a man who has been kind? It might surprise you to know how many men would not have wasted the time and breath to apologize, let alone have lifted a woman and carried her about to keep from injuring her feet.”

At least she seemed not offended at all by his trespass. Still, he was not certain what to make of the rest of her or her request.

“You are not at all what I expected,” she added. “I am… curious.”

Had Morifinwë been less of a gentle soul at heart, he might have put an arrow in her unwarranted and likely inappropriate curiosity then and there. No doubt, even if she really was simply curious about him and was not looking for an affair or liaison, the rest of the courtiers gathered for the festivities would assume the worst of both him and of her. The taint of a Fëanárion’s presence was not an easy one to wash away. Torn between concern for the damage she was about to do her own reputation and anxiousness surrounding his own desire to give in and stop resisting the urge to spend time with a lovely, welcoming female, he wavered precariously between scowling and sighing.

Impulse control had never been his strong suit. Nor had resistance or bravery. He was too much of a soft-hearted fool to do anything to ruin the tiny smile she sent his way.

“Very well,” he agreed, still keeping some distance between them out of sheer force of will instead of allowing himself to be reeled back into her sphere of influence. “Might I fetch you another drink to replace the one I spilled down the front of your dress?”

She let out a wave of soft laughter. “It was hardly so terrible! And I already said, it was as much my fault as yours! But yes,” she added, and he was stuck staring at the way her face had transformed from anxious and self-conscious (that he might reject her outright) to bright and open in a heartbeat. “I would love another drink.”

“Then I shall return shortly, my lady.” He needed to put a little distance between them. Catch his breath and prepare his mind for the next round of warfare. This one had left him feeling a bit dazed and overrun.

“It is Eruanna,” she said, to his brief confusion. “My name,” she clarified. “My amilessë is Eruanna. That is what I usually prefer to be called. I get ‘my lady’ this and ‘my lady’ that from men all day long back home, so I would rather have someone call me by name. No one will bother to worry about whether or not it is rude if…”

At the last moment, she seemed to think her sentence might offend him, though the opposite was true. “You speak the truth, Lady Eruanna. Worry not, my heart can take the lack of regard from strangers.” It was almost teasingly spoken, and he was surprised it had departed his own lips along with a half-smile. And then, without really thinking through his own words, he also told her, “Your name suits you.”

“No, it does not,” she refuted, laughing as she took two more steps, placing her too close. Like a beacon, she held his attention, slicing through the dimness of the rest of the room. “We met because I stumbled into you and spilled wine all over your boots and my dress. Hardly what I would think to be graceful.”

Yet, now she moved like she was hovering just above the ground, walking on the air. Morifinwë found himself distracted. By her soundless little slipper-clad feet and the way her golden hair spilled down about the nape of her neck as she tilted her head upwards to look straight at his face. It was pulled back with two pearled combs set with ruby gems in the shapes of blossoms which had not been there before. They held some of the curls back, coiled into a shape not unlike a flower, and he wondered if it would be as soft as the petals of a true flower if he brushed it with his fingers.

And then he pushed those thoughts away. This was a favor for a woman. He was not going to seriously contemplate doing anything more than dancing and then parting ways.

Clearing his throat (as if that would chase away the haze of distraction lingering over his thoughts), he answered, “It seems to fit just fine. And it is flattering. There are worse things to be called than ‘Grace’.”

Her hand wove its way into the crook of his elbow, claiming her position such that he could not escape as he had intended. No time to double-back, regroup and forge a new plan of attack. Instead, he continued to scramble and improvise his way through the interaction. And his own social ineptitude was showing, for, of course, he brought up naming and now she was going to ask…

“I know that your ataressë is Morifinwë, as Princess Istelindë told me, and it suits you just fine as well,” she began. “Does your amilessë suit just as well? Or is it worse or more pretentious than being called a ‘Gift from God’ by your hopelessly devout parents?”

“If my father had been allowed to name each of us twice, we would all have the most pretentious names in all Valinórë. He named every single one of us after our grandfather,” Morifinwë griped, though the words had an abnormally light undertone, probably brought on by the giddy sort of nervousness that made itself home in the pit of his stomach. “Amillë was much less concerned with the propriety involved in the naming of Princes. Most of my brothers choose to be called by their amilessë instead of their ataressë except under formal circumstances. It is easier than trying to remember which brother is which Finwë.”

She actually twittered with laughter, soft and sweet. “All of you were named after King Finwë Noldóran? Truly? I suppose it had not occurred to me when I heard it, but your name is Mori _finwë_. You really are named for him.”

“Indeed, we are,” he said, glancing up to find that they had moved towards the table laden with glasses of wine (where they had originally met) without him realizing overmuch where his feet were carrying him.

“Then, your amilessë must be something completely different.”

Morifinwë swallowed sharply. Against his will, he felt his face growing hot, already betraying him before he had even managed to choke out the damning words. “Amillë named me Carnistir. For reasons that should be obvious.”

If his cheeks had not been as red as they could be before, they certainly were now that she halted and looked over his features searchingly, taking in his namesake and comparing it to the vivid color that rested hot beneath his skin. He half expected mocking laughter to follow, because it truly was just a ridiculous name with which no child should ever have to be saddled. Abroad, he had allowed its use to differentiate himself from his siblings, and most of his men had assumed it referred to the flush of anger (for he did have a flash-fire temper), but it was obvious at the moment that it was not anger which dyed his face bright red.

Yet, the unpleasant laughter never came. Instead, she nearly cooed. “There is no need to be embarrassed! That is so sweet!”

“It is not exactly dignified,” he protested, feeling off-kilter now that she had defied his expectations (that she would flee in the opposite direction once he made his apologies) and failed to mock him for his unfortunate name (instead seeming enamored rather than horrified). “My brothers have frequently informed me that Atar wanted her to change it, and that she refused to do so despite his protests.”

“I would not have changed it either,” Eruanna told him, and her arm squeezed around his. “I think it suits you, and it helps bring you back down to earth, what with being named after a King. It is more personable, and very affectionate.”

Thankfully, they reached the drink table, because Morifinwë most definitely needed a drink. Right now.

Still red-faced, eyes averted out of mortification, he grabbed two glasses and all but shoved the second in her general direction. This was far too stressful, and he needed to make an escape before he did something extremely foolish, like decide not to leave this woman’s side for the rest of the evening.

“So, do you wish for me to call you by your ataressë then?” she added, “Since you seem not very fond of your amilessë.”

“No,” he said quickly, before he could think better of it. “You can… you can call me by Carnistir. I do not mind. Coming from you, in any case. From my brothers, on the other hand…” Well, they never used the name in any way that did not involve teasing in order to incite his wildfire temper. Part of him knew they did it for fun because they could rouse his ire every single time, but the rest…

Well, one does not recover from being looked down upon and sneered at by their own parent so easily. Morifinwë had never been courageous enough to do anything to outright earn his sire’s fury—not like Turkafinwë, who did his best to annoy and anger anyone and everyone simply out of spite and boredom, who could stare into Fëanáro’s shouting, rage-twisted face without so much as batting an eyelash in alarm—but the fourth brother certainly was more than capable of earning the man’s dark-eyed scorn just by being obedient, quiet and constantly and utterly terrified of doing wrong. Never mind that anyone in the right mind would be terrified of someone as wildly unpredictable and full of spiteful fury as Fëanáro had been.

As weak-willed and soft as his amilessë implied, so Atar would have said. Had said. On more than one occasion.

Still, when she said it in her sweet voice, her eyes carrying no disgust or malicious intent, it seemed not so terrible after all. “Come then, let us find somewhere less crowded to speak until the dancing begins, Prince Carnistir,” she said, tugging on his arm again, giving him that smile that made his legs feel just a little inconsistent, like his joints had melted and his bones collapsed.

He let her pull him in and sweep him away. So easily. He was nodding before he even realized that he had moved.

This was a terrible idea.

But he was going along with his instinct instead of his logic anyhow. As ever he did.

\---

Wine, bitterness and resentment were never a good combination.

Given that all three were present to varying extents in the bodies and minds of so many members of their estranged family, it was hardly a surprise that interactions would deteriorate as the night progressed from polite socializing to drinking and revelry. As much as Istelindë wished for them to make good with their uncles and cousins, as much as some of them desired to feel the warmth of welcome and support from their family in a way they had not since before everything crumbled and collapsed beneath their feet, Pityafinwë had doubted from the start that it could happen, that this errand would end in anything but pain and disappointment.

It was a mistake to ever come within twenty paces of Turukáno Nolofinwion. No matter that the man’s wife was present—a supposed softening force to tone down his cousin’s ice-cold temper—it was still foolish to allow their approach. It did not matter that Lady Elenwë offered a long-suffering smile as she tugged her reluctant spouse along. It did not matter that Turukáno was one of his cousins, and they had promised Istelindë they would try for reconciliation.

This was the moment he and his brothers had been dreading. The moment their good intents were shattered beneath the fists and tempers of the men of the House of Finwë.

It started with pleasantries and got worse from there.

Lady Elenwë must have decided that the twins were her safest bet for a friendly interaction between their families. A misconception if ever there was one. Telufinwë might have been tamed by the flames of Losgar, but Pityafinwë’s mild temperament had only soured into resentment. For his father and for the cousins his brother sought to rescue.

It was ironic, in a way. Because Pityafinwë might just hate Turukáno and his family as much as Turukáno hated him and his brothers in return.

Therefore, the first thing he did was step directly between his younger twin and his cold-eyed cousin. “Turukáno,” he greeted calmly, voice devoid of the darkness that comprised his thoughts. “It has been some time, has it not, since we last saw one another.”

Elenwë opened her mouth to speak—probably to try and drive the conversation to safer territory. But neither Pityafinwë nor Turukáno, both half a dozen glasses of wine in at least, had any interest in keeping the conversation calm and distantly pleasant. Perhaps, if the couple had approached Kanafinwë instead, his older brother would have tried to keep the peace between them in that desperate way he always had, working hard to mend fences and soothe tempers, to prevent everything from coming apart at the seams. But Pityafinwë was no replacement for his sad older brother.

“Indeed, the last I saw of any of you was at Mereth Aderthad, making good and pretending you had done no wrong. Or, in the case of your brother there, before that only in the darkest night on the shores of Araman. Before you and your kin fled across the ocean at the whims of your insane sire,” Turukáno commented, and his eyes flickered from Pityafinwë, who did not even flinch beneath the expected ire, to rest upon Telufinwë instead. “Would that you had been better men, then our families might not have been parted at all.”

Pityafinwë had his mother’s temper, and it had been simmering so long that it felt like molten earth running through his veins when the accusatory look transferred from his person to that of his younger brother. Of any of his siblings, Telufinwë was deserving of such blame and ire _the very least,_ and it _rankled_ that Turukáno sought to put any blame at all upon one who had given his life in an attempt to go back and salvage the tatters of brotherhood between their families, who had tried to prevent the tragedy of the crossing of Helcaraxë which had made their cousin so cold and so unforgiving as the icy winds of the north. All it would take was one wrong word, and Pityafinwë knew that the fists clenched at his sides would instead be flying towards the bitter man’s harshly-lined face.

Would that it were his father’s face instead. But this was a satisfactory alternative.

And then he felt Telufinwë’s hand at his elbow, glanced down and stared at the scars of burns that ran like distorted lace across discolored skin. His brother’s hands had been burned trying to smother the flames consuming his body, so Telufinwë had told him once, leaving them ruined and shaky. Capable of lifting and other less graceful tasks, but not of writing or tying laces or anything else requiring fine motor skill.

Glancing to the side, he met his brother’s eyes. In days long past, their positions would have been reversed. Telufinwë hotheadedly preparing to throw himself into a loud and raucous row with his cousin, and Pityafinwë playing the voice of reason, holding him back.

Now, his little brother was imploring him silently not to make a scene.

_I can do this… It is one conversation. I can remain civil in Turukáno’s presence for a single conversation._

Hissing out a breath through his clenched teeth, Pityafinwë tried his best to calm even beneath the onslaught of his own fury-racing blood coursing still like fire beneath his skin. He struggled not to be caught alight and undone. “You are entitled to your opinion on my family’s doings, cousin, though I find it an ignorant one at best. But think you not that this is not the forum to discuss such things?”

“I _think_ that this is an excellent time to discuss the rotten deeds of your family. In public where all can hear the extent of your crimes,” his cousin answered icily, much to the obvious distress of his wife, who was now looking on wide-eyed as her attempt at family interaction rapidly spiraled out of control. It really was not her fault that she knew the twins not, that she had pushed together the cold front of her husband’s deeply-seeded hatred and the fiery heat of Pityafinwë’s resentful anger, resulting in a perfect storm of lightning-laced words meant entirely to wound and to humiliate.

“It would serve you all well to have the peaceful people of Valinórë reminded of your barbaric acts,” Turukáno continued while Pityafinwë forced himself not to speak, not to defend, and not to punch his drunken cousin in the nose. “It is a pity all house House failed to perish in the fire that look your brother in retribution of the stealing of the ships and the breaking of your vows of brotherhood.”

“Speak not of things you understand not,” Pityafinwë growled out, sensing Telufinwë’s sudden spike of distress in the way his body tensed, in the way his hands trembled hard, in the way he took a step back and moved into the older twin’s shadow. “You know nothing of Telufinwë. Say what you want about the rest of us, for we were cowards in the face of our father’s wrath. But _he_ tried to _help you and yours,_ Eru only knows _why_ when you were revealed to be such an ungrateful _bastard,_ and he _died_ for it! For you!”

The laugh that Turukáno released was high and chilly, and Pityafinwë’s skin crawled. Nearby people who had been trying up to that point to ignore the interaction no longer could, and many flinched back sharply at the snarl and the threatening step forward that Pityafinwë gave.

“What good did that do any of us?” Turukáno finally said, and his smile was as the sharpened edge of a spear of quartz, beautiful but dangerous. Though his wife made a grab for his arm, he brushed her aside and pushed forward until he was face-to-face with Pityafinwë’s wildfire rage, nary inches away. “He failed to do anything to help us. Did nothing but get himself slaughtered and the ships burned on the far shores. His sacrifice was _worthless!”_

Through the pound of his heartbeat in his ears, Pityafinwë distantly heard Lady Elenwë cry out in chastisement, saw from the corner of his red-tinted gaze that she grabbed at her husband’s elbow and tried to pull him away. But it was far too late for the older twin to reel the explosion of his temper back in and cage it beneath his flesh and within his bone.

Before he thought better of it, his fist was meeting Turukáno’s eye with a satisfying crack. He could not even care about the sudden jolt of electrical agony that snaked its way up his arm, letting him know that one of his fingers might be seriously out of order. Feeling the satisfaction of the release flowing like honey, sweet on his tongue and hot and heavy through his veins, he watched as Turukáno stumbled back to the sound of his wife’s soft shriek, a hand rising to cover the spot that had been assaulted while the other eye filled with involuntary tears of pain.

Unsurprisingly, Turukáno punched him back. Right in the jaw. The hard thud of flesh to flesh and bone to bone met his ears, but even the deep ache of the soon-to-be-bruised spot just to the side of his chin could not put a damper on the sudden excitement breathed in with the stifling party air and the scent of drink and fury. Both men sized each other up for a long moment—in which the people surrounding them had started to lightly panic and try to pull them apart—and their next meeting took them to the ground in a tangle of limbs and flying fists.

He thought he may have gotten in a few satisfying jabs at his cousin’s face and kidneys, at least. Though, he most definitely was thrown back onto the floor in the wake of his triumph, breaking his fall with his left hand (his wrist twanged sharply with discomfort) and then carrying backwards with the momentum to crack the back of his head against the floor.

That hurt. Lovely.

“Pityo?” A hand grabbed at the back of his collar, dragging him backwards and out of the fray before it even truly started. Much to his dissatisfaction. Still hissing and spitting like a riled feline, he glared up at the face of his older brother, Curufinwë, swimming in and out of view. His head must have been knocked around harder than expected, because the attempt to squint his eyes only led to a sharp pain in his temple and the back of his skull.

“What is going on here?” Curufinwë left him half-sprawled across the floor, moving to stand between him and Telufinwë and their enraged cousin.

“Hiding behind big brother Curvo, is that it?” Turukáno hissed out, looking shockingly infuriated despite the already-developing dark ring around his left eye. “I was just telling your baby brothers how all of you should have been so kind as to burn to death on the shores of Losgar so that the rest of us would never have had to deal with you! At least little Telvo had the good graces to die and rid us of his filth early on!”

Pityafinwë could not see his younger twin from this angle, did not know how the words may have affected the traumatized younger brother, but he _could_ see the way Curufinwë grabbed their cousin by the front of his tunic, flash-fire temper glowing in his white-hot eyes. “Speak such slander again! I dare thee!”

Turukáno spat at Curufinwë. And Curufinwë blackened his other eye.

 _Good,_ Pityafinwë thought maliciously, never mind that trying to sit up had his head spinning and bile rising in the back of his throat. _I want to see him bleed._

Unfortunately, he did not get to see too much. Before Curufinwë could do much more than make Turukáno look like a blossoming racoon and receive a split lip and bruised knuckles in return, two women shoved their way between the fighting males. Even a Fëanárion was not ill-bred enough to risk harming a woman by continuing a fight with such intervening forces in the path of destruction. Besides that, one was Turukáno’s golden-haired wife, Lady Elenwë, pressing her palm to Turukáno’s heaving chest and pushing him back, and the other was Lady Lindalórë, Curufinwë’s estranged wife, both her arms wrapped around one of his, pulling him back and to the side.

 _I guess Curvo will not be able to flee from his wife the entire night after all,_ Pityafinwë could not help but think even as he registered the woozy feeling of losing his balance and nearly falling backwards, stopped only by the appearance of Telufinwë’s hands on his shoulders to hold him steady as he swayed.

He did not have much focus to be concerned about the state of his older brother’s marriage, however. Instead, he very much focused on not retching back up the six and a half glasses of wine he had already downed tonight.

Tomorrow morning was going to be hellish.

But at least he had gotten the chance to punch Turukáno in the face.

_Worth it._

\---

It was not until he had practically been _forced_ into seated position that Curufinwë became fully aware of exactly who had grabbed his arm and pulled him away from pummeling Turukáno into dust. Not until he felt the sting of his knuckles and the drip of blood from his lower lip did reality swell back into the forefront of his thoughts, overcoming the burning fury that had claimed him momentarily when Turukáno had insulted his younger brother (Telvo, the only one of them who did not deserve, at least in some small part, that scorn) and spat in his face.

The imprint of small hands now rested in his skin, circled about his forearm and his bicep, sinking down to melt holes into his very spirit. He had not felt those hands upon him since before the Darkening.

Lindalórë. Eru, she was here. She had intervened.

The rage was replaced by something that might have been panicked terror. What else could describe this feeling of his lungs constricting beneath the tight band of his ribs, of his heart beating wildly out of control at the base of his throat, of his hand twitching helplessly upwards to brush against his neck, to trace the links of a chain that was no longer there? His injuries were minor, but he still felt a little sick, a little nauseous.

Just a few yards away, Telufinwë and Lindalórë were collectively peeling Pityafinwë off the ground, the older twin swaying unsteadily between them as they assisted him in walking upon his clearly nonfunctional legs. There was a massive bruise now crawling up and over one cheek, and his left wrist hung limply, fingers dangling, the joint looking slightly bent out of shape.

Normally, seeing such a thing would push Curufinwë right back into his overprotective fury, would have him daydreaming about breaking Turukáno’s wrist over his knee in retribution. But he was too distracted by his own fear for even that.

Lindalórë was walking towards him.

And she was beautiful. As perfect as ever. Still tall, still holding herself upright so confidently, dressed in deep blues and reds fitting of her full-blooded Noldorin heritage. Everything about her, from her trailing dark hair folded into intricate knots, to her narrowed emerald eyes, to her perfect, soft skin looked jewel-toned and sculpted. Like she always had before, she now left him feeling a bit breathless and stunned, because this woman had _married him,_ and he could never understand why.

Except, they had not spoken since the night he had left her crying on the doorstep of their shared home. Just like that, he felt his stomach flip, and he could not bear to look upon her face, too ashamed that she might catch him staring and look back with disdain.

He would have deserved it.

“Here,” he heard her voice, “Let us get him seated, and then I shall call for a healer to come and tend him. _Both of them.”_ Curufinwë flinched at the scold in her voice, the sharpness of the undertone, the disapproval that she always aired whenever he lost his temper in public and made a spectacle. “Honestly, what were you men thinking, the whole lot of you? Can you _never_ simply _walk away_ from an altercation? And Turukáno is no better!”

Telufinwë, of course, said nothing, and Pityafinwë’s words were slightly slurred. Considering how hard he had cracked his head against the floor (loud enough that everyone within hearing distance had turned to look and winced back in instinctive sympathy), Curufinwë would not be surprised if his little brother was barely conscious, let alone lucid enough to be having an argument with an angry woman.

Women always won those arguments anyway. He knew that from personal experience.

They settled in Pityafinwë at his side, and Curufinwë continued to look down at the floor. Suddenly, the tiled pattern of five-petaled flowers was intensely fascinating. It was not perfectly repeating, and he could have counted all the ways it broke for a century to keep from meeting her gaze as her heels clicked across the floor in his direction.

“Well, have you nothing to say for yourself, Curufinwë?”

Shuddering, he glanced up at her face.

Aiya, she was angry. Of course, she was. Having to intervene on his behalf, to keep him from causing trouble. From experience, he also knew that trying to argue against her now would lead to nothing but more chastisement, so he bit his lip against the justifications that wanted to rise up and make themselves known. That Turukáno had insulted and belittled his little brother. That Turukáno had disrespected him and his family by spitting in his face.

Instead, he looked away and shook his head.

She let out that sigh. The long-suffering one that usually meant she was still upset but also knew that _he_ knew that he had misbehaved. “And look what you have done to your lip, as well, even after all the trouble Princess Istelindë probably went to in making you all presentable in polite society.”

On his cheek, he felt her hand, tilting his face upwards so that she could see the place where his lip was swollen and bled sluggishly. A tiny handkerchief appeared in his line of vision, and she dabbed at the cut gently. One of her hands touched his (Eru, but she was actually _touching his hand!)_ and lifted the limb, pressing his palm against the small cloth covering his injury. “Hold that there to staunch the bleeding. I shall return shortly, vennonya.”

And, just like that, she slipped into the crowd and vanished.

Had he… imagined that? A Lindalórë mirage brought on by one strike to the face too many? That she had even spoken to him left his lungs airless, struggling to reinstate normal breathing for all that they wanted to hold the air in and suffocate him beneath the shock.

Glancing over at the twins, Telufinwë hovering and Pityafinwë nearly swooning, he blinked. And blinked again.

No, this was happening.

Lindalórë was going to be back.

And he knew that he had promised himself that he would face her. He knew that he had spent hours upon hours thinking of what he might say or do when they met again. He knew that he should sit right here and wait for her to come back, and then they would resolve this situation one way or another. Like adults. Like the married couple they were in truth.

But the rest of him was overwhelmed with the need to flee. Immediately.

Stumbling slightly, he pushed himself upright, fully intending to hobble off into the shadows and make himself scarce for the rest of the night. Like the coward he truly was.

And he would have, had a firm hand not pushed him right back down.

 _Telvo,_ he recognized hazily through the pain and the drink and the terror. Recognized the stern look on that face swimming in and out of view. Knew that his baby brother was not about to let him run away.

_Damn it all._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:
> 
> amilessë (Q) = mother-name  
> ataressë (Q) = father-name  
> Amillë (Q) = Mother  
> Atar (Q) = Father  
> Nolofinwion (Q) = son of Nolofinwë  
> vennonya (Q) = my husband


	17. Like A Current In My Skin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath of the inter-family bloodshed, as well as some other good stuff ;) and not so good stuff...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: cousin incest, explicit sex scene, rough sex, biting, scratching, unsafe sex, sex between unmarried people (an affair? sort of?), aftermath of injuries, drunkenness, thinking about sex, attempted sexual assault/rape, groping
> 
> So, my friends, my sister has convinced me that, because today is a holiday, I should double-post and introduce some new characters. Here is a second chapter. The things I will reiterate again if you did not thoroughly read the above warnings: 
> 
> 1\. The sex scene is explicit _cousin incest_ , so if you're not down for that, you will have problems with the rest of this fic (or you could pretend they're more distantly related then they are)  
> 2\. There is an attempted sexual assault at the end of this chapter. If that triggers you, please skip it. I don't want to get into a lengthy debate about whether or not elves are capable of rape here, but in this verse they definitely are and it definitely almost happens, so I wanted to give you a head's up just in case.
> 
> Maedhros = Maitimo = Nelyafinwë = Nelyo  
> Maglor = Makalaurë = Kanafinwë = Káno  
> Celegorm = Tyelkormo = Turkafinwë = Turko  
> Caranthir = Carnistir = Morifinwë = Moryo  
> Curufin = Atarinkë = Curufinwë = Curvo  
> Amrod = Ambarussa = Pityafinwë = Pityo  
> Amras = Umbarto = Telufinwë = Telvo  
> Turgon = Turukáno  
> Aredhel = Írissë  
> Finarfin = Arafinwë

Halfway through the night, Turkafinwë spotted his cousin Turukáno stalking through the crowd, parting people left and right to make way as he swept forward, trailed by his dainty, golden-haired wife. Elenwë looked somewhat windswept and upset, her mouth downturned and strained. Judging by the blood crusted just under her husband’s nose and the pair of burgeoning black eyes blooming as dark flowers across his face, it was probably because he had lost his temper and started—or, at the very least, participated in—a fight recently. Recently enough to very obviously be sulking.

He came within a few feet of the pair, Turkafinwë and Írissë, took one look at them arm-in-arm, pressed indecently close, and let out a sound of impotent rage and scorn, like the very sight of his silver-haired cousin was beyond offensive. Those eyes could have frozen Turkafinwë solid for all their pale, icy hatred.

“Cursed Fëanárioni, why can you not just…” He released another frustrated snarl. For a moment, Turkafinwë wondered if he ought brace himself for an attack.

Then, as fast as he had come, the enraged Nolofinwion was gone in an offended flurry of sapphire robes and dark hair, seemingly too repulsed to even stand within sight of one of the so-named cursed bloodline.

“Well, that look certainly suits dear cousin Turukáno,” Turkafinwë commented lightly, watching his cousin’s form disappear into the sea of party-goers. And it rather did. While the third brother took not his cousin’s hatred as personally as did some of his siblings—he was used to being despised and reveled in the discomfort of those who shuddered and scorned his presence, delighting in riling them up until they exploded—even he was not very fond of dealing with their temperamental cousin. Somewhere, deep down, he knew that Turukáno was not so very bad, that resentment could twist a man in many unpleasant ways, but the rest of him thought that the other man’s level of sheer self-pity over the death of his wife (who was now reborn, for the Valar’s sake!) was a bit overstated and excessive.

Turning, he looked over at his cousin, who was watching her older brother depart with a flat look lacking even the slightest bit of pity. “You know, cousin Turko, I agree. It rather does suit him. Sometimes, I think Turno needs to be punched in the face, brought down a few notches, taught that he knows not everything the world has to offer. He has a poor tendency to always believe himself to be in the right.”

Well, clearly Turukáno was getting no sympathy from his little sister.

“I will not be surprised if Curvo shows up wearing matching black eyes. He is the most likely to have lost his temper and given in to the urge to paint Turukáno’s face black and blue.”

“And you would not have done the same?” Írissë asked teasingly, pulling him off to the side. As they had been all night, the circling male vultures were held back from pursuing the beautiful silver-clad lady by the presence of her Kinslayer bodyguard-cum-living shield. “Pretend not that you have not the same temper as you brothers.”

“Now, now, I would have worked hard to make Turukáno angry enough to try and scratch my eyes out before I ever was forced to land the first blow,” he insisted with a shark-like grin. “Acting in anger is hardly my way.”

“You can be rather infuriating like that. Would that you simply flew into fury like your brothers, you might not be so dangerous. Or so interesting,” she agreed. As though she was not constantly just as infuriating to deal with for her siblings. “So, cousin, the hour grows late. How shall we spend the rest of the night? I grow tired of this tame party. Soon, Uncle Arafinwë is going to ask the singers and dancers to perform the traditional pieces, and I have seen them a thousand times before already.”

“We could go,” he suggested, wrapping an arm around her waist and steering her towards the door. “The entire city is nothing but a conglomeration of drunken revelry.”

“I was thinking more like the gardens,” she refuted, “Or, perhaps, deeper into the palace. Somewhere with a little more privacy.”

_A little more privacy?_

It had not really occurred to him until that point, because he and Írissë had been friendly but never _involved,_ that she might be luring him off alone for some extracurricular entertainment. But she was a widowed woman, hardly a demure young virgin. Old enough to decide what she wanted to do and experienced enough to be fun and adventurous.

Besides, she was lovely to look upon and they got along well. Perhaps they were slightly related, but Turkafinwë found that he cared little about such things. She was a tolerable female suggesting a sexual liaison, and he had not gotten into a lady’s bed in quite some time.

“I think there should be a sitting room off to the side somewhere in this direction where we might glean some privacy,” he recalled, nearly pushing her giggling form out the door. The wine in her glass came precariously close to spilling, sloshing right up to the rim of her glass and scattering in little bloody droplets. Not that he was doing much better, rocking back on his heels beneath the sudden appearance of her weight up against his chest, her arms snaking around his neck and her hands tugging at his braid.

Reckless, wild and spontaneous as ever, he let her pull him down into a sloppy kiss, sinking into her taste, the sweetness of summer berries and the heady flavor of rich wine. His arm around her waist pulled her along as he backpedaled further into the maze of hallways, hazily trying to figure out which rooms might not be occupied.

Still kissing, still barely coming up for breath before each new dive, they pressed up against a few doors, taking just long enough for one or the other to jiggle the handle, until they found one that opened into a darkened maw. Unoccupied. Perfect.

He kicked the door closed and pressed her up against the wood with a thud, groaning into her mouth as he felt her hands drag down his back with the faint score of nails, coming to rest on his ass and squeeze. The sensation shot up his spine, flashing white behind his eyes, leaving heat pooling heavily in the pit of his belly. In return, he raked his hands up her thighs, listening to her sigh against his mouth as he tangled in his fingers the layers of pale fabric as he went, dragging them up and up until his hands met her soft, bare skin. One of her hands reached down to help hold her plethora of skirts in place as his right hand grasped at her undergarments and pulled downwards.

“Off,” she hissed as their mouths parted, tugging at the undesirable fabric. “Tyelkormo, get them off. I want them off.”

Falling to his knees on the carpeted floor, he pulled the undergarments the rest of the way down to her feet while she held her skirts back. She kicked them off to the side, and he was distracted by her delicate little ankles and her slender, flexing calves, admiring them with his callused palms as he rose back up, one hand finding the hollow in the back of her knee—lifting the joint up and out of the way—and the other finding the dampness of the dark curls at her apex.

His mouth blocked the loud noise that vibrated in her throat as he dragged his fingers down her slit, taking in the blazing heat and petal-soft smoothness of her sex. She was just as aroused as he, her pearl swollen beneath the harsh rub of his fingertips. Pinching and circling with his thumb had her squealing loudly into his neck, her hands clawing at the back of his shoulders, dragging the powder blue of his beautifully made (and now wrinkled) tunic up over his skin. As eagerly as he had touched her between her legs, she cupped him between his, cradling the heavy weight of his cock and his sac, rolling the heel of her palm against him through his leggings, and then pulling gracelessly at the ties holding the fabric barrier in place.

Very little made him feel so hot beneath his skin, so overwhelmed and uncontrolled, as such forward and exuberant acceptance of his rough advances. Hissing at the pleasure that rolled over his body in waves from the place where she stroked, he simultaneously pressed two fingers deep into her heat and sank his teeth into the white skin of her throat.

“Tyelko!” Her whole body arched and swayed upwards, driving her hips towards the digits buried to the knuckle in her dripping opening. Her touches ceased, her palms pressing back against the wall to support her as she tried to get closer, to push him deeper, to incite the movement that they both desperately craved.

He sunk his teeth into her again, and the way she cried out in bliss had white flashing behind his eyes. Now, he absolutely needed his leggings out of the way. He absolutely needed his turgid cock sunk to the hilt in her velvety heat. And he needed it _right now._

Would that he had more hands, for he was loath to pull away from where his fingers stretched her open, drove into her in slow, deep dives that made her sigh and shiver where she was pressed to the door. Yet, he had to pull away (felt a sharp pang of need in his loins when she released a disappointed, inciting whine, one of her hands reaching out to try and pull his back between her legs) and reach for the ties of his leggings, harshly pulling until the knots came undone. She must have seen what he was doing despite his head bowed over her, his mouth leaving a trail of marks up her otherwise untouched throat, for her fingers caught in the fabric and shoved it down.

No need to remove it entirely. He was fully erect and burning, letting out an animalistic growl when she squeezed and then began to tug in strokes that were just the perfect amount of tight and give and speed and softness. Fuck, she knew what she was doing! Knew what it was doing to him!

Well, he would have to match her, attack for attack. With a groan deep-seated in his chest, he reached down and picked her right up off the ground, almost violently shoving her into the heavy wood of the door—anyone walking by would have heard that, could have guessed what was happening on the other side—with his arms beneath her legs, opening her thighs wide to make room for him as he stepped in closer.

Not that she was not a willing participant. “Tyelko,” she moaned out, grasping him again and pointing him directly where he wanted to go. “Tyelko, I want you inside of me. Right now!”

If he had had less to drink, if he were not so lost in the heat of the moment, in the shudder of his skin at her words and the thought of emptying his seed into her, he might have purred out a charming, “Yes, my lady,” in reply. Instead, he drove himself into her with all the strength he could muster in his thighs and hips and abdominals. His cock into her dripping channel. His teeth into the softness of her breast just shy of the low-cut collar of her gown. As though he had stabbed her, her body jolted and writhed, speared through, her hands near-tearing the fabric beneath her nails as they curled into fists and yanked.

Well, if Istelindë’s hard work was ruined, it would be for a good cause. Because Turkafinwë was breathless from the clench of hot, rippling muscle around his sensitive organ. This… he had not had this in so _long,_ he had not realized how much he missed it, how much the lack itched uncomfortably beneath his skin and jittered anxiously in his muscles, not until he had come home within her body. One instead of two.

He moaned her name, long and low, and she echoed his back. For that long moment, they reveled in each feeling the other, connected so intimately.

And then he moved.

Thrust into her almost wildly to match the frantic grabbing and groping of her faintly uncoordinated hands on his back and shoulders and chest. Leaning down near where the cleave of her breasts was showing invitingly, he felt the drag of a nipple against his cheek and turned his head, mouth and teeth clamping down upon it through the pale fabric.

Her heels banged sharply against his back, wrapping around him and holding him deep as her inner walls spasmed. “Oh _Eru,_ Tyelkormo, do not stop!”

He had not the mental capacity to tell her to pull her damn dress out of the way, nor the dexterity to hold her up with one arm so that he could rip the fabric out of the way himself. If he could, he would have _feasted_ on her breasts, left trails of swollen love marks around each ripe bud, for each time he nipped at her skin he felt her insides clench into a molten vice around him, and he was rewarded with another bolt of white lightning up his spine and between his legs.

As it was, he contented himself with what he could get with her sensitive nipples covered up by the damp fabric. He would fuck her hard against this door until they both came undone, and, when they were done here, they would use the sofa across the room as well. And _then_ he would certainly peel her dress down to her waist, in strips and tatters if need be, so that he could find out if her nipples were the same delectable, deep raspberry red as her lips when swollen and hardened with arousal.

For now, he pulled away, panting harshly into the curtain of her dark hair as he drove himself in and out of her as hard and fast as he could manage in this position, feeling dizzy as she rocked into his thrusts in tandem and scraped her teeth down the side of his throat. Clearly, she was enjoying it just as much as he, for her voice had gone high and reedy, her cries of his name echoing as fast as she could breathe them out beneath the violent shaking of their frantic pace. Already, through the haze of arousal and the lightheaded excitement of doing something so taboo and explicit with his own female cousin, he knew he was going to come soon. This would be no long, drawn-out encounter. Already, the tightening of the coil at the base of his spine was growing too taut to ignore. Each time her inner walls fluttered and clenched, each time he bit her white skin and she arched and sobbed out his name, he drew closer to that knife’s edge.

So close to going over. _So close._

“Should I empty myself into you?” he hissed out against her neck. “I ought to pull out, to not risk it, but… but I want to fill you.”

He wanted her to feel him as he came into her, as deeply as he could reach. He wanted her to know that he left his seed inside her body, that part of him would remain inside her even when he was forced to pull out when he softened. He wanted her to look between her legs later and find the stain of his seed on her intimate petals and know that he had owned her there as thoroughly as she currently owned him.

And he did not care that he should not. He never cared to follow rules.

But he would not do it against her will. He had spent enough time in his life fighting against people who wanted to tell him what to do and when because they thought they had the right to control his being without his permission. He would not be such an oppressor. This was only what he wanted if she wanted it, too. If she would see his seed drip out of her entrance later and shudder in the aftershock of their violent arousal. If she would think of his spend deep inside her and moan with need even after he had brought her over the edge and into the afterglow.

At his words, her hands dropped to grasp at his buttocks, nails digging into the exposed skin. Gooseflesh raced over his body, a shock running up his spine like electricity through a copper wire. His breath hitched.

She leaned in close, her delectable lips fluttering over his cheekbone and then hovering over his gaping mouth. “Fill me, Tyelkormo,” she demanded. Only the words were canted such that they seemed the plea of a beggar rather than the decree of a princess. Her hands squeezed and her legs locked, and she pulled him in like she meant to swallow him into her body whole and drain the life out of him like one of the spider-beasts of the Hither Lands.

He would be happy to die here, buried up to his balls in her depths, drowning in the sweet scent of vanilla and rose and wine on her breath. If she wanted to consume all of him, take him inside her, he would not resist.

With a stuttered hitch of his hips, he bit into her breast a final time and released. It felt like a minor explosion behind his eyes, driving him to instinctively rock deeper and deeper with each subsequent quaking wave that shuddered through his muscle and bone. Fuck, but he was putting his cum into her, and she was loving it, squeezing so tight around him, voice high-pitched with desperate repetitions of his name, of “Tyelko, inside me!” and “Please, yes!” and other less intelligible but no less delectable tangles of words.

And then, when it became too much finally, he pulled out, weak in the knees. Both gasped at the sudden wash of cold air over their previously joined sexes. But, unlike Turkafinwë, who had reached his peak and would need time to rile himself back into a state in which he could continue to mate with her unhindered, Írissë had not yet had her orgasm.

He would have to fix that. Immediately.

Before his legs could give out on him, he carried her to the sofa and dropped her against the mound of cushions at one end. Kneeling between her spread legs, he yanked the collar of her gown down, hearing the rip of the fine fabric as he went, and almost salivated at her breasts, full and round with her large, beautiful, _begging_ teats sticking up and out for him to suckle and bite and tweak between his fingers until she cried. There was no force upon this earth that could have stopped him from taking one between his fingers and pinching it tightly, rubbing and twisting just to watch her gasp and look down upon his assault with wide, heat-stricken eyes and indecently parted, saliva-glistening lips.

He tugged harshly on the sensitive bud. “I want to sink my teeth into you here,” he admitted to her, leaning in close to hiss the words against her delicately-pointed ear. “I want you to feel the sting of your nipples against the fabric of your dress later—later tonight and tomorrow and a week from now—and think of how they became so sore.”

“Big words,” she gasped out, though the way her inner thighs tensed and her fingers dropped to circle her clitoris gave away her arousal. “Are you going to make good on such threats, Tyelko?”

Normally, he would have said that inciting him was the stupidest thing anyone could do. Challenging him inevitably ended in his competitive, domineering nature rising up like a monster in the night, red-eyed and ravenous for blood. But this had nothing to do with ruining reputations or slaughtering those who had done him wrong. This made the cooling furnace of his arousal suddenly start its climb to the peak of his need again. Half-hard, his eyes moved from her face, from her rosy cheeks and half-hooded, daring blue eyes down to her heaving breasts, swollen and exposed and waiting, to her nipple captured between his finger and thumb, squeezed tight enough that it must have hurt.

He pinched harder just to hear her moan and see the wave of her body responding.

Without thinking, he put his teeth to her skin again. In a ring right around the tight bud his fingers had been abusing. One moment of relief before he gently had it between his teeth, tugging her tender skin, his hand cupping the undercurve to hold the soft orb aloft for his assault. Harder and harder, sucking and then nipping and then _biting_ until her voice cracked on his name.

Dipping his other hand down, he bypassed where she pleasured herself in fast, circular strokes, instead driving two fingers deep. Pulling them out, fighting against the heated glove of her inner muscles, and then pushing in three.

His mouth switched to the other nipple, until then untouched. But not before he saw how deep a red the first had become beneath his mouth. The faint marks of his teeth in her skin around the areola, the rest the deep, rich color of new bruising, red and swollen. Harder than before, his fingers pushed into her, driving the air from her lungs in a wail. Eru, he needed the other to match, needed both nipples to have the mark of his mouth.

Her breasts and her throat and her thighs and her sex. All of it. He wanted to see himself imprinted into every part of her, wanted her to want it again and again, wanted the scrape of her nails over his neck, leaving harsh red scores and wheals, wanted the simultaneous feeling of power and helplessness as he caged her beneath his body and gave in to her seduction beneath a tide of mindless need.

Maybe it was the alcohol, or maybe it was the celibacy, or maybe it was just that they both craved the closeness, the comfort, the rough wildness and the adventure. Because he had imagined ruining Lúthien Tinúviel like to this a thousand times before, but having Írissë beneath his hand and his mouth, crying for him as he closed his teeth on her skin, as she frantically rubbed at her center of pleasure and rolled her hips up into the piston of his fingers, had him harder faster than any fantasy of the Sindarin Princess ever had. And he had just come not minutes ago!

Just like this, struggling up the incline to the edge, it was exhilarating. Her breath against his ear and neck, harsh and warm and wet. Her other hand pulling his hair free of its knots and ties and leaving it wrecked, his scalp aching as she almost ripped the locks loose in reaction to another nip or suck or thrust of his fingers. Her inner walls closing in, tighter and tighter, rippling with the build of her orgasm until he could almost taste the sound of her shriek on the back of his tongue and see the color of the vice of her channel around his digits.

She was beautiful as she fell. Not the otherworldly perfection of Lúthien or the unnatural ecstasy of the Maiar of Vána or the half-hearted whimpering of some unknown whore or stranger in his bed to take off the edge. He looked at the way her eyes rolled back and fluttered closed around her star-dappled sky-eyes, the way her black hair spread like night-shadows across the downy fabric and cushions, the way the red of her bruises and marks stood out starkly against the alabaster of her pale, glowing body.

His tongue felt swollen, clogging the back of his throat as she calmed, as his fingers gentled into lenitive strokes against her contracting inner muscles. The biting changed to brushing licks and kisses, chasing away the phantoms stinging her flesh until she relaxed into his hold with a sigh. Surrendering to the bubbling golden glow suffusing her skin.

And there he was, hard as fucking stone and throbbing, eyes dipping down to stare at the red bloom of her sex. By the One, he wanted inside her again.

Naturally, she noticed as soon as her eyes opened again, her head rolling in his direction. Fingers fluttered over him teasingly, leaving his jaw clenched hard against a whine. She traced the veins, circled beneath the head, teased the crown of his sex while he sat there, helpless to do anything but long for more.

“I thought I might need to put my mouth on you to incite you to arousal again,” she told him, and the pit of lava in his belly bubbled and roiled at the image that flashed behind his eyes, of her supple form kneeling, her breasts bouncing as she rocked back on her heels and bobbed her head over his glistening sex. “But I see you have recovered sufficiently all on your own. Prepared for more already, Tyelko?”

“Fuck, yes,” he answered emphatically, almost embarrassingly quickly.

And she just laughed, her fingers circling between the inner folds of her sex and opening herself back up just to tease him, to show him how red and swollen and ready she still was for him to enter her, how his seed was slowly escaping along with her own glistening fluids. “Well, get on with it. You promised to impress, cousin.”

He was hardly going to turn down an offer like that.

Rolling over her without any further prompting, he entered her again—shuddered at the vibration of her low groan against his throat—and began to move.

And they tangled together once more. One rather than two.

And, for once, he felt content.

\---

Curufinwë was attempting to get up from his chair and flee.

Telufinwë, standing guard over his two older siblings who had injured themselves (unnecessarily) trying to defend his (nonexistent) honor, was not going to have any of that. The fifth brother’s face was still bleeding as he had forgotten to hold the handkerchief pressed to the wound that cut down the middle of his bottom lip, and, besides that, he swayed a little drunkenly in place. Probably, he would fall over the moment he got his unsteady feet beneath his full weight.

At least Pityafinwë was too wrecked and too drunk to refuse treatment. The younger twin spared his (slightly) older counterpart a momentary glance. Bruises, mostly, but there had been a pretty good knock to the skull. As long as his brother’s eyes continued to flutter open with a groan each time Telufinwë prodded his side sharply with a finger, he thought his twin would probably recover just fine. Most likely be absolutely miserable in the morning from the compounded hangover and migraine from the potential concussion, but otherwise more injured in pride, likely, than in body.

So, he turned his attention to Curufinwë. Startled silver eyes stared up at him as though he had appeared from nowhere at all, and Telufinwë frowned. Distracted. His brother was distracted. Face slack where it usually coiled and twisted into a snarl or a scowl, eyes wide where they were usually suspiciously narrowed. The flutter of the pulse at the base of his throat was just barely visible through skin, racing double-time.

Heedless of the fact that it was probably the sudden appearance of Curufinwë’s wife that had his brother in such a frenzied state, that Curufinwë was still not ready to meet her again face-to-face but had been pushed into this situation by fate or by chance, Telufinwë flattened his palm against his brother’s sternum and shoved his half-standing form back into the chair.

Of course, Curufinwë tried to stand again. And Telufinwë pushed him back down. Again. At the moment, his older sibling seemed to have all the strength of a newborn kitten to his name. And probably less balance even than that.

“Telvo,” his brother hissed out, “Get the hell out of my way!”

Telufinwë thought about it for a moment. And then shook his head with a half-smirk, amusement tinting his thoughts and swirling warm beneath his ribs. It was a rare thing, to get to see Curufinwë anything less than ill-tempered but put together, stalking for prey or making people cry, rather than this state of uncertainty and fear. The turnabout was satisfying, and Telufinwë wanted to enjoy his brother’s panic, the flash of it in the white flecks of silver eyes and the panted breaths escaping wetted lips, while it lasted.

Besides, like most of the rest of their siblings, he wanted Curufinwë and Lindalórë to _talk._ Even if they did not reconcile, their brother had been hiding up in the mountains, mooning and waning and longing, for too long already. If left to his own devices, he would _never_ be prepared to face his wife again, to either come together once more as one or break apart completely and eternally remain two.

Rejection would shatter Curufinwë. But his brothers would be there to piece him back together from scratch if need be. One tiny shard at a time.

However, it was time for the waiting to end.

“Telvo,” Curufinwë snarled, almost raged. But it failed to intimidate given that the anger was driven by such potent terror of _talking to a woman._

He pushed his brother down a third time and then crossed his arms, shooting his older sibling a bland, unamused look. The kind of look that belonged on the face of a parent staring down a disobedient, misbehaving child. It was something that he had picked up from Nelyafinwë, long-suffering as he could sometimes be when his little brothers were brats, and it seemed to make Curufinwë wince and sink down into his chair like a scolded boy.

“I cannot talk to her,” his brother very nearly begged. “Not here. Not now. It is not the right time, Telvo.”

He raised a sharp, disbelieving brow, silently scoffing. _When_ will _be the right time?_ That was what he would have asked. And he knew that Curufinwë’s honest (cowardly) answer would have been _never._

Too bad.

_You are not going anywhere until your wife has returned._

Naturally, Curufinwë sensed that his impossibly stubborn younger brother had decided to intervene and force his hand, and the older brother nearly _pouted,_ teeth bared threateningly, stained with blood from his split lip. “Meddler,” he accused, as though the insult were so terrible as being called a bastard or a Kinslayer or any other number of unpleasant monikers that tended to haunt the footsteps of their family.

Instead of being offended, he flashed a quick half-smile in his brother’s direction. And Curufinwë, while still furious and still nervous, seemed to calm just a little. Muscles that had before been vibrating with readiness to take flight were now lax and boneless against the chair, surrendered to the inevitable meeting from which Curufinwë could no longer dodge nor hide.

Satisfied at getting his way, Telufinwë remained standing between his two injured siblings, eyes flickering over their bruise-splashed faces and over the lingering gawkers in the crowd curious to see the state of the fierce and violent Fëanárioni. Personally, Telufinwë thought there was little to be seen other than his stupid older brothers swaying drunkenly likes blades of grass in a gentle breeze, but let the idiots of court have their fill. Let them be put off by the blood and the bruises and the way Curufinwë hissed through his teeth in pain as he shifted.

It was actually a relief to have an interruption to the boredom in the form of Lindalórë’s return tailed by a dark-haired female in the gray garb of the Healing House. Ignoring how Curufinwë winced back and hunkered down beneath his wife’s quiet-voiced scolds, he instead watched as the healer carefully tried to shift Pityafinwë such that his face was no longer tucked down and to the side, hiding beneath the blanket of red curls. His green eyes fluttered open, pupils wide and out of focus as he took in the stranger clucking and twisting his face this way and that to get a look at the blotch of red and faint purple spreading beneath his cheek and down over the edge of his jawline, already swollen on that side. Chewing would likely be painful for a few days judging by how inflamed that junction looked.

“Are these his only injuries?” she asked, and Telufinwë was slightly startled to realize that she was speaking to him directly, her deep brown eyes looking straight up into his face. Not even flickering in the direction of the twisted mass of scar tissue on his neck and cheek, but instead meeting his gaze directly as though she noticed nothing out of order about him at all.

It was surprisingly refreshing. Telufinwë decided that she was tolerable.

Reaching down, he grasped his brother’s limp left arm and pulled back the rich forest green sleeve of his tunic and the earthen brown of the long shirt beneath. While Pityafinwë snapped out his name between clenched teeth and sent him a glare, Telufinwë twisted the limb so that the healer could see how the joint was slightly out of place, the muscle and ligament around it achingly red and swollen nearly to twice its normal size.

“Ah,” she said, “Likely dislocated, but not broken, I would wager.”

Meanwhile, Pityafinwë was squinting up at her, clearly confused at the appearance of a strange woman center stage in his visual field. “Telvo? That is not right. You are not a beautiful, dark-eyed female. Telvo, is that really you?”

“Not at all,” the healer answered calmly, ignoring the sharp intake of breath her patient gave as she examined his limb. Then she looked up at Telufinwë again. “Hold him steady while I do a reduction. It might hurt, but it should be quick. He should have his wrist wrapped tightly afterwards for at least a few weeks.”

Telufinwë did not bother to inform her that they knew how to care for dislocated joints and much worse besides. Most people of Valinórë would have no idea what to do with a cut, let alone a misaligned bone or ligament. Instead, he simply gave a sharp nod and went down on one knee, holding his twin’s arm in place while the woman reached out and began to massage around the joint, searching for the misaligned bone that needed coaxing back into place.

At her touch, Pityafinwë growled out a curse. “And I thought you were lovely,” he grouched. But, for the most part, he stayed still and let her have her way, even when his brow furrowed downwards in pain and his teeth caught at his lower lip. There were worse things than having a bone set, as both brothers well remembered.

And then she was finished. Pityafinwë let out a sigh of relief.

“I believe the bone just above the wrist may be cracked as well,” she informed Telufinwë, completely ignoring her obviously drunken patient. “Is he always like this?”

The younger twin turned to stare at his older counterpart, who was staring at the woman like she hung the stars. Or maybe like he was contemplating devouring her whole. One or the other. The two were not so different for a Fëanárion. He shrugged in reply.

“Right,” she said. “Is there anything else?”

Carefully, Telufinwë reached down to poke at the back of his brother’s head, which had Pityafinwë letting out an annoyed snarl. “Telvo, what the fuck is that for? Fuck, my head hurts.”

The female then proceeded to bend Pityafinwë’s head forward to examine the back of his skull which, through the waves of his hair, had developed something of a knot right at the back. At least the healer could not see when Pityafinwë’s focus shifted from griping about his injury to staring at the swells of her breasts outlined by the sleek gray fabric of her gown. No cleavage showing, for the garb covered her all the way up to her throat, but it did not hide that she had an ample amount of curve for a woman her size. Mayhap not so slender as some of the proper ladies of the court who ate like starving birds, but not overly large either. Pleasantly rounded in all the right places, if one were so inclined.

Clearly, Pityafinwë was so inclined. Hopefully, not drunk or concussed enough to do anything too ridiculous or stupid around a beautiful woman. _Hopefully._

“No bleeding,” the healer announced. “He will have a nasty bruise and a bad headache, but he should recover just fine. Wake him every few hours tonight, and bring him to the Healing House tomorrow if he exhibits the same nausea and lack of coordination _after_ his hangover has diminished. And perhaps he could do with some better supervision. We healers were not expecting to be called out on a festival night, of all things, to fix up the split lips and bruised knuckles of fist-fighting drunkards.”

As always, Telufinwë remained silent, simply staring at the woman as she turned to stare at him back expectantly. Barely, his lips parted, and he contemplated trying for words, but, this time, too, they would not come. The back of his throat felt swollen shut, vocal chords straining against the sensation of being strangled. Telufinwë closed his mouth again with the clack of his teeth and averted his eyes.

“If there is nothing else,” she finally said, “I shall go and tend your other brother. I bid you a pleasant night, my lords.”

Briskly, she stood and crossed the space over to Lindalórë and Curufinwë, the former ordering the fifth brother to let the healer tend his lip despite the fact that it had ceased to bleed by now beneath not-so-gentle ministrations.

“She is lovely, think you not, Telvo?” Startled, his head whipped around to stare at Pityafinwë, who was being uncommonly talkative and hyper-focused. On a woman, of all things. Those green eyes traced the healer’s form up and down, over and over. “Hm, Telvo?”

The younger brother shrugged and reached down to help his older sibling up. Best that they put Pityafinwë to bed, for he would be of no more use this night. Alcohol would do nothing to help with the pain the next morning in any case, and Telufinwë would then get some peace and quiet of his own for the night. It was easier to hide in the shadows alone.

Well. He glanced down at the fiery gold of his tunic. It would have been if Istelindë had stuck with their typical aesthetic, deep greens and dark browns, rather than creating the silken form of flames and pairing it up with the youngest brother’s vibrantly russet hair. He might as well be glowing as well, wearing something so bright and ostentatious as this. Though, it at least was not bedecked in insane amounts of jewels as their father probably would have preferred. Overstated enough to be annoying but understated enough to not be as ridiculous looking as the tunics and doublets and stupid hats that were currently favored by the male population of court.

Letting out a half-disgusted sigh, he dragged his brother off in the direction of the door.

\---

It was on the way back that he encountered trouble.

Pityafinwë had gone grumpily to bed after having his outer layers peeled away. More bruises made themselves apparent, but nothing so terrible as the dislocated wrist. Despite his brother drunken ranting about Turukáno’s racoon-face and repeated questioning about the strange woman with the dark eyes— _“She was a healer tending your war wounds, Pityo,”_ he teased quietly—it only took about twenty minutes to tightly wrap his twisted wrist and then put him to bed like a child.

It took about thirty seconds for the older twin to be out like a blown candle flame. Not unusual for a drunken Pityafinwë.

Slipping from his brother’s room, Telufinwë made his way back towards the revelry. Maybe he should have a glass of wine after all, if only one, just to calm his nerves. So much for staying out of trouble for a single night. But, then, all of them had known it was a hopeless venture from the very start and, nevertheless, had made their best (but ultimately futile) effort to avoid ruining everything right from the start. Only for the sake of Istelindë’s compassionate little heart and her big, pleading eyes and her sweet voice calling them all “brother” and talking about how much she wished they would all be happy when she thought they could not hear.

One fewer men on the field of battle now. Probably for the best, given Pityafinwë’s hidden but explosive temper.

Turning into the main hallway, he could hear the distant sounds of talking floating like a discordant melody all its own above the silence. Beneath that, the sound of an orchestra preparing to begin their pieces—so the dancing would in truth begin, he thought—and the clink of plates and glasses being set down and picked up.

And, off to the side, the sound of a woman’s voice raised in alarm. Immediately, Telufinwë’s feet froze, planted firmly in parted stance on the carpeted floor. What he heard was too garbled for the words to be made out under the din of conversation, but he recognized distress when he heard it upon a voice. It cracked like glass, ringing through the air, sending a chill creeping down his spine in unpleasant droplets.

Turning away from the party, he headed to the right down a darkened hallway, eyes narrowing as the shadows closed in and the distant sounds of merrymaking dwindled again. But the soft sound of protests grew louder. Loud enough that he could begin to make out the words before he could see their origin.

“My lords, please, release me! I have done nothing to invite this upon myself, and I wish for you to cease!”

“Nothing to invite this upon yourself? Your bare legs are showing for all to see, dancer. Pretend not that you have not dressed yourself in such an immodest manner to attract male attention of the nobility and elite, woman. Now that you have what you want, quit this nonsense about playing coy.”

The male was very obviously drunk. His slurred words were followed by a slew of drunken chuckles and the sound of a woman letting out a soft sound of struggle, a low cry of distress as the sound of skin upon skin echoed through the darkness. Feeling something nasty and dark settling in the pit of his stomach, Telufinwë swiftly rounded the corner, taking in the scene with disbelieving and disgusted eyes.

She was beautiful, the woman. Dressed in soft, flowing fabric, sheer enough to see the shadows of her legs dancing nervously away from another advance. Otherwise, only her torso was covered, the softness of her skin on display from shoulder to hand, the collar of her gown dipping down in a deep plunge to her navel with only gem-littered mesh protecting her bareness. Deep oranges and reds, vibrant yellows and even flashes of blinding white, rippling like liquid when light met and refracted across her body. Her skin was sun-kissed, her lips dyed red, and her eyes painted with rich jeweled tones.

It was like looking at someone dressed to mimic the dangerous dance of flame. Telufinwë’s hair stood on end, a shudder racing uncontrollably across his skin. The tremors in his hands grew sharp and jagged, and he fought them with the curl of his fists until his nails bit into the rough skin of his palms.

She had a red handprint upon her cheek, vivid and fresh.

He stared at her, half-horrified and half-stunned. His muscles did not want to move, though his brain screamed that all of this was wrong. These men had harmed her, a defenseless woman, for no other reason than that she refused their sexual advances. What did it matter how she was dressed or why? It should not be keeping his feet firmly glued to the ground when he _should_ be darting forward and planting matching red marks on the face of every man who thought he had the right to harass and degrade a female simply because she was not of the same powerful upper class. So, why was he stuck staring at her, imagining the way water bent and twisted the colorful rays of fire in the blackness, how it looked as he sunk further and further down, swallowed by cold that numbed his wounds and filled his lungs?

The air sat still between them, heavily laden with her fear and his fear enmeshed.

And then the spell was broken when one of the drunken courtiers made another grab at her, the flame-woman, who had stopped and stared at the appearance of another man at the end of the hallway, who had been frozen and wide-eyed with horror.

Touching her thigh and her bottom, then another hand on her small breast. The sound she released was wounded and frightened, like a cornered animal that knew it had nowhere else to run and hide, the tears that had pooled in her eyes (silvery pale starlight eyes) overflowing and streaking through the painted lines of intricate pigmentation dappled across her smooth skin. It carried with it the color of soot, like ink spilling down from her eyes and across her cheeks.

“Please,” she whimpered, still trying to pull away, “Please, stop…”

Inexplicably, Telufinwë felt rage swell. For a moment, perhaps, she had been nothing but living fire beneath his eyes. But now she seemed resigned, and her glow dimmed. And he hated that she saw him and believed him to be another tormentor.

Growling in the back of his throat, he stepped forward.

“The lady asked you to cease,” he snarled out, voice dropping so far that it vibrated through his very limbs, shaking the air, cutting through the laughter and plunging the hallway into silence. All eyes turned to stare, wide and shocked, at the newest interloper.

“I suggest you listen,” he added into the silence. “Or I will make you.”

_And I will make it painful._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:
> 
> Fëanárioni (Q, p) = sons of Fëanáro  
> Nolofinwion (Q) = son of Nolofinwë


	18. Staying Apart or Coming Together

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Of the minds of two women...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: injuries, treatment of injuries, self-confidence issues, self-degrading thoughts, estranged couple, not-so-nice thoughts, emotional abuse (by family)
> 
> We get a more thorough look at one of the new characters, and we get the first interaction between Curvo and his wife outside the public eye.
> 
> Maedhros = Maitimo = Nelyafinwë = Nelyo  
> Maglor = Makalaurë = Kanafinwë = Káno  
> Celegorm = Tyelkormo = Turkafinwë = Turko  
> Caranthir = Carnistir = Morifinwë = Moryo  
> Curufin = Atarinkë = Curufinwë = Curvo  
> Amrod = Ambarussa = Pityafinwë = Pityo  
> Amras = Umbarto = Telufinwë = Telvo  
> Turgon = Turukáno = Turno

_By the Lady Estë, tonight of all nights?_

Most of the healers were gone, off to spend time with their families as the sun finally began to set on the longest day of the year. Only a handful had stayed, more in case of emergency than because they had any chores to do, and Wilwarin was one of those few. She had no family that needed returning to and no interest in drunken revelry, wishing mostly to spend her evening and night in the quiet of the Healing House.

Perched with her texts spread out across her desk, she had curled up with the window open, allowing a cooling evening breeze inside to chase away the hot, stale air of the muggy summer heat. Hair unbound, the dark locks were lifted and twisted and shuffled by the softest of winds, tickling against her cheek until she reached to tuck them back behind her ear. Peaceful, quiet, and, soon, she would see the sunset just coming now to life to the west then sink below the horizon and offer up the dome of the stars overhead, only the distant sound of voices and music on the air daring to interrupt the calming night-song.

And then, in the midst of it all, a knock on the door. She sighed.

“Enter,” she called out, already putting her text down and turning her head to take in the house servant in the doorway. “What is it?”

“Forgive the interruption of your studies, Lady Healer,” the man greeted, sounding just as exasperated as she. Probably because he was spending his night wrangling the royal family’s partygoers and guests rather than out and about with his own family making merry. “There has been a call for a healer to the main hall. Apparently, several men were injured in a small altercation. It sounds not too serious.”

To Wilwarin, no injury was not serious enough to be tended, but she would admit that she had hoped the people could control themselves for _one night._ Without complaint, however, she served the royal family, and she could handle a few men too far into their cups fighting over something no doubt stupid and pointless.

“No news on what types of injuries?” she asked even as she began gathering her supplies together in her pouch. Nothing complicated. Simple ointments, disinfectants and bandages.

“Bruises mostly, so I heard,” her escort told her as she swiftly slipped out the door and into the hallway, not bothering to wait for him to lead the way. She knew her way about the palace well enough that she needed not directions to get to the main hall where the throne sat and the party was no doubt well on its way to devolving into the wild Midsummer night that always followed the more typical court pleasantries. As soon as they finished their posturing and platitudes, people would begin moving outside, the bonfires would be lit, and there would be dancing, food and wine until daybreak.

Indeed, the sounds drew nearer. Laughter in the halls, the high ringing of ladies’ flirtatious giggles resonating with the deep rolling tones of the men. Already, they could hear nearby rooms being _made use of_ in ways they were not meant for, some couples too intoxicated or too eager to find their way back to their lodgings before coming together in celebration.

A younger woman might have blushed. Healers, however, were rarely embarrassed by anything to do with the body and its many potential maladies, and Wilwarin was no exception. She merely sent her male companion a tight-lipped, feigned smile as he winced at the pounding sound on a nearby door, at the rising volume of the symphony of male and female in ecstasy lifting and falling to the same fast-paced beat.

Thankfully, once they had navigated out of the labyrinth of conveniently empty (or now amorously occupied) rooms, they found the main hall. Naturally, it was nearly overflowing, dresses of every color swirling together into a multicolored ocean of rich fabric, jewels and gold gleaming beneath the light of the torches. Compared with such opulence, the healer knew she appeared shockingly bland. Not only plain black-haired and brown-eyed, but garbed in the gray typical of her profession, high-necked and stern in contrast to the low-cut gowns showing off generously the swells of each woman’s natural assets for her husband, lover or suitor.

If there was a small pang in her chest, she ignored it entirely.

“There you are!” A lady approached, emerald-eyed and dark-haired, her pale skin almost glowing and her throat encased in a collar of diamond set with a rainbow of multi-colored jewels. “Come along then. Hopefully my husband and his brother have not managed to get into even _more_ trouble while I was away.”

 _Her husband? His brother?_ It sounded like family quarreling, and Wilwarin bit her tongue against questions. Not necessarily because she was too shy to inquire, but because it seemed like it might be a personal issue. Being a healer did earn one access to much gossip that otherwise would have been beyond their purview, but such troubles were not ones she wished to be involved in, not even as messenger.

The woman, a bit taller and a bit prettier and a bit slenderer, pulled the healer along impatiently, huffing under her breath about the stupidity of her mate and his ill temper and his poor breeding. Seamlessly, they slipped through the crowd of courtiers, passing nearly unnoticed until they reached the dimly-lit side of the hall. Two men were chair-bound, both wearing rather vivid bruises on their faces, and she assumed these to be her patients. Of the pair, one was dark-haired and wearing burgundy and scarlet—the woman retreated to his side, her voice sounding in exasperation over the din of the crowd as she forced him to press a handkerchief against his very obviously split lip—while the other was clad in bright forest green and had a head of rather wild russet curls, barely tamed back into braids.

Seeing as the wife was taking her husband in hand, Wilwarin went to the redhead first. Another man—she looked a little closer and decided they were likely brothers—stood guard. Not that the redhead needed a guard, for he seemed like he would plummet straight to the ground in a tangle of long limbs if he tried to rise.

The first thing she did was lift his head to get a better look at the bruise on his cheek and jaw beneath the firelight. Poking and prodding at it, heedless of the way her patient winced and tried to pull away from her hand cupped under his chin, she determined that it, indeed, was just a bruise. No dislocated jaw, which had been her other concern. And, of course, she could _smell_ the alcohol on his breath, corroborating the way he swayed unsteadily in the chair and required nudging from his brother to stay upright.

“Are these his only injuries?” she asked, turning to the brother. Indeed, they could be nothing but related, for their faces were identical. This man’s hair was perhaps a shade or two lighter and his garb was golden rather than green, but their eyes shared the same bright color of fresh spring grass in the meadow, made brighter in the second brother with soberness. Clearly, only one of them had been ingesting copious amounts of wine and had come out the worse for it.

It was only a passing note that she saw the burn scars on the second man’s face and neck. Ugly, but she had seen such things before. Injuries from working with the forge fire could be nasty indeed, though she had never seen scarring quite so unfortunate or expansive as this man’s network. Even a healer such as she did not want to think on how such injuries had come about for too long, for it must have been gruesome indeed.

No verbal reply was forthcoming, but he did reach down to expose his brother’s wrist and forearm on the left side. And, oh, that did look like a rather nasty injury. Not a severe break by any means, but likely worse than a mere sprain. Upon closer examination, something did seem rather out of place, and it was likely painful judging by the way her patient was squirming as the rotation of his arm forced him to flex muscles in his forearm to keep his hand from gracelessly flopping downwards.

“Ah,” she said calmly. “Likely dislocated, but not broken, I would wager.”

The brother released a sound of agreement, though, whether he knew anything about dislocation and what they looked like, she could not have said.

It was not her place to correct the novice knowledge of courtiers anyway.

Still, as she leaned in closer, her patient _looked_ at her fully, green eyes still swimming in and out of focus. “Telvo?” he asked, leaning in and squinting as though she shone too bright to gaze upon. More likely, he was light-sensitive from the knock to his head. “That is not right. You are not a beautiful, dark-eyed female. Telvo, is that really you?”

“Not at all,” she answered, still examining his wrist, though she suspected he barely heard her refute what with his current state. He _did_ feel pain, though, for his muscles jerked when her fingertips touching his swollen joint, feeling for his eight carpals and the accompanying ligaments, trying to detect what might be out of place until… yes… right there…

Glancing up at the man’s brother, still hovering patiently, she made her request. “Hold him steady while I do a reduction. It might hurt, but it should be quick. He should have his wrist wrapped tightly afterwards for at least a few weeks.”

Probably, he would shout and startle some of the guests, but she did not want to have to drag the drunken man all the way back to the Healing House for treatment. Not when he likely could barely stand of his own free will, let alone assist by doing most of the walking between here and there of his own accord.

The brother did as she asked, hands locking her patient’s arm in place as she began her work, digging in hard against the slightly misaligned bone to roll it back into its proper position. The few times she had done this, even for grown men, it often came with shouting, or even screaming, but all her patient did was release a quiet curse under his breath, arm jerking sharply beneath her hands again.

“And I thought you were lovely,” he complained, much to her faint amusement (and even fainter distress), eyes meeting hers for a split second before she looked away.

But he did not so much as shed a tear through the whole ordeal. Maybe it was the excessive alcohol that prevented the pain from registering more brightly and harshly in his nerves, but she had never had a dislocation patient who remained so calm and removed from their own agony. Those green eyes remained fixated on her face with intense focus, not even bothering to look down at her working away at the swollen injury, and the only indication of his pain was the way he bit at his lower lip and the wrinkle that formed between his brows.

However, she focused on his wrist to avoid looking at his face too often. His rather handsome face, at that. Angular, perhaps, but well-formed and fine. It definitely spoke of his undoubtedly high breeding. No man so vibrant, so exotic, would glance even twice at someone like her, as bland as could be, without drink guiding (or misguiding) his way.

In a way, it was a bit disappointing that such compliments came from a handsome man who probably could not see well enough right now to put one foot before the other, let alone to judge the comeliness of a female’s face and form.

“I believe the bone just above the wrist may be cracked as well,” she informed the brother, not sure that the patient himself would understand or remember her words. And then, before she thought better of it, she added, “Is he always like this?”

 _A flirt who compliments all the women?_ Because she would then both feel worse and better. One of many, but not one out of pity.

She would have liked to know. Not only to give herself a sense of comfort in her own inadequacy compared the women who typically frequented these sorts of events in their stunning garb with their even more stunning faces, but also because he looked at her in a way that made her skin tingle. His gaze was almost a living thing, reaching out to trail invisible fingers across her collarbone and down. Beneath her gown, she felt her nipples harden.

But all she got was a shrug.

“Right.” _That input was most helpful, my lord._ “Is there anything else?”

The brother sent her something that might have been a smile (if one looked very hard and was very generous) and tapped the back of the patient’s skull. To which the patient replied, “Telvo, what the fuck is that for? Fuck, my head hurts.”

Indeed, when she bent his head forward to look, there was a swollen knot of flesh hiding beneath the thickness of his curls. He had taken a good knock to the back of his skull as well as the front. If he had been this incoherent without drink rushing through his blood, she would have thought him fully concussed and recommended potential further treatment. As it was, so many of the symptoms of such injury were identical to the symptoms of intoxication that there was no way right now to tell if his slurred speech, eye dilation or lack of coordination were from severe brain swelling or simply from too much wine.

“No bleeding,” she confirmed, looking up at the brother once more. “He will have a nasty bruise and a bad headache, but he should recover just fine. Wake him every few hours tonight, and bring him to the Healing House tomorrow if he exhibits the same nausea and lack of coordination _after_ his hangover has diminished. And perhaps he could do with some better supervision. We healers were not expecting to be called out on a festival night, of all things, to fix up the split lips and bruised knuckles of fist-fighting drunkards.”

If her castigation had any effect on the brother, it showed not at all. He parted his lips as if to speak, but then seemed to think better of his words and continue on in silence. The awkwardness of it, a heavy tension that was not sliced through by even the merrymaking and commotion of the other guests, rested in that space between them.

The long seconds ticked by until, finally, Wilwarin had to say something. The static tension had her shuddering uncomfortably beneath those green eyes, feeling naked and vulnerable because they were so frightfully empty and void.

“If there is nothing else,” she began hesitantly, “I shall go and tend your other brother. I bid you a pleasant night, my lords.”

Hearing no protest after a few seconds more of waiting, she went across the way to the dark-haired brother whose wife was still at his side and still fussing while the man himself seemed to be quiet and sulking. This one, unlike the redhead, exhibited no signs of potential concussion, looking a bit drunkenly unsteady, but mostly ill-tempered and wearing the results of his fight on his face and in the bruises forming rapidly across the swollen knuckles of his right hand.

Spotting her drawing near, the woman immediately reeled her in by her elbow, planting her square in front of her second patient, whose sharp eyes made her even more uncomfortable than the green of the first. Not because he gave her a similar predatory look, but because his expression told her that he might have cut her in half with his words (or even in truth with a sword) for daring to annoy him by forcing treatment upon his person. Had his wife not been present and insistent, Wilwarin would have turned right around and walked away, damn her healer’s vows. She knew the difference between when someone _wanted_ to be left alone and when someone _ought to be_ left alone. And this was a man who ought to be left alone.

“Curufinwë,” the woman hissed. “Quit pouting and let her see to your face. I want that lip disinfected.”

Wilwarin’s blood ran cold. From a distance, she heard his low voice reply with a placating, “Yes, meldanya,” before those eyes turned _on her._ Only, they seemed a thousand-fold more terrifying now that she knew to whom they belonged.

Curufinwë Fëanárion. One of the seven sons. An infamous and notorious Kinslayer.

And she was supposed to clean his cut lip while simultaneously neither inciting his very obvious temper nor keeling over in a dead faint at standing so close to a being who had willingly (perhaps even willfully) gutted living _people_ in the cold blood.

For a healer, a Kinslayer was their very antithesis. Everything they abhorred. Everything they disdained. Everything they would never—could never—imagine being.

And, if this man was a Fëanárion, and also the brother of her other patient, then she had just spent the last ten minutes examining and treating another one of the seven sons, spent that ten minutes conversing (if one-sidedly) with another, without even _knowing to whom she was speaking!_

For the Valar’s sake, she had been called beautiful. By a drunken, concussed Kinslayer. By a drunken, concussed _Fëanárion!_

Her stomach rolled uncomfortably at her realization, but she swallowed down her discomfort and tried for a smile. It probably turned out as a grimace, but it would have to do.

“This should only take a few moments,” she tried to soothe, reaching into her pouch for her disinfectant cream. “The bleeding has ceased already, and it is not so terrible as to require stitching in order to heal.”

“Yes, yes, get on with it, woman,” Curufinwë snapped.

Wilwarin did not have the fortitude to be righteously offended by his disregard based off her gender, not when the flash of silver in his eyes sent her heartbeat stuttering. On the other hand, his wife did not take so kindly to his treatment of the innocent healer, for she reached out and pinched his arm sharply, meeting him glare for glare as he scowled in her direction.

“Behave,” she hissed.

To which he grumbled but let Wilwarin do her work. Hesitantly, she began tending to his mouth, trying not to think about the fact that her hand was touching the face of a Fëanárion directly, skin for skin. At least it was quick, barely a minute of applying the cream and checking to make sure there was nothing embedded. Like his brother, he barely seemed to notice the pain if it existed for him at all.

“There,” she sighed out, nearly inaudible for her anxiousness, feeling as though her voice failed her. “Finished.”

As quickly as she could while still appearing polite, she gave the man some space. His wife, on the other hand, had no such reservations, moving to turn his head this way and that, examining the healer’s handiwork with a critical eye.

“Satisfied, my lady?” he directed at his wife, his lips (despite their poor state) bending into something that might have been a smirk.

“That is yet to be seen,” the lady answered coldly, “But the healer does excellent work. Thank her for her time, vennonya, since it was your poorly timed fight with cousin Turukáno that led to the interruption of her evening. I am quite sure she has more enjoyable things to be doing than attending to you.”

It was on the tip of her tongue to insist that this was her job, that her evening had indeed not been interrupted (it had) and that she needn’t have his apologies, because she did not want his temper turned against her any more than it already had been. However, he did seem to be cowed enough at least that he offered her a look significantly less toxic than the previous glare that had bored holes into her spirit with its flame.

“My apologies, Lady Healer, for pulling you from your celebrations,” he ground out, glancing at his wife. “Even if I was only intervening on behalf of my stupid younger brothers and started not the altercation at all.”

“You may not have started it, but you certainly did nothing to ameliorate the situation either,” the wife answered, unmoved by his excuses and explanations. “Think not to blame your little brothers for everything when you well know that you hold some accountability for your own stupid actions.”

“Yes, meldanya,” he yielded.

“Good.” The stately woman sniffed and looked down her nose at him for a moment until he looked away from her gaze. Still, the very same woman offered her a bright smile, changing from scolding wife to friendly court lady in mere seconds. “Thank you for seeing to my husband and his brothers, darling. I know they can be trying.”

“Truly, my lady, it was not a problem,” Wilwarin insisted. “Tis what I trained for.”

“Nevertheless, let us not keep you from the festivities,” the woman insisted, linking their arms for a moment and giving her a tiny embrace. “I am quite certain you must have family to attend to, so feel free to see to yourself now, Lady Healer. I can take care of my husband and his idiotic little brothers until morning, I should think, so that you can have the rest of the evening to yourself. As it should be.”

The healer bit her lip against the words rising up in the back of her throat. That she had no family desperately waiting for her to return home from her work. That she was merely going to go back to the Healing House and entertain herself with only books for company this evening. That she did not have permission to simply wander off and enjoy the descending joyful chaos of Tirion as night fell on the longest day.

Instead, she nodded and smiled. “Yes, my lady.”

“Excellent!” The lady wife turned to her husband, tugging him up from his seat. And, shockingly, he allowed himself to be yanked around and bullied along without even a hint of resistance. The look that crossed his face, even though for a split second only, was soft. Dashes of delicate damask on his cheeks and a quirk of his lips that did not carry the razor’s edge of his earlier smirk. At the sight of it, of such gentle regard, Wilwarin felt her stomach pang sharply. In admiration. (In jealousy.) And then the wife spoke again, directing her words towards him with all the steady and unyielding force of a conquering general marching towards enemy lines. “As for you, I think we should have a talk somewhere in private, and then you can escort me properly for the rest of the night. The opening dance is supposed to begin soon, and I wish to see it. One of the most talented dancers produced from the School of Dance this century is going to play the part of Arien, and I am eager to see her interpretation…”

The pair moved away, out of Wilwarin’s hearing range, leaving her standing alone in the crowd. A quick glance over confirmed that both redheaded brothers had already vacated the corner, disappearing to Eru only knew where.

She was standing alone in the crowded hall. Part of her was disappointed, feeling bereft as she watched people flock together. Especially the couples. Both young and old, holding hands and exchanging intimate, secretive smiles. Their image of perfect companionship leaving a queasy feeling of want settling low in her belly.

For a moment, she imagined it. Holding hands, hearing flattering words against her ear, laughing at the gentle touch of hands on her waist.

For a moment, shamefully, she imagined the russet-haired man with his scalding green eyes. How it would feel to have his undivided attention. How she would feel lovely and desirable and wanted. How it would send warmth spiraling through her skin as he kissed her and named her beautiful.

The sensible side of her shoved that silly, daydreaming girl into the dark closet at the back of her mind and locked the door behind her tight. This had been her life for centuries: devotion to her craft and her profession. No delicate, wilting flower of a maiden was she, that she needed to have male companionship to feel complete and whole. Relationships looked pleasant and fulfilling, but she had much work to be done and so little time to cater to the needs of others when her life was devoted to the healing of all.

No, she was best left to her own devices with her passion and her books and her work as a healer. It had been (was, she insisted internally) all she had ever needed. One encounter with a drunken man calling her beautiful was hardly going to change that. Especially given he probably would not even remember it the next day.

Retreating back to her sanctuary in a brisk sweep of gray robes, she was welcomed back into the arms of the peaceful night and the gentle lighting of the Healing House. Silently, she curled up near the window with the wind, the stars and the sounds of crickets and frogs for company. And she did not allow the distress in her heart or the tightness of her lungs to take hold over the tranquility of her being.

She was happy this way. Perfectly happy.

Perfectly happy being alone.

\---

Her husband was behaving far too well.

Lindalórë half expected to come back from fetching a healer to find him long gone, flighty beast that he sometimes could be. From how quiet he had been beneath her scolding, from how little of a fight he had put up when arguing his side of the conflict—in front of a witness, no less—and from how he remained silent through her list of demands and her pulling him along like a bit of baggage, she sensed that there was something more to his behavior than a mere attempt to get back into her good graces.

In fact, she was starting to sense that he was waiting, anticipating. The painful tension between them lingered, building and building the further and further they went away from the crowds and the merrymaking. And, with it, the sense of discomfort.

For those few minutes in which she had him sat down in the crowded hall, cowed beneath her sharp words, things had seemed natural. Like they had picked up just where they left off, like nothing had happened between them to destroy their bond, like they were once again husband and wife in truth.

It was only now that they were alone that things felt awkward.

She pulled him down a little side hallway and stopped. Her back against one wall, his against the other, standing across from one another in silence. They could barely hear the sounds of the festivities from here.

“Have you nothing to say?” she whispered.

He had said nothing at all except in the presence of the healer. Mute and submissive and completely unlike the Curufinwë she remembered, the one who enjoyed banter and sarcasm and sniping and heckling. Even now, he was not meeting her eyes. They were downturned, glowing silver but directed away and to the right. At his sides, his hands were limp—not curled into fists as they would have been if he had been angry—and dangling, knuckles bruised, fingertips scraping against the wallpaper.

“What do you want me to say?” he finally asked, voice soft.

What _did_ she want him to say?

Did she want him to apologize? 

No small part of her was most certainly was angry. Angry enough that she wanted to slap him across his already-bruised face just to see the hurt in his eyes and the red bloom on his skin. In those first days after he had departed with her son and disappeared into the darkness, she might have done nothing but weep and feel sorry for herself, but it had quickly passed on into fury. Better to rage than to shed more tears over something that could never be changed.

Scorned, alone, abandoned, she had had little choice but to crush her pride down and leave behind the home she had built with her husband—the life she had made, the life that included both Curufinwë and their shared child, the life she had adored and cherished above all else—and go back to her parents begging for scraps like an orphaned dog. It had been humiliating, demoralizing and destructive to be told, over and over, that she had been a foolish young woman going after such a flighty man, that she should have listened to her parents and never let herself be sucked in by his charm and his smiles and the adventures and the sex. To hear the “I told you so” from her own family again and again and again.

Part of her even believed it. That she should never have gotten sucked in and seduced by someone like Curufinwë. That she could have done better than the fifth son of a Prince, someone who could offer her little more than his love and the revenue made from his craft because he would certainly inherit nothing from his parents with four older brothers.

The rest of her wanted to defend her husband and lover. Even after what had been done to her. By him. By her parents. By the vicious public eye. Yet, she bit her tongue against the words that fought to claw their way up and out of her throat, as vicious and snarling as any of the vitriol and poison that her husband had ever spouted in one of his tempers. She had wanted to use her tongue to make her husband’s detractors _bleed._

But she had remained silent and accepted the verbal derision until it rang in her head.

And she had hated every moment of it. But there was nowhere else to go. No one else who would take her in and no other way to support herself. No other way she wished to contemplate, at the very least.

And, added to that, the crushing loneliness. The sense of betrayal. The grief at the loss of her son. The constant longing to hold both husband and child (grown though he might be) in her arms. The heartbreak knowing that, in the end, Fëanáro had _won._ That Curufinwë had chosen his father over his wife and his family.

A sliver of her being hated him for that. For not thinking her good enough or important enough. For not being first priority in his life. Like Fëanáro had only ever cared about getting the attention of Finwë, so, too, had his son cared desperately about gaining the fierce man’s favor, fighting and struggling for even the smallest droplet of affection. And all for naught at the end, because Fëanáro never gave so much as a damn about his sons beyond their convenience in serving their designated purpose, obedient little servants to their father’s will.

If she had spoken her mind, she would have told him every small detail of her suffering caused by his callous act of betrayal of their shared love and devotion. She would have destroyed him with her words as thoroughly as he had destroyed her so long ago in the darkness. Would have made certain he knew that she had been tortured every moment that he had been gone, that she had not known if he and their son were safe and it had killed her little by little every day. Would have detailed how she could not go about in public without being scorned and called all manner of names for her association with him and his cursed family. Would have made certain that he understood the consequences of what he had done in leaving her behind unprotected and alone, that she would like nothing more than to make him pay in blood and heartache.

Maybe it would have brought her satisfaction to see the lights in his eyes dim with shame and horror and despair. Maybe it would have soothed away the boiling agony of desire for retribution that shuddered beneath her ribs like a living, breathing monster clawing to be free. Maybe she could even have made him cry and then left him alone here, in this hallway, abandoned the way she had been.

And then she would never look back. That was exactly what he deserved.

But… was that what she wanted?

Biting her lip, she stared up at his face. His face that she had dreamed about every night since he had gone, haunting her sleep as it haunted her wakefulness. His face that kept her up in bed at night, staring at the ceiling and hating the silence caused by his lack of breathing and snuffling and occasional snoring.

If she did toss him aside as easily and cruelly as he had thrown away her love, that would be it. The end of them. For good. They would part ways, and she would be free to make a new life for herself, one untainted by the memory of her husband who would never be coming back. No uncertainty. No ambiguity.

Finished.

It was a tempting thought. She would effectively be a widow, an experienced woman separated from her husband. While she was no virtuous maiden, she was still a high-born lady with good breeding and a powerful family by birth. A second marriage was not beyond the realm of possibility.

But it would not be a marriage with _him._

Young and stupid, it had been his daring and adventurous nature, his willingness to go the extra mile for her attention, his acceptance of her natural snappy and bossy (most people would have said bitchy) personality, which had led her to his bed and to become his wife. No other man had ever held her attention for long, too boring and too restrictive, wanting a quiet, pretty, young, obedient wife rather than a strong-willed woman with a mind of her own.

Even now, she could only remember their courting with fondness. There had been no other man for her then.

Was there any other man for her now?

The anger drained out of her body, leaving her shoulders hunched down and her gaze dropping to rest somewhere around his chest. “I do not know what I want you to say, Curufinwë. I just… I do not know.”

She could hear him swallow, see the way his throat bobbed. “Do you want me to go? If so, I will. You need never see me again if you do not want. We can go back to the party, go our separate ways, and you can pretend there was never anything between us.”

He was making it easy for her. Letting her go without a fight. It was impossibly unlike him, to surrender so easily, without even trying. Like someone else had overtaken his body. Everything about him, from the way he refused to meet her eyes, to the tension in his spine, to the way his fingers danced restlessly against the wall at his back, spoke of nervousness, perhaps even fear. Even when they had known each other well, so long ago, he had very rarely showed her any side of himself that was not confident and strong.

This was a man resigned to a blow. Not to his ego, but somewhere much, much more tender.

When she made no move to answer, Curufinwë released a long sigh, a sound almost of agony. His feet shuffled anxiously on the rug. “Do you want me to stay? To apologize? Just tell me what you want and I will do as you ask…”

“Just stay quiet,” she snapped, temper returning for a split second. For the most part because he just sounded so _broken_ and _how dare he_ and it made her want to _make it better_ and she was just so _confused._ “Please, Curufinwë, just be quiet. Just let me think.”

It must have been killing him to wait in silence for her to decide his fate. However, compared with the centuries of her own agony, waiting in silence for news of her husband and child that never came—not even when her husband was reborn and released from the Halls of the Waiting—a few minutes was nothing worth noting. Her sympathy for his plight was spent beneath the weight of her own exhaustion and distress.

What did she _want?_

She did not want him to be hurt, not in truth. Not by her words or by her actions, not with the pure intent to make him suffer. No matter how much he had hurt her or how much resentment she carried as a result, she still loved him, and she did not want him to be hurt in retaliation, no matter how much her dark, shadow self whispered that it would make her feel better. She knew better than to be taunted by her own inner demons into foolishness.

But did she want to be _with_ him? To remain his wife?

Finally, she looked up at his face. As soon as he felt her gaze on him, he glanced up to meet her eyes. And they were so bright, silvery twilight eyes that reminded her of the starlight glittering off the water on the bay, mixing with the refracted glow of Telperion’s silvery rays dancing upon the water's restless surface. They had gotten married that way, on the beach, simple and quiet, and held hands and made love the whole night long, even though the sand was uncomfortable and the water was cold on their feet. Young and in love, they had laughed in the face of their discomfort and reveled in the heat of their joining.

She wanted that back. Of course, she wanted that back. The way things had been before everything had fallen apart.

They would never be that way again. As innocent. As wholesome.

But they could, perhaps, rebuild anew. Make something different. Not so lighthearted and free as what they had had before, but…

It was a possibility. One that tempted her and tantalized her. One that she could see in the gentle patience in his glowing eyes, patience he would never grant to one he did not hold in high regard. One that she could see in his lowered head, waiting on her word, unwilling to act out against her will even though he very clearly would have liked to rejoin that very minute with minimal fuss if he could get his way.

Typical male, she thought fondly. Typical Curufinwë.

More than anything else, she wanted her happiness back. If he could give her that...

“Court me again,” she demanded, breaking their silence. “You coaxed and seduced me into marriage once. Court me again. Make me fall for you again, and I will consider continuing the life that we once built together.”

If he thought her demands unfair, there was no complaint. In someone so impetuous and spontaneous as Curufinwë could be, temper first and thoughts of consequences later, it was paramount to a testimony of devotion that he did not argue or even negotiate. Looking into his face, she could see the lingering fear behind the white-hot flame of his irises blazing through the shadows.

She could also see the moment he made his decision. In the way his jaw clenched and flexed, in the way his hands clenched into tight fists and then relaxed. In the way his eyes narrowed and grew brighter and hotter, in the way they went almost predatory when they washed over her slender form. Beneath that look, she shivered, feeling heat rising under her skin, felt the rosy color filling out her cheeks and traveling down her throat.

“Very well,” he agreed, and his voice rolled through her like thunder, settling low in her belly like a warm draught of wine.

Reaching out, he caught her hand and lifted it to his mouth. “My lady,” he breathed over her knuckles, and then turned her hand to press an airy kiss to her racing pulse, “Let me escort you back. I distinctly remember that you wished not to miss the traditional opening dance.”

So easily he left her breathless. But he was going to have to try harder than that before she would show it. Lifting her head sharply, she gave him a cool look. Carefully, she extricated her hand from his grasp and delicately laid it on his arm instead. “Indeed, lead the way, my lord. The lady does not wish to be kept waiting.”

He gave her his sharpest grin of the night, one that ever left her weak in the knees. Even now, it made her heart leap into her throat. Not out of fear, as it would for most, but because she knew that he only wore that look when he had a plan.

And his plans almost always ended pleasantly—even pleasurably—for her.

“Of course, she does not,” he said agreeably, only the slight softness of his tone giving away that he was not so confident as he made himself appear. With a gentle tug, he pulled them out of the little side hallway and out into the golden light, and she felt the heat of his body close to hers, the height and breadth so familiar still after all this time that it would have felt perfectly natural to reach out and touch. She valiantly resisted the urge, even when he leaned into her space.

“And then, perhaps, after the dancing, the lady might enjoy leaving this dull party and finding somewhere more interesting to make merry.”

Damn it all, but he knew her impossibly well.

“Maybe she would,” Lindalórë agreed with a cheeky half-smile.

And on they went.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:
> 
> meldanya (Q) = my dear/my beloved  
> vennonya (Q) = my husband


	19. Playing Lost and Found

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More rescues abound in which the brave knights receive kisses as rewards...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: attempted sexual assault (thwarted), resulting mental trauma/self-blaming, very little violence (for now), cheek-kissing, sex in the gardens, little kids wandering around who need to be distracted, music = magic
> 
> Quite a few not-so-important OCs appearing in the chapter, along with some love interests ;)
> 
> Maedhros = Maitimo = Nelyafinwë = Nelyo  
> Maglor = Makalaurë = Kanafinwë = Káno  
> Celegorm = Tyelkormo = Turkafinwë = Turko  
> Caranthir = Carnistir = Morifinwë = Moryo  
> Curufin = Atarinkë = Curufinwë = Curvo  
> Amrod = Ambarussa = Pityafinwë = Pityo  
> Amras = Umbarto = Telufinwë = Telvo  
> Finrod = Artafindë  
> Fingon = Findekáno  
> Fingolfin = Nolofinwë  
> Finarfin = Arafinwë

It was something she had been warned about by the other dancers who had performed for court before, but it had never seemed quite real. Amaurëa had assumed those rumors and tales to be lurid gossip, perhaps stories made to scare the younger girls off flirting with the upper-class men should they be so lucky to audition and be chosen to perform at such an auspicious event as a festival, but they seemed nothing that she should be overly concerned about. Just a formula crafted to keep the foolish romantic sensibilities of young women from leading to embarrassment for the School.

Now, she was forced to reassess her assumptions.

There were three men, all drunk, and all obviously under the impression that being a dancer also made her a whore, or that her lower class should compel her to be desperate to become the lover of a rich nobleman, because they seemed to think she should be ready to lift her skirts for them at a mere word.

At first, she thought telling them off would be enough. It ought to be enough for any well-bred man of decent temperament and upbringing, no matter their state of drunkenness. Yet, even when she blatantly asked for them to cease… and they had mocked her words and drawn in closer still, until she could feel the heat of their larger forms caging her in…

It was only then that she began to become truly _afraid._ That they might not stop at all until they had gotten everything they wanted. No matter what they thought about her profession or the way she dressed, she was no prostitute, and she had no experience with men at all. Tiny and delicate in comparison with any one of them, she genuinely feared that they would tear her apart and leave her behind in ruins.

They spoke cruel words to her. Told her that she must want it for the bareness of her legs, never mind that it was a costume for a dance. Told her that she should stop playing coy and accept their advances as was her purpose and her position. Told her what they wanted to do to her once they had her naked and bent over.

And then they tried to put hands upon her, and she struggled, attempting to rip her wrists out of the grasp of larger hands. All that earned her, though, was a sharp slap across her cheek, a flash of pain slicing through her vision like white light. Releasing a high-pitched cry, she felt her tears boil over as she stumbled back into the wall.

When she opened her eyes again, she saw a red-haired demon appear behind them in the shadows, burning in the darkness.

Glowing green eyes stared her down, looked at her the way they might look at something hideous that had crawled up from the earth spitting flame and ash. What about her could make someone so terrifying look so stricken, she knew not, yet it seemed to keep him frozen in place, expression otherwise blank but eyes vividly standing out for their gleam of fear and hate. For a long, sickening moment, horrified and terrified both at once, she thought that perhaps he would stand there and do nothing. Stand there and _watch._

Clenching her eyes shut as they stung from her makeup, now ruined and running down her face, she waited. Felt hands on her body in places she would never have allowed. “Please,” she begged, “Please, stop…”

They had no intention of stopping. She turned her head away.

“The lady asked you to cease.”

The sound of that voice was rough and deep, and it left chills breaking out upon her skin, the little downy hairs on the nape of her neck standing on end. Slowly, all eyes found the demon, now not merely hovering at the end of the corridor but blocking it, standing guard over the exit, cornering its prey and leaving them no escape.

“I suggest you listen,” the demon added, “Or I will make you.”

Amaurëa shuddered. The look on that face was unholy, something not at all like to a person, and it made her heart race even faster with visceral terror. Tearing herself free of the grasp of the intoxicated nobleman, she stumbled back into a corner.

Meanwhile, the drunken men did not seem to sense the same level of bloodthirsty danger that she felt in her bones. “Who are you to tell us what to do?” one of them sneered.

Had they been in their complete faculties, perhaps they would not have done anything to anger this stranger. But they were foolish in their state of inebriation, and the snappy words only drew those green eyes straight to the speaker, only pinned the man in place with all the incisiveness of a spear cutting straight through flesh. Maybe they felt confident as they presented a united front that they could handle a single man.

In any case, another added, “She is just a dancer, hardly important. They are all the same, these types. All eager.”

The look on the stranger’s face spoke of nothing short of disdain and revulsion, like he was looking down upon cockroaches rather than men. “The lady seems to disagree with you on that account, does she not?” He stepped further into the corridor. “Get thee gone, and I will not remove your hands from your body here and now as you deserve.”

“Now, see here, no one orders me around, and certainly not some no-name entertainer like y—” 

The man’s voice was cut short, because the stranger took two long steps forward, revealing that his height dwarfed any one of the men, and picked up the speaker by the front of his tunic, slamming him back against the wall. The sound of choking filled he hallway as the other two men each took two steps back to make room for the interloper, both now seeming nervous in the face of what had at first appeared to be some other dancer but now revealed itself to be a very angry and very physically capable man.

“My name is Telufinwë Fëanárion,” the man hissed out, and his prisoner released a whimpering sound of terror. “I told you to leave. So, _leave.”_

He dropped the drunken man, who stumbled and fell onto his backside, scrambling backwards to get as far away from the redheaded demon as possible. “O-of course, my Prince. I had no intention of infringing upon your territory.”

The newly-revealed Kinslayer did not protest the assumption that Amaurëa was his lover. Instead, he took a threatening step forward, and the three males quickly backed off and circled towards the main hallway, eyes wide and faces white. With relief, the young dancer watched them cautiously back away and disappear at the end of the corridor. To whence they went, she cared little, so long as they were far, far away from her.

Except, now she was stuck with another man. One arguably much more dangerous than any of her previous aggressors, or even all three combined.

“My Prince?” she whispered, feeling her knees wobble. Gracelessly, she leaned her full weight against the wall and wondered what she was meant to do now that her face was a mess and her legs felt made of jelly and she was late to her own performance at the palace of the King of the Noldor. If they did not exile her from the School immediately, she would think it a miracle, because this must be far more embarrassing than any scandal between a lowly dancer and some drunken nobleman.

His head turned, and she winced back at the flash of vibrant green as his eyes found her. Yet, he made no move against her. Her trembling began to fade.

And then he moved, and she thought her heart might leap out of her throat.

Because he reached out and touched her face, and his touch was warm on her tear-smeared cheek. At first, she wondered if he was going to make advances upon her after all (if that had been his motivation for clearing out the competition), but then she realized that he was wiping at her makeup. Grabbing one of his sleeves, he began to use the silken fabric to clean away the slick wetness, and it came away stained black.

“M-my Prince,” she protested, realizing that he was ruining his own clothing. “You need not do such things! That tunic must be expensive! Truly, I can… I can take care of it myself.”

In truth, she had no real experience with the intricate face-painting that had been done around her eyes, and she doubted she could fix it even with access to a mirror. Besides that, she was still crying all over herself, and anything she tried to do to fix it would probably just end up being streaked and smeared again anyway.

He sent her a disbelieving look, an eyebrow raised, green eyes skeptical. Obviously, he knew that she was lying, or perhaps that she was too obviously hysterical to be able to fix her ruined appearance on her own. “You are lovely enough without all of this ridiculous paint on your face,” he murmured.

“It is traditional,” she protested.

At that, he let out a snort and promptly ignored her protests, continuing with his work. Quietly, she surrendered, allowing him to continue cleaning her face gently with his sleeve until he apparently deemed it acceptable.

Only then did he help her to her feet. “I am already very late to the performance,” she whispered. “I might as well not go. They will remove me from my position in the School either way for such embarrassment, and in front of the royal family no less! At the Midsummer Festival! Sweet Varda and Nessa, this was meant to be a great honor, and I have gone and ruined it all!”

His finger pressed to her lips, halting her words. Slowly, he shook his head, though what that was meant to tell her she knew not. “Calm down,” he whispered to her.

Amaurëa swallowed sharply. How was she meant to be calm about this?

And then he began to walk away. Hesitantly, she followed on light feet, feeling more like she was walking to her doom than to the performance of her lifetime. At the very least, this would likely be the end of her career, the end of her dreams, and she would be sent back to her family in shame.

Feeling incredibly small, she hovered in the shadow of the Kinslayer. Up ahead, she heard the sounds of the festivities continuing, the din of voices growing louder and louder, and she could see that the center of the hall had been cleared, that the other performers were present, that people were murmuring in confusion because their leading female dancer had failed to appear on schedule. Her Mentor, Lady Morwen, was there, tall and pale-eyed and frowning in that way that never boded well for a student.

If she opened her mouth right then, she thought she might be sick. Especially when the Mentor’s eyes landed on her and filled with fury. The fierce woman took four quick steps in her direction, looking as though she might raise her hand to Amaurëa then and there. “Where have you _been,_ girl? Do you have any _idea_ how long we have been waiting for your arrival? Do you think that being granted such a privilege puts you above the rules, above proper behavior?”

“I…” What could she say? She did not want to say what really happened, not in front of all these people. “Please forgive me, ma’am, it was not my intention to—”

“It matters not what your intention was. Consider yourself lucky that I am even considering letting you continue with this performance given your abhorrent behavior! It will be your last if I have anything to say about it!”

Amaurëa had known it was coming, but she still felt the tears pool in her eyes. Biting her lip against the urge to cry, she submissively nodded and made to step around the angry older female, knowing that she could barely stand for her nerves, feeling as though all her training and practicing were for naught. Beneath the chilly and judgmental eyes of her peers, she huddled, wrapping her arms around herself for a moment. Desperately, she needed to get herself back together and focused, needed to brush away the shame that beat heavily in her chest, but she could still think of nothing but the hands on her body, the way she felt dirty where they had touched, and how she just wanted to run away and hide…

“She was with me.”

All eyes turned to look upon the Prince. The Mentor stood still, unmoving and silent.

“A word, if you will,” he then said, directing it towards the older female. Even one so fierce and strict as Amaurëa’s Mentor would surely not resist a direct order from a member of the royal family. Indeed, though the older woman cast another sharp look back towards the young female dancer, but she did go over to speak with the redheaded man.

Holding her breath, Amaurëa watched as he leaned down to speak to the older female who, despite being rather tall herself, still looked dainty in comparison. What they said, she could not make out, though she felt mortification flood her as the look on her Mentor’s face changed first from skeptical disbelief to stricken horror. No doubt, he was explaining exactly what it was that he had interrupted in that hallway.

Part of Amaurëa was grateful for the intervention. Grateful that she did not have to explain what had happened when all she wanted to do, even now, was pretend it had not or risk falling apart. Even thinking about it made her stomach churn violently, made her knees knock together and shake, made her cold hands tremble where they curled into her sheer skirts. She could not even begin imagining trying to outright speak it aloud, especially in front of another, not without being sick all over the floor and her beautiful gown covered in jewels.

The rest of her almost wished that she had done her performance and been removed from the School of Dance rather than have her Mentor, the woman who had trained her and to whom she looked up to more than any other, know that she had been assaulted as such. Even now, she glanced away, feeling shame curl through her like a red-hot knife, because she had been stupid and had gotten herself into that situation through her own naivety and disregard for her own safety, thinking herself so worldly and knowledgeable. She should never have been so careless as to wander about alone, and she knew that, though it had seemed at the time like nothing of importance until everything had gone so wrong.

Hearing gentle footsteps, she glanced up at her Mentor, whose face had significantly softened. “Amaurëa, tyenya, why did you not say?”

Because she was ashamed. Even now, she just shook her head and felt the tears reemerge, hot and stinging behind her lids. Her sob caught in the back of her throat when she felt slender arms come around her form and hold her tight.

“You need not do the performance,” the other woman told her. “If you think that it is too much, we can speak to someone.”

“Cancel the Midsummer opening dance?” she asked, sniffling, her voice raw from crying.

“Without the two lead performers in top form, I doubt we can improvise our way through it,” her Mentor said, stern face bending just enough to allow for something that might have been a little bit like a smile, something that was meant to be reassuring but only had Amaurëa’s heart sinking. “You need not push yourself after something like that.”

“I… I want to do it.” Wiping at her eyes, she tried to ignore the way her heartbeat once more rose and fluttered in the back of her throat with nervousness. “We have been rehearsing for months for this. Please, let me do this. I can do this.”

The older woman released a sigh. “Amaurëa…”

“Please,” she begged. “I need to do this.”

And she did. Her stomach was churning and her legs felt weak, and she was worried that she would stumble and fall as soon as she performed the first twirl, but she also knew that dancing was her passion. She was absolutely not about to let three drunken noblemen take that away from her, not when she knew the feeling of her feet flying across the ground would sooth away the feelings of sickness, inadequacy and heartache. Right now, she felt powerless and defenseless and vulnerable.

But she never felt more empowered than when she was dancing.

“Very well,” her Mentor acquiesced. “But there is no shame in ceasing if you need to stop, tyenya. Just say the word and we can call it all off.”

“No,” she insisted. “No, I… I want to do it. I want to do it.”

Slowly, she was calming, falling into that haze she always felt before a big performance, like a stillness that had come over her spirit. It was pushing everything else away, allowing her breath to calm and her heart to slow.

She could do this. _She could do this._

_She had to do this._

But first…

She glanced back at her rescuer, who had begun to sink into the background and fade away despite his glossy russet hair and his bright golden tunic. Even knowing his name, even knowing what it meant, even knowing that his hands were stained in blood…

He had saved her when he did not have to. He did not even _know_ her, some insignificant young dancer, some woman he had never met and had no reason to care about. Still, he had intervened, taken her under his protection, driven away her attackers and then intervened upon her behalf when her own words of defense had failed her and left her without shield or barrier against the judgment of her peers and her Mentor.

It was the nicest thing that anyone had ever done for her, and it had been done by a purported heartless murderer.

Even now, he asked nothing of her. Nothing in return at all. Not for personal or intimate favors. Not for monetary reward. Not for anything. He did not even appear interested in holding the information over her head, for he made no demands in exchange for his silence. He simply stepped back and watched quietly, green eyes unwavering.

Sucking in a bolstering breath, she slipped around her Mentor and approached him, her rescuer. Without even hesitating, she launched herself upon him, not caring that now, in the full light of the lit hall, she could see the ugly twist of scars arching up around his throat and across his face, nor that everyone would be watching and would see her throwing her arms around a Kinslayer and squeezing him in a tight embrace. None of that mattered to her at the moment. Not a bit.

“Thank you,” she gasped into his hair, breathing in his strange, ashy scent. “Thank you so much, Telufinwë. Thank you!”

Carefully, his arms circled around her back. She felt his hands through the thin fabric of her gown, trembling faintly but nevertheless warm enough to feel almost scalding, stroking up and down her spine soothingly. And she found that it did indeed help, that the last of the airy, dizzy feeling of panic was subsiding as she sank into his warmth.

He said nothing, but he did not need to. His actions spoke louder than any words ever could in his defense.

Pulling away, she stood on tiptoe just long enough to press a kiss to his cheek, feeling the rough pull of scar tissue on the softness of the sensitive flesh, before she pulled herself away and darted back over to the waiting troupe of dancers.

She hoped he would be watching her. Because she was going to make this the performance of her lifetime.

A performance for a man made of scarlet and golden flame.

\---

It was in search of some fresh and air quiet that Kanafinwë had fled to the gardens. Hours of trying to stay placid and pleasant while socializing with his extended family—with Findekáno, who seemed to get drunker and drunker by the moment, with Artafindë, who was pleasant in that way that made the second brother’s skin itch, with Uncle Nolofinwë and Aunt Anairë, who seemed to want to be anywhere else with anyone else—left him feeling stretched and exhausted and, quite frankly, in ill spirits.

Rather than unleash unpleasant words upon his taxing relatives, Kanafinwë made his excuses and slipped out of the parlor doors and into the newfound night.

Only to find that the gardens were not really what he would call “quiet”. Couples lingering, chatting, watching the stars, and _other things_ where they thought no one could see, too inebriated and excited to have sense about fornicating in public places. At the very least, it was cool outside now that the sun had dipped below the horizon, leaving only the faint golden-rose glow of sunset peeking over the shimmering rooftops in the distance.

Hazily, memories of this place returned as he slipped around hedges and headed deeper into the gardens beneath the overhanging trees. A small mountain creek had originally run through this spot, and the architecture had been built to allow it to continue its downhill course towards the sea, small bridges built to allow walkers to cross from the more tended, grassy expanse near the patio to the wilder paths through towering trees further out. Here, the plants and the flowers lay more naturally rather than gathered into groomed beds and designs. Even the roses here, intermingled pink, yellow and white, grew wild and twined about the bases of the trees.

If he remembered correctly, there was supposed to be a clearing with a bench somewhere around here. He would not mind a place to lie and breathe the cool night air for a while, looking up at the night sky, even if there were a few couples making a ruckus about in the bushes every once in a while along the path. Half of him was waiting for some dumb young couple to stumble right into a rose bush for their troubles, shrieking and yelling as they struggled to untangle themselves and their clothes from the thorns, not trimmed in these parts of the gardens like they were nearer to the palace.

With a sigh, he peered through the darkness and found the bench. It was occupied. More’s the pity. He would have to find somewhere else to laze about and recover from overexposure to ornery relations.

Except… He tilted his head to the side thoughtfully. Except, that form looked a little on the small side to be a woman, and their hair was a little short for a lady besides that. They were sitting alone, letting out little snuffles and sobs every few seconds, very obviously crying into their sleeves. As his eyes adjusted to the rapidly-dimming light of the gardens, he thought perhaps it might be the form of a child.

This was not exactly the sort of party that one should be bringing their children to. Especially given how many couples were performing intimate acts barely hidden in the shadows. Releasing an annoyed sigh, he swept into the clearing.

Indeed, the closer he drew, the more evident that this was a child. A little girl, judging by the dress just long enough to reach below tiny knees. Her skirts were white, embroidered with vividly bold flowers, poppies and bluebells and sunflowers, and her tiny feet were encased in red and yellow slippers. Not a little girl of the common people, but a courtier’s child.

Kanafinwë wondered which courtier had been idiotic enough to bring their child along and then lose her in the gardens.

As he approached, her gray eyes, big and bright and red-rimmed with tears, blinked up at his face, startled to find another person. “Aiya, pitya,” he said, stopping in front of her and crouching down beside the bench where she sat. “What are you doing all the way out here by yourself?”

Her little legs swung slightly. They were not long enough to even brush the ground from her perch. He could see that one of her knees had a bit of a bruise, perhaps from being banged or scraped trying to climb up onto the stone bench in the first place. Otherwise, she appeared at least uninjured. Probably crying from fright rather than injury. Kanafinwë knew from experience that fear of the dark was commonplace in little ones.

The little girl sniffled. “Miss Mírë told us not to wander off, but I wanted to see the roses and the trees in the garden. Laura and Sára came, too, and we were going to play seek and find, but then it got dark really, really fast and I can’t find them anymore! I just want to go back to Miss Míre!”

_Curse it, really, tonight of all nights? There are two more missing elflings out here?_

Releasing another sigh, he lowered and smoothed his voice into a croon, a trick that he had used on his little brothers as children to calm them down whenever tensions grew too high and fierce. “Now, now, you need not cry. We shall find your friends and get you back to Miss Mírë.”

The little girl let out another snuffle, wiping at her eyes with her puffy white sleeves. The Prince from long ago—raised in a house where etiquette was a requirement, a law that one abided by at all times—would have been horrified. The man who had lived through a bloody war and three Kinslayings had seen much worse stained on white clothing than a bit of snot and tears. Raising five smaller brothers and two fosterlings also taught him that children were typically just messy, that the way he and Nelyafinwë had been raised was abnormally _clean._

“What about your name, pitya?”

“I’m Lissë,” the girl told him. “What about you?”

“Makalaurë,” he said, smiling as he stood, offering the girl a hand. Her fingers were impossibly tiny against the scars on his palm, gripping tightly as she hopped down from the bench with a dainty little grunt as her slipper-clad feet met the ground.

Her eyes examined the faceted design forever imprinted into his skin curiously, tracing the silvery lines with her fingertips. “Laurë,” she repeated, “Like my friend. Her name is not Makalaurë, though. It’s Lauranarë. We just call her Laura for short.”

“Indeed, we do share part of our names, do we not?” He knew to feign interest in anything she said, knew that children craved that sort of attention and acknowledgment. “Which way shall we go first? Think you that your friends went deeper into the gardens, or did you leave them nearer to the house, little Lissë?

She clung to his hand with one of her own, using the other to point deeper into the gardens, now getting darker and darker as sunset finally came to its close and plunged them fully into night. “I saw them go into the trees together.”

 _Lovely,_ he thought to himself. Even now, he knew that there must be a number of couples about doing all manner of things that were not for little eyes, and loudly at that. The last thing he wanted to do was go further into the trees with a veritable infant clinging to his knee, especially with how hard it would be to avoid running into anything she ought not see or hear at this age, but he could hardly head back to the house without the other two in tow.

“Let us go and find your friends, then,” he murmured, releasing a little hum under his breath. As they began walking, he sought to distract her. “What is it that brings you and your friends to the palace this night? It is awfully late for little girls to still be awake.”

“Emya says that all the time, too, even though I’m a big girl,” the child told him, bouncing along at his heels. “Emya and Atto are also here at the party, but me and my friends are here with Miss Mírë. She teaches us how to sing and play the harp. Tonight, we’re going to get to sing for _everyone!_ It’s going to be the bestest thing ever!”

 _Grown up, is that so?_ A helplessly fond smile crept up upon Kanafinwë’s lips, for he had heard such things before. From his little brothers when they were knee-high and ready to take on the world single-handedly. From his fosterlings when they begged and pleaded to be allowed to go on hunting trips and supply runs with him or with Nelyafinwë. They were so ready to be adults, so ready to lose their innocence and go out into the wide and dangerous world alone.

“So, Miss Mírë must be your teacher then, hm?” He kept one eye on the little girl, who remained fixated on him and the silver lines etched into his hands rather than on the happenings in the shadows of the trees and underbrush.

“Yep! She’s got a _really_ pretty voice! Me and my friends have lessons with her four times a week. Do you want to hear what we’ve learned?”

Makalaurë was quite certain that the children were being taught all manner of traditional songs for the occasion, but he nodded along anyway. At least if she was singing, some of the idiot couples would realize that they should perhaps stay quiet and hidden. It had the added benefit of preventing her from hearing overmuch the sound of a man moaning some ten yards away while the woman on her knees made choking and slurping noises around his cock.

Almost laughing, he watched the pair startle at the sound of a child’s voice ringing out so nearby. They scrambled back further into the undergrowth, bright eyes peeking out to watch as Kanafinwë floated on by with a dancing little fiend following the flutters of his tunic in the night.

They spent a good ten minutes wandering before two shrieks rang out and two more elflings emerged, having heard their companion singing. The little golden-haired one was in velvety red, and the little redhead in buttercup yellow, twins in reverse colors. Presumably, little Laura and Sára, for they pranced right up to Lissë and proceeded to join her in a slightly off-key trio of a traditional folk song for the Summer Solstice.

He sighed as they finished. At least his headache was diminished. Strange, how three lost little children somehow managed to be better company than the members of his own family. They had won the only true smiles he had given this entire night.

When they were finished with their little chant, he coughed to capture their full attention. “Shall we head back indoors, then, little singers? I am certain Miss Mírë must be in search of her three missing performers, think you not?”

Never before had he dealt with female children, so the look of fixed admiration on their faces was a bit stranger than the awe occasionally garnered from little boys watching swordplay or bowman-ship. As though she owned him, body and soul, little Lissë grabbed his hand and tugged sharply as though to pull him forward to show off to her little friends. “This is Mr. Makalaurë! He found me in the woods and we came to rescue you!”

The childish address was refreshing. After going so long without truly acknowledging his birthright, it was stifling to be called “My Prince” again and again by everyone in the room save his uncles and cousins, as though his title outstripped his name in importance. He doubted these children knew about or cared about his title in the least bit.

“Are you friends with Miss Mírë? Did she send you to get us?” one of the tiny things asked, almost bouncing up and down in her little white slippers.

“You’re really pretty,” the other one said. “Prettier than any of the _boys_ in class.”

Letting out a small snort of laughter at being called pretty—and so genuinely, at that, more so than he had ever since the Darkening, since before his infamous name was enough to offset the loveliness of the good bone structure inherited from both his parents—and then he knelt upon one knee in the grass to put them at even height. “I am afraid Miss Mírë and I know each other not, but I met your friend Lissë and decided to lend my assistance. I know these gardens rather well and shall not get us lost again.”

“Do you know any songs?” the first one asked. “Can you sing, Mr. Makalaurë?”

“Can I sing?” he echoed in amusement. “I know not! What would you have me sing for you, my sweet ladies? A merry dancing song? A lullaby to match the starry sky?”

“A love ballad,” one of them squealed. “Sing a love story!”

“A love story, hm?” He knew _the_ love story, of course. The Ley of Leithian. There were other love stories, tragic and filled with death and sorrow, and perhaps not for the ears of children. Makalaurë had seen hundreds of romances, the coming together of lovers and their falling apart as well, some sweet and pure and torn apart by death, some steeped in sin and caught in the net of love by accident.

But _that one_ was probably the safest. A strong female, forbidden romance and a happy ending. A rare boon in the Hither Lands for any of the immortal elven race.

The words and the melody came back to him with ease. “I will tell you then the story of a young Princess of the faraway land of Doriath who fell in love with a mortal man. And their names were Lúthien Tinúviel and Beren Erchamion…”

As was oft the case in days of old, when Kanafinwë could commandeer a hall and put all those who heard his voice under his spell, so, too, could he easily ensnare and enrapture a trio of children. The very moment they heard his voice rolling through the air like strands of golden light turned to pure sound, their eyes went hazy and distant beneath far-reaching images of a maiden dancing in the twilight and an outlaw who saw her and fell instantly in love with her otherworldly beauty and grace. It was only by the clinging of their hands upon his sleeves and tunic that they wandered not off into the darkness, lost in the dream he wove about their little heads with little else than his voice.

Others nearby must have heard it, too, for all around him movement stilled, moans cutting short and falling quiet, birdsong and cricket’s romancing descending then into silence. He continued to move, even when the hidden couples and lone wanderers through the gardens halted in their tracks at his passage, as easily dazed and captured as they had been in the days of old, before Kanafinwë’s heart had become shrouded in only agony and grief and madness and hatred.

He had not gotten much past the point of speaking of the Quest for the Silmarilli by the time they had come full circle and approached the palace again. Little did he wish to sing of some of what came after—of the interference of his foolish younger brothers, Turkafinwë and Curufinwë, of what happened to his cousin, Artafindë, in the dungeons of Tol-in-Gaurhoth, of the expedition into Angamando itself to steal a jewel from the crown of Morgoth—for those things carried with them a darkness that, for all in the end they came to good, could not be denied.

The moment his voice ceased, his trio of followers blinked as though startling from a dream. Looking about, they seemed to recognize the setting about them not, for they had left behind the wilder parts of the gardens and come back to the manicured lawns and trimmed rose bushes that were tended by the gardeners nearer to the patio, visible from the windows of the tea rooms and the parlors as well as from the main hall.

“Come along, sweet ladies,” he said, capturing once more their attention, though their eyes remained wide and dazed. “I am certain Miss Mírë awaits.”

“Mr. Makalaurë,” Lissë whispered, “Your voice…”

“Forgive me for not finishing the tale,” he interrupted, already knowing what she was trying to tell him, already knowing she would fail to find the words to describe what she had just experienced. Few could, for there was little in the tongue of any of the Eldar to describe the weaving of matter into being through music. That was the domain solely of the Valar.

He wrangled them along, back towards the open doors. Inside, the lights gleamed golden and dim in contrast to the silvered moonlight and the darkness of the outdoors now that the sun had gone to sleep upon the longest day. It was warm as he entered, three little forms trailing after like ducklings, showing more nerves now that they were surrounded on all sides by the towering forms of adults in their gem-encrusted garb whispering and flocking about. Looking over towards where the performers gathered, he realized that the opening dance had come and gone—it was meant to be a rendition of the creation of Anar an Isil from what he understood—and he could see a large group of elflings gathering together in rows, probably preparing to serenade the audience with traditional songs.

So, that was their destination, then.

They did not have to travel far. People parted for him without question as he went, though he was undoubtedly the least threatening in appearance of all his brothers, the kindest and softest in face, the slightest and shortest of form. Some cast glances of confusion his way, parting instinctively with their peers but not recognizing him for what he was, most especially given the trail of elflings that seemed to be attached to his heels by invisible thread.

Before they reached the full gathering of little ones, a maiden appeared before them. Her face was lightly flushed, her dark blue eyes wide. She was a lovely girl certainly, though no Lúthien Tinúviel, perhaps, but unique in that her eyes spoke of Noldorin heritage while her silvery hair spoke of the Teleri, a rare mix given the poor history between the two peoples.

“Aralissë, Lauranarë, Sáriel, where have you three been!” She barely seemed to take note of Kanafinwë at all as she swept the three elflings into the circle of her arms, giving them a quick squeeze. “What did I say about wandering off?”

“I’m sorry, Miss Mírë,” Lissë answered looking contrite, though Kanafinwë knew well enough that the expression was likely faked to garner pity. The other two played along, huddling together in a band of sisterhood, turning their suddenly tear-stricken eyes upon their female minder, looking as if they were the sorriest bunch of puppies to have ever walked the green lands of Valinórë. “We will not do it again! Promise!” The other two nodded and chimed an echo to the first girl’s words.

“Well, thank the Valar we have found you,” the woman sighed out, looking each of them over. “To whence had you gone? You could be found nowhere within the hall.”

“We were in the gardens!” the little redhead cried.

“Yes,” the golden-haired one corroborated. “We got lost, but we were rescued!”

“Rescued, hm?” The young woman looked up at Kanafinwë, who stood quietly out of the way. “I suppose this is your knight in shining armor?”

The trio nodded almost in unison. “He has the prettiest voice I’ve ever heard, at least for a boy,” Lissë said, and Kanafinwë might have blushed in the old days at the compliment, even from one so young and unlearned in the art of music. Sometimes it was the youngest ones who were also the most honest with their words, who carried the least ulterior motive.

They turned on him then, one taking each of his hands and attempting to pull him forward. Though he could have stayed in place against the miniscule force they applied, he did not resist. They meant no harm, unlike many of the older, wiser and more devious people of court. “This is Miss Mírë,” one of them explained in their bell-like little voices, high-pitched with excitement. “She has the prettiest voice _ever!_ You should sing with her!”

Unlike Kanafinwë, Miss Mírë (or whatever her full name might be) did actually blush and grow flustered at the compliment. “I am merely their instructor,” she explained hastily, “Not even one of the most talented singers at the School of Music. I watch over the young elflings of the noblemen and upper-class people of court while they learn the basics.”

“There is no shame in that,” he said, and he watched her eyes widen slightly at hearing his voice for the first time. As did most people, she startled slightly, feeling it almost as a living thing. Especially right now, while he purposefully kept it soft and welcoming to calm the little ones.

“Still, hardly do I have the prettiest voice _ever,”_ she clarified. “Thank you for bringing them back here safely. They slipped away so fast I did not even see to whence they went!”

In her defense, she was handling more than two dozen small children. From having younger brothers and little fosterlings, Kanafinwë knew that watching even one or two could be challenging given how inventive and curious small children could be. Little could be done to stop them save locking them up to keep them from getting into all manner of trouble, so one needed to accept that a certain amount of misbehavior and misadventure was standard, even expected. Commiserating quietly, he offered her a tiny smile.

“They can be that way,” he agreed.

“Yes,” she agreed breathlessly. “Once again, my thanks, my lord. Now, I have to get everyone back in order. They shall be singing in just a few minutes.”

Quickly, she pressed a kiss to his cheek and then darted off, tugging the three protesting little girls along behind her. And Kanafinwë watched her go, one brow slightly raised, for she clearly had no idea who he was nor why those standing nearby who _did_ looked suddenly uncomfortable and nervous, like he might burst into flame or pull out a knife and rage in response to being treated with anything less than the utmost respect a Prince of his station deserved.

Kanafinwë cared little for such pageantry now. However, he did _not_ mind getting a little reward for his act of kindness, even if it was just a kiss to the cheek from a lovely young female. What with the heartache that accompanied the knowledge that Istelindë had not returned his feelings—that she had never meant him to interpret her kindness as a romantic advance at all—a little bit of flirting and a little bit of kissing helped raise his spirits. Just a little. Certainly, it was a nice contrast to the constant chaos that typically followed his House wherever they went.

It also helped that “Miss Mírë” was indeed a lovely creature. And humble, downplaying her own talent when, in reality, she must have been quite the stunning vocalist to be given the privilege of passing on knowledge of the sacred art to the children of the most elite men and women in Tirion. Maybe he _would_ invite her to sing with him later, if for no other reason than that he was now curious to hear her voice raised in song against the gentle strumming of his harp.

“I see some of you still have the ability to be charming.”

And it was gone. The peace ruined. It was by sheer force of will that Kanafinwë did not release a groan. Indeed, he was quite certain that his expression must have soured, his faint smile of fondness diminishing into a stern frown as he tilted his head to the side, taking in his uncle’s face. Did Arafinwë have _no one else_ to bother?

“Uncle,” he greeted, voice dropping half an octave, the soothing quality of it disappearing beneath the jagged roughness of half-hidden annoyance.

“So, rescuing young maidens, getting kisses in reward,” the older male teased, bumping his shoulder against Kanafinwë’s. Clearly, the further Arafinwë got into his cups and the longer he spent around Kanafinwë’s mild-mannered personality, the less threatening the second brother became, because a few hours ago he was certain that even his uncle would not have dared to make such familiar gestures towards his person. “Nothing wrong with a little flirting and wooing, I suppose. I forget that rest of you boys are young and unattached even though Nelyafinwë is now quite happily married.”

If anything was going to make his mood sink even lower, it was being reminded of _that._ He still would rather not think too hard about Nelyafinwë and Istelindë. Especially not _together._

But he was also used to being disappointed and to being caught in the quicksand of grief. Used to never getting what he desired, be it the career that he had wanted, the woman that he had wanted or the life that he had wanted. He certainly was not going to allow his embarrassment over his unfortunate infatuation for his sister-in-law to show before his relatives. Bad enough that it had been visible to all his brothers, his motives for spending time lingering about Istelindë all but transparent to every pair of eyes but hers.

Like all the rest of the tragedies in his life, he would let this go as well. Let it go and move on. Marked by it, certainly, but he had enough scars on his mind and body and spirit that adding one more could hardly make the patchwork of his being worse.

“Yes, well…” He had really had no intention of garnering any favor with the beautiful “Miss Mírë”, but he would let his uncle keep those assumptions. “I have it on the authority of her students that Miss Mírë has the most beautiful voice _ever._ I may have to stick around just to hear her sing.”

Arafinwë let out a chuckle, clapping him on the shoulder. “Indeed, Vardamírë has quite the voice, one fitting of her amilessë! You will not be disappointed, nephew!”

 _Vardamírë. Jewel of Varda._ Curiously, Kanafinwë looked out over the crowd towards the woman in question, who had managed to wrangle all her tiny charges into position and was now talking to another nameless man, her dark eyes wide. One of her small hands rose up to cover her lips, hiding the lush pink petals from view.

At that moment, she looked towards him, wide-eyed. Ah, so she had discovered his identity. Well, that was likely the end of their flirtations.

Still, he could not help but offer her a half-smile and the incline of his head.

And her cheeks turned bright pink. It really was a flattering look.

How delightful.

\---

“You never said that you knew Kanafinwë Fëanárion.”

She had been in the middle of tucking her three missing elflings into their proper places, arranged into their neat little lines, big eyes fixated upon her expectantly for guidance. At the interruption, she turned to see another of the singers from the School of Music, Lossenáro, at her back, his gray eyes boring into her with strange intensity.

“What?” Confused, she stared up at his face. “I have no idea of what you speak.”

Those eyes narrowed. “You need not lie. Personally knowing such a talented singer and harper is hardly a terrible thing, despite the reputation of his family, and no one at the School would hold it against you. Perhaps the Headmaster might even use such a connection to broach the subject of his coming to the School to teach.”

Now Vardamírë was just _lost._ “I still have _no idea_ of what you speak,” she repeated. “I do not know Kanafinwë Fëanárion at all! I have no idea what has given you that impression! I know not even what he looks like!”

She was of a younger generation, born already by the Darkening but young at the time. A girl singing away her days in the windowsill of her room in her father’s townhouse like a twittering bird in a golden cage. It was only later that she had been allowed into the School, that she had moved away from her family and made music and song her life’s sacred work. Never in her life had she even _seen_ any of the Fëanárioni or their father, not close enough to recognize them by face certainly, let alone _met_ any of them. Though, if any one of them there was that she _would_ have wanted to meet, it undoubtedly would have been Kanafinwë, renowned even now, centuries later, for the beauty and the Power of his impossible voice.

Something glimmered in her fellow singer’s eyes as they widened with realization. “You mean, you did not…” His voice trailed off, softening into silence for a long moment as he glanced over her shoulder. “I thought that, perhaps, you knew him since you seemed to act so familiar. I had no idea that you simply did not _know…”_

“Did not know what?” she said beneath her breath, leaning closer. “Of what are you speaking?”

“That man that you kissed,” he whispered back, head bowing in close. “I thought you knew. Truly, I did.”

_The man that she had…_

Raising a hand to her lips, she felt her limbs simultaneously shiver with inexplicable cold even as heat crawled up towards her cheeks. Slowly, wide-eyed, she looked over her shoulder at the man who had so valiantly returned her three missing charges, the man she had quickly thanked with a soft kiss on the cheek before running off in a rush.

He was looking back with silver-white eyes. Their gazes met, and that connection buzzed beneath her skin, tingling and sizzling like static. The tiny blush that had lit up her face with embarrassment now pinkened as heat flushed through her whole body.

That man, staring back at her, was Kanafinwë Fëanárion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:
> 
> tyenya (Q) = lit. my thou, sort of like my dear  
> Aiya (Q) = Oh (exclamation)  
> pitya (Q) = little one  
> Emya (Q) = Mama/Mommy  
> Atto (Q) = Papa/Daddy  
> amilessë (Q) = mother-name  
> Fëanárioni (Q, p) = Sons of Fëanáro


	20. Drift Like Two Flowers on the Sea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maitimo and Istelindë had a deal...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: getting it on, semi-public sex and partial nudity, kissing, oral sex, fingering, sneaking around
> 
> This chapter is mostly Maitimo and Istelindë ;) Though we get to see a little bit of a couple more couples...
> 
> Maedhros = Maitimo = Nelyafinwë = Nelyo  
> Maglor = Makalaurë = Kanafinwë = Káno  
> Celegorm = Tyelkormo = Turkafinwë = Turko  
> Caranthir = Carnistir = Morifinwë = Moryo  
> Curufin = Atarinkë = Curufinwë = Curvo  
> Amrod = Ambarussa = Pityafinwë = Pityo  
> Amras = Umbarto = Telufinwë = Telvo  
> Fingon = Findekáno  
> Istelindë = Lindë  
> Turgon = Turukáno  
> Argon = Arakáno  
> Aredhel = Írissë

“Is that little Telvo?”

As he oft did, Findekáno appeared out of nowhere, hand on Nelyafinwë’s shoulder, leaning unsteadily close and reeking of wine. Following the wobbling point of his cousin’s finger, the eldest Fëanárion took in the scene, the tiny, slender dancer standing elegantly on tiptoe as she threw her arms around— _Yes, that is most definitely Telufinwë_ —the tall redhead’s neck and squeezed, fingers digging into the golden fabric of a handmade tunic.

Then she pulled back and planted a kiss on his brother’s cheek. Right over the curling wave of burn scars that sliced up across the otherwise lovely angle of the bone.

“Oh my,” Istelindë murmured, craning her head to see over the crowd. “Maitimo, it appears that our little brothers are not so hopeless at interacting with the gentler sex as we might have presumed.”

“Indeed!” Findekáno nearly shouted, smacking his hand sharply down on Nelyafinwë’s shoulder, leaving the redhead faintly wincing. It would have been nice if his cousin had chosen to abuse the shoulder that was _not_ permanently twisted and ruined. Naturally, in his state—that being most likely twice the amount of wineglasses into the evening as anyone else in the room—Findekáno was not thinking in the least bit about his cousin’s right arm even though he had once been privy to the damage first hand. “Perhaps there shall be another wedding on the horizon! What with everyone being so _dreary,_ we could use something to celebrate!”

Cheerful drunk that he was, cousin Findekáno was more than happy to grin like a maniac down at Istelindë when she let out a small exclamation of agreement. “That would be quite lovely, cousin Findekáno. I would _love_ to have some sisters!”

“See, Lindë agrees with me!” If it was any man other than Findekáno, Nelyafinwë might have been wary of the arm that wrapped around his wife and pulled her into a half-hug.

“Yes, yes,” he conceded, though he did keep one eye on his little brother as the woman—obviously one of the dancers—released Telufinwë and nearly pranced off to participate in the frantic preparations for the opening dance. “It just seems… a bit odd, is all.”

“Nothing odd about making _friends_ with some lovely ladies.” Findekáno pressed a kiss to Istelindë’s cheek and then released her back into Nelyafinwë’s care. “Now, I think I hear another bottle of wine calling my name! Or maybe I merely hear Turukáno in the distance and seek to flee before his wrath. How I ended up with such a stick-in-the-mud younger brother, I could not say! Neither Írissë nor Arakáno are so awful!”

Feeling rather uncharitable towards Turukáno, Nelyafinwë said nothing in his younger cousin’s defense, not like he used to long ago in the days where Findekáno’s drinking was truly worrisome rather than the least of their worries and Turukáno had merely been their bookish and boring younger cousin/brother rather than a condescending, jaded bastard. Instead, he just grunted out a faint agreement and watched his cousin stumble away, laughing vibrantly at his own words.

“I realize that perhaps I may not get a truly accurate feel for the personalities of your cousins when they are intoxicated, but is cousin Findekáno always so…”

“For the most part, yes.” Findekáno had been bright and vivid and alive, the excited and happy-go-lucky sort, long before the Darkening, and had remained as such long after. It was probably that very personality trait—along with a tendency to be unnaturally and unrealistically optimistic—which had brought Nelyafinwë to the end of his tenure as a thrall of Angamando. Were it not for his cousin’s stubborn insistence on making things right and the belief that he might still be alive after so long in captivity…

Well, he might very well have died chained up on Thangorodrim. What would have become of his brothers, he knew not, but he did not wish to think on it too long. Given how poorly his attempts at reconciliation had been received by his extended family…

He did not want to imagine how things might have gone with poor Kanafinwë in charge. With Turkafinwë whispering in his ear and Nolofinwë’s people being none too welcoming, his second brother may not have abdicated as had Nelyafinwë, may have played the puppet to the machinations of the younger siblings instead, and…

Nelyafinwë just did not want to think about a Noldorin people being governed by Turkafinwë. He simply did not.

So, part of him _was_ grateful for Findekáno’s intervention. The situation in the Hither Lands could have been much worse, for all that Nelyafinwë’s suffering would have ended sooner, had such acts of selfless brotherhood not taken place.

However, there was that darker shadow of himself, that tiny slice of his being that was mostly resting whenever Istelindë was near and shrouded him in her light, that passionately hated his cousin. With that stupid, rebellious, adventurous streak that had prolonged Nelyafinwë’s agony when all he wanted to do was die. Saying it had been for his own good, for the good of his family, when it felt more like Findekáno merely wanted to play the hero and put his family into debt to the House of Nolofinwë. There were still days where he ruminated on his lost hand, gazed down at the ugly mess of scar tissue left from having his cousin cut his dying body loose from that damn cliffside, thought about watching his cousin being cleaved from behind and then stomped into a bloody mire, and felt vindicated remembering the gut-wrenching smell and the gore splattered all about in the mud.

Just a small part of him felt like Findekáno had deserved it.

“Nevertheless, his tendency to hug and kiss everyone is lessened when he is sober,” Nelyafinwë recalled, trying to push those dark thoughts aside. “He married only to produce an heir, back when he was the High King of the Noldor in the Hither Lands, but he and his wife did not continue their union here, neither considering themselves to be married still. Both wished to seek love rather than a political match.”

“As long as they are both happy, I see no problem with that, though I imagine the court would find it quite scandalous had it happened here,” Istelindë commented. “Well, what do you think, vennonya? Of all our brothers, I would not have expected Telufinwë to be receiving female attention, what with… well…”

What with how the youngest brother never spoke. Nelyafinwë would have to agree. Still, it was definitely the younger—not the older—twin who had received that kiss, who was standing off to the side of the room watching as the tiny waif of a female dressed up like living flame joined in the flurry of activity. She was brown-haired and even lighter a build than many of the women of court, though her slender limbs were clearly woven with powerful muscle rather than mere skin and bone. Most definitely light on her feet, as expected of a dancer.

“Every year, the Dance of Anar and Isil is performed on Midsummer at dusk,” Istelindë explained, her hand entwining with his and squeezing tight. “It is meant to be very romantic, how Arien volunteers to shepherd the vessel of Anar, and Tilion to shepherd Isil only to follow her across the night sky.”

Romantic it might be. Yet, Nelyafinwë could not deny that it also seemed a rather sad tale. After all, it was rare that the moon ever caught up to the sun, and only for a few minutes at a time. Only once had he seen it happen in person, the sky going gray and then completely dark, the world standing still as Anar and Isil met in a glowing ring of light in the sky and then parted again. It seemed a poor fate for a man to chase his lover across the sky for all eternity, only rarely meeting her fully.

Of course, this year’s performance looked a little bit more like “Arien” had her bright eyes set on another man entirely. Lips quirking, Nelyafinwë observed how the girl glanced back towards his brother every few minutes. Telufinwë might be quiet, but, beyond the scars mostly hidden underneath his fiery clothing, the twin was certainly a handsome man. Not only that, but also probably competed for Kanafinwë for title of “least ill-tempered” Fëanárion. Young Telufinwë had been animated, almost garishly vibrant, filling up the whole room with his voice and his presence, but he had also been the kindest of them as well. Nelyafinwë could not help but wonder now if he had earned the young lady’s favor through some selfless act or another, getting into trouble as he always did when Pityafinwë was not at his side.

Speaking of which, no Pityafinwë in sight. It was rare to see one without the other.

“Look at her,” Istelindë was whispering, pulling his attention away. “What a delightful little hummingbird! Would they not look so lovely together?”

Nelyafinwë released a soft laugh. “One kiss on the cheek does not a romance make!”

“Ah, if it was but a kiss on the cheek. Yet, you can see as well as I that she still has her eye upon him, even now,” his wife pointed out, and he could not deny that she was correct. “Would it not be wonderful? I wonder how they met! It seems like such a strange thing, for him to run into a _dancer,_ of all people, rather than some pretty young lady of court.”

Truth be told, Nelyafinwë thought it not as strange as all that. He had met many a strange person whilst avoiding the pleasantries and social expectations designated by his status; hiding in the shadows and corners of the room tended to bring one into contact with those who were not so commonplace and boring as the typical young lady of court. Who knew where the pair had encountered one another, but it would not have surprised him at all if it had happened whilst his baby brother was hiding away, trying his very best to escape from being the center of attention in a room full of gossips and gawkers.

Now, though, they certainly had something to gossip about. There was simply no chance that others had not seen that interaction. One could only hope that young dancer knew what she was getting herself into, hugging and kissing a man of the House of Fëanáro in such a public forum. Nelyafinwë was quite honestly shocked that his brother had allowed it.

Nelyafinwë would have done such a thing to _incite_ the gossiping and the rumors, reveling in playing with the courtiers waging tongues. His younger brother would have avoided it at all costs to spare the lady embarrassment or harassment over such scandalous behavior. Such was the difference between them, despite their shared coloring and facial structure. Telufinwë was many times more honorable than his eldest brother. Than most of his brothers, for that matter. The least selfish of them, and the most righteous.

But he had not resisted the embrace. Had even touched her back. Nothing forward or inappropriate, but more a soothing stroke of the back.

The oldest Fëanárion sensed a story there. One which may as well have gone to its grave, for it was locked away in the silence of Telufinwë’s tongue. Only Pityafinwë, of all the brothers, had heard his twin speak aloud since the burning. None of the rest were so trusted.

Still, perhaps he might learn something if he spoke to the right people.

At his side, Istelindë placed her hand at the crook of his elbow. “I can _see_ you plotting over there, Maitimo,” she chastised, though her voice was light and amused, and the timbre of affection there made his heart skip a beat, drew his eyes to her and held him magnetically focused upon her upturned face. “Try not to think so hard, vennonya. Let things take their natural course and try not to interfere.”

“As though you do not want to interfere, playing matchmaker,” he countered, though he could not resist the urge to face her fully, to allow her to make herself at home tucked into his arms. Even tall as she was for a female, he could still easily see right over the top of her head, and he had to lean down to press a kiss to her temple and nuzzle into her white-blond hair. “If you wish for me to be distracted from my plotting and scheming, perhaps you ought to offer a more tempting alternative.”

She leaned upwards, indecently close, hands on his chest and spread out, fingers digging in and burning through his clothing. “Mayhap we should visit the gardens after this. Find some privacy now that darkness is falling. Surely you must know all the best hiding places.”

They shared a brief kiss, a soft touch of their noses, as he bowed his head nearer. “I have a few places in mind,” he admitted, voice dropping to a growl.

To his satisfaction, she shivered faintly beneath his hand, resting heavy against her spine. It was so incredibly tempting to press kisses to places that ought not be kissed in public, to close the last few inches between them such that they were pressed fully together from chest to groin. Just her faint scent of mist and sweetness, floating about her in the air, was enough that he felt the first stirrings of heat in the pit of his stomach. The arch of her throat was _right there,_ so delicate and so temptingly displayed, like a feast waiting for his mouth to descend.

_Control… have control. There is time. No need to rush._

With a deep, fortifying breath, he separated their bodies rather than fusing them further together. “Let us see what all the fuss is about with his dance, then. Afterwards…”

Her cheeks flushed, and her eyes went wide with anticipation, glimmering with the first hints of what he now recognized as lust. “Afterwards,” she agreed.

Swallowing, he turned back to the dance, watching as all the performers and the instrumentalists were finally in place to begin. Torchlights were dimmed, candles laid about the makeshift stage at the center of the hall, and voices started to go quiet. At the center of it all, the two figures, male and female. The woman, tiny and light as a bird, dressed in gold and scarlet, glimmering and coruscating blindingly in the flickers of firelight. And her companion, the man, slender but powerful in body, was clad in silver to counter her gold, darkness to counter her light, shimmering with glitter and iridescent sheen rather than blinding jewel-sparkles.

There was something rather fascinating about it. Something rather erotic as well. Half his mind was focused still on his wife at his side, at her hand upon his arm, her heat against his body, the sway of her pale hair as she moved and the fall of her pale yellow gown over her breasts as they rose and fell. The rest was wondering if this performance was purposefully designed to have the couples in the room panting over each other by the time it had ended.

The two dancers came together. Close and intimate. Staring into each other’s eyes.

And then the woman glanced away, towards the corner where Telufinwë stood half-hidden in the shadows.

And Nelyafinwë decided this could be entertaining to watch after all.

\---

They made it halfway through the dance. A great feat if ever there was one, for Istelindë’s body had been itching and tingling with need before it had even begun. She had seen this dance many times before, but it had never stricken her quite like it did when she had her own lover at her side while gazing upon flexible, elegant and quick movements that depicted a man pursuing a woman, touching her lovingly and reverently across her back and belly as they swayed together and came apart, again and again.

Now that she had gone through what one might have called a courtship—or, at the very least, the stage in her relationship with Maitimo where both _desired_ the other but neither quite took that last step towards initiating a sensual encounter—she recognized this for what it was meant to depict. A man _wanting_ a woman, and a woman _wanting_ him back.

The itch turned into a burn, rising up just beneath her skin. Every inch of her felt sensitive, from her lips, longing to be swollen with kisses, to her nipples, rubbing against the soft silk of her gown, to her belly, where her muscles fluttered and flexed with anticipation. Electrified, she thought even an innocuous touch—to her arm, to her shoulder, to the curve of her waist—would have sent boiling heat spiraling down to rest in her pelvis. Maitimo was _so close,_ only their hands entangled, but every part of her being longed for there to be more touch between them. More contact with less fabric in the way to dull the potency of skin-to-skin connection.

Caught that way, she was only half-able to pay attention to the fact that the female dancer spent as much time looking amorously at her pursuer as she did pursuing another man entirely with her swift, golden-brown eyes. Certainly, Istelindë could see why this woman was apparently being spoken of so highly throughout the gossip circles, for her talent was not understated. For all that she must have touched the ground, she seemed rather to be dancing upon the air, every twist and turn of her slender body beautiful to gaze upon in motion.

Would that she could have appreciated it more, but then the two dancers entwined, the male’s hand resting indecently low on the woman’s back, sliding down over the curve of her rump to curl around her thighs and lift. And all Istelindë could think about was how Maitimo had done that before, how shockingly sensitive she was there, in a place that she had never even realized was sensitive, for it lit up like starbursts of light when it was _his_ callus-roughened hand that passed over its softness. Unable to halt it, she released a soft sound close to a mewl.

At her side, she could see Maitimo’s breath hitch. She squeezed his hand, used her grip to reel herself closer, to tuck herself into his arms, her back to his chest. The vibration of a silent growl traveled through his chest and into her body, leaving her shuddering.

He leaned close enough that his breath washed over her ear and cheek. “Have you seen your fill of the dancing already, vessenya?”

His broad hand spread out on her belly, resting just below her navel, tracing across the sensitive softness of her natural curve from side to side. Would that they had been alone, that his hand would have slid lower, because she felt herself grow just a little damp against her thighs. All around her was his warmth, the safety of his muscles flexing beneath his clothing, the brush of his russet hair against her cheek and the flutter of his eyelashes against her temple as his lips brushed against her skin.

Laying her hand over his, stilling its movement, she let out a sigh. “Perhaps we should retreat,” she whispered, turning her head such that she could meet his eyes. “It is too warm inside, Maitimo. Let us get some cool air outside.”

Both of them knew that was not their reason for going outside. Nevertheless, Maitimo’s hand slid up over her stomach and brushed just barely the bottom of her breasts, sending burning white heat spiraling down to settle low in her belly. She was released, but not before she felt the first signs of his arousal bulging against the small of her back, conveniently hidden by the looseness of his clothing and the flutters of his velveteen robes. Had they been alone, she would have reached out to touch him just to hear him groan.

As it was, the pair melted back into the crowd, hands linking once more as they made for the open patio doors. Outside, the sun was setting, the sky cast with an array of watercolor pinks, reds and golds. Only the brightest stars were yet visible resting just above the horizon, glimmering pale against Arien’s fading light.

“Where to, my lord?” she asked teasingly, dancing a few steps ahead of her husband, who stalked after her like a hunter.

His laughter was a deep thing, like thunder, and it grew only rougher with his need as he followed her across the grass, over the small white bridges crossing the bubbling little creek, and towards the shadows of the trees offering hiding places for private and intimate moments. They just barely made it within the embrace of the boughs overhead, casting darkness around them to hide from eyes that might peer out into the gardens from the main hall, before they began to kiss one another, limbs tangling together as she finally pressed herself fully against his body where she desperately desired to be. There, they spent a few long minutes exchanging kisses, hands wandering to more and more erotic locations.

But it was not enough. Not nearly. Istelindë had been waiting all day to have her husband alone, and she did not think she could wait any longer. “Maitimo,” she whispered against his lips. “Find us somewhere more private so I can show my husband what I have been daydreaming of since we arose from bed this morning.” Her hand slid down between his legs, and his choked sound of agreement had her feet dancing nervously in the grass.

Certainly, there was something exciting about the recklessness of a liaison in such a public forum, and Istelindë could not help her soft laughter as her husband swept her right up off her feet and held her close to his chest, taking her deeper into the trees. Somehow, he managed not to stumble over his own feet as he went despite the fact that she leaned up to kiss wherever she could reach, nuzzling and nipping at his neck, beneath his chin, closer and closer to his lips which rested so temptingly near.

No idea had she to where they went, only that it became darker and darker the further the sun sank, covering them in the soft blanket of night. Maitimo spun her about teasingly, listening to her squeal, before setting her delicately upon her feet. Immediately, they were kissing once again, her nails scraping down his chest across the fabric she had personally adorned with pale stars and glistening waves, just as his hand curled into the woven braids of her hair to tug back to allow for better access to her mouth.

The little tingling fire was now full-on burning through her limbs. Maitimo managed to tug at the laces at the back of her dress, and it slipped down over her shoulders and settled about her arms and waist. In return, while his hand traversed her breasts, brushing over the sensitive tips of her nipples to leave her gasping and squirming, she hastily pushed his tunic up and made for the laces of his leggings, almost tearing the clasps free.

The first grasp of her hand around his burning sex left him rocking on his heels. “Let me pleasure you first, my faithful Prince,” she breathed out, sinking to her knees and pulling the soft fabric with her, “And then you can use this later to pleasure me in return.”

No protests did she receive from him, only another deep moan and the feeling of his hand ruining her intricate hair by weaving into the strands and drawing her head close. In the past days, Istelindë had become more familiar with her husband’s body, indeed, getting to explore him as thoroughly as he had explored her. No longer was his sex so foreign to her gaze or beneath her hands, though she had only put her mouth upon him a couple times. Gently, she pressed kittenish licks and kisses against the head, tracing down one side with her lips as she stared up into his rapidly darkening eyes.

“My dearest Princess,” he purred out, head rolling back luxuriously as she opened her mouth and pillowed the crown of his sex upon her tongue. Almost like a cat, his fingers kneaded against her scalp, his hips arching subtly forward to press further, deeper, into the burning cavity of her mouth. Still inexperienced, she knew not much in the way of technique, but she did know enough to mimic the sexual act, allowing him to slide as deep into her mouth as she could take him before slowly pulling away. Moaning around him, she reached out to stroke at the softness of his sac, to wrap her fingers around the hilt of his length that she could not reach with her lips, and watched his face unfurl into bliss as she reveled in his taste and the heaviness of his scent and the way his eyes went fully half-hooded with his need.

It was not so much his taste or the weight of his length resting on her tongue and rubbing the sensitive roof of her mouth that left her squirming, but rather the tender look he gave her through his own wash of heat and arousal, hand massaging into the back of her head. “Your mouth is so lovely,” he complimented breathily. “Darling, just like that…” His voice rolled down and down into a groan.

She was doing this to him. And she loved every moment. The way this act had been described in whispers before had sounded so degrading, but nothing about servicing him this way felt lowly. Instead, she sucked around his length, taking him deep, and shivered at the shattered noise he tried to stifle in the back of his throat. Against the cold air, her nipples went hard and tender, and she could not resist rubbing over one swollen bud with her fingers, circling it again and again just to feel the sparkles of energy and pleasure that danced down her spine.

With satisfaction—and need—burning in her gut, she watched the telltale flush spreading up his body, the shivers that wracked his spine. He was doing his best to remain quiet, but she could still hear him panting quickly into the cooling evening air, and she knew he was growing close to his finish.

“Meldanya,” he hissed out, tugging gently at her hair until her mouth slipped away from his sex entirely. “We would not want to finish too soon. Let me have my turn as well.”

Istelindë could have knelt there and worshipped his sex for hours, but she also wanted to join fully this night, not tire him out too much before they even had a chance to complete their union and be forced to wait. So, she resisted not as he sank to his knees in the grass and pushed her back, spread out in their secluded clearing. Both her hands and his single one struggled to move her skirts aside, and she had never been happier to have foregone her undergarments, even if it was a bit unspeakable to be bare underneath.

It was more than worth it to see the realization on his face that she had been wandering about all night with nothing under her skirts at all. Those eyes darkened to almost black, looking up from her spread thighs to her face and then back to where her dampness glistened in the faint glimmers of torchlight and moonlight breaking through their thick covering of leaves.

Welcomingly, she spread her thighs further, arched her back to raise her breasts, encouraging him to touch her anywhere and everywhere because, even with her intimate places exposed to cool night air, she still felt lit aflame by his gaze traversing her body appreciatively. She still looked to his erect sex, thick and reddened at the crown, and felt breathless knowing that that was going to be _inside of her_ tonight. Long enough had she touched him and explored him, taking in every inch of the strangeness of his male organ, that her apprehension was lessened beneath the surge of longing to join.

Part of her knew it was going to hurt. But she still wanted it. Still wanted _him._ Desperately. For more than a week, she had been hungering but allowing him to take everything slow, to use his fingers upon her instead.

Even now, he reached between her thighs, and she was wet enough that two of his fingers slid into her easily, deep and firm, without so much as a sting. The tension in her thighs drained, collapsing them fully open like the blooming petals of a flower, and it took all her willpower to use her elbows to hold her upper body at an incline such that she could watch, could see the way his hand twisted to push deeper, to wring a gasp from her throat as he brushed at the tenderness of her insides, pressure at the front of her channel leaving her filling with champagne bubbles of rapidly rising _need._

The terminated end of his right wrist rested over her lower belly, holding her yellow skirts up and out of the way, while his fingers began to rock into her in the way she imagined his sex would as they made love. Moaning breathlessly, she used a hand to reach down, to brush over her clitoris, growing swollen above where he slid in and out of her body.

“It feels lovely,” she crooned. “But, Maitimo, I can take more. Please, give me more.”

His eyes flashed in the darkness, staring up at her face for a long moment, but he gave her what she asked for, his own breath caught on an amorous sigh as he pulled out his two fingers and returned to her with three, pressing gently inwards. It was a little bit of a stretch, stinging just a bit, but all of that was lost beneath the rush of excitement, her thighs quivering and feet writhing at the knowledge of how _much_ and how _deep_ it was. The heat shot inwards, lighting her up with the beginning of her orgasm, pushed further and further along each time his fingers curled up into her depths and stroked her velvety walls.

“Still good?” he asked, leaning down to nuzzle against her neck, to tease his mouth over the swells of her breasts.

“Mm, yes,” she breathed out, her head falling back into the grass while her fingers circled her swollen pearl. Each inward wave of his fingers inside her left the golden heat swelling low in her pelvis. Leaning up for a kiss, she breathed in the warmth of his body, the spice of his natural scent, and felt her insides grow tight and ripple around his fingers, sucking the digits in deep as the swelling pleasure finally began to bubble over. Just a few more strokes, and she would topple right over the—

The sound of nearby voice had them both jerking to a halt. Especially given that the voice was exceptionally familiar, raised in song.

“Is that… Makalaurë?” she whispered, her pleasure dimming slightly. Maitimo moved to block her from sight of the only entrance to their little clearing, his robes hiding both of their states of partial undress. Yet, no one came around the corner to interrupt. That lovely, golden voice came close—close enough to hear the words being sweetly sung into the open air—and then began to fade again.

“It seems so,” Maitimo agreed, silvery eyes looking over his shoulder, narrowing to try and see through the shield of leaves and branches. “It seems a strange thing, not like him, for he must know that couples are out and about celebrating. And he is singing the Lay of Leithian, not exactly his normal preference.”

In the distance, they could hear Makalaurë still singing, voice growing farther off as the seconds drifted on by as if slowed to twice their usual length. It was impossible not to make out the words weaving together the picture of a couple meeting in secret in the twilight, a delightfully forbidden romance, because all around the gardens seemed to still and grow silent in anticipation of each syllable and note. Istelindë did not have to know the names of the couple in the story to know that her brother-in-law was singing a romantic ballad.

Only when Makalaurë’s voice had drifted off completely did the pair fixate back upon one another, passions somewhat cooled at the interruption. Certainly, Istelindë was a little disappointed, for she had slipped back away from the edge of her bliss. Still panting, still warm beneath her skin, but now the night air was feeling a bit too chilly for her state of undress.

“Maybe we should return indoors,” she whispered, still feeling the call to be still and quiet in case other people were wandering too near.

“The celebrations will be moving outside soon anyway,” Maitimo agreed with a wry smile, pulling his fingers from her body and leaving her groaning faintly. “We will certainly not be interrupted at such an inopportune moment if we are secluded in the privacy of our own quarters, think you not, my dearest Princess?”

As much as the idea of mating for the first time out here, beneath the stars, called to some primal part of her being that she could not fully explain, she was also now shivering faintly, feeling the damp of the grass starting to soak into her gown and her skin. Giggling as her husband helped her upright and began to correct the misalignment of the collar of her gown, she returned the favor and gave him a teasing stroke before hiding his sex back into the prison of his leggings. The pair stumbled to their feet between kisses and tangled fabric, still entranced with one another as they retreated towards the golden glow of the palace.

Even with the interruption, it was perfect. So perfect. The way their hands clung as they traversed back across the creek and up to the patio, exchanging quick little kisses to the cheeks and nose as they entered the hall. It was good that the light had been dimmed, that the people indoors were distracted by the start of a performance of elflings singing, their sweet bell-toned voices echoing up to the ceiling and filling the room, because there were most definitely grass stains on Istelindë’s gown and Maitimo’s knees that would certainly have given away their outdoor liaison to anyone looking too closely.

The last thing she saw before she was pulled from the hall by her eager husband was Morifinwë looking in their direction, green eyes widened and cheeks darkening rapidly. He was still at the side of his new golden-haired female friend.

She gave him a quick wave even as Maitimo’s arms curled around her waist and tugged her away in a fit of laughter, back into his warmth and into the distraction of his kisses.

\---

Breathing hard, floating on a cloud of ecstasy, Amaurëa felt her body still.

For long moments, the music dwindled about her, trickling like water droplets upon still water to settle into silence and stillness. Yet the feeling of being aflame with Power, alive with the blood flowing swiftly through her veins and the air filling up her overworked lungs, was still strong and bright. It was that rush, that high she always felt after a successful dance, muscles trembling with fatigue but mind filled with a million tessellating hues, as though she had for that time become one with the very fabric of the Universe, allowing all else to fall away as she was consumed into its foundation, taken apart, and reformed into something new and rejuvenated.

Slowly, the strange, stained-glass colors faded from her vision, the world returning to the dimmed shades of shadow and gold in the hall. Blinking, the people around her shifted back into focus as they expressed their approval with applause, the sound strange and distant as though echoing through water.

A hand tugged at hers. Her partner, dressed in silver, pale eyes glimmering, locked eyes with her. Together, they took their bow.

She looked up and found another man looking back.

Somehow, despite being clad in gold, Telufinwë had slipped further and further into the corner of the room, his green eyes flickering like cat’s eyes through the dark, reflecting the firelight of the candles and the torches where the rest of him was hidden from sight. The heaviness of his gaze left her shivering, her mind wandering from the present adoration, and she had to be tugged again into a second bow, reminding her that she was still beneath the public eye, that the whole of the court of the King of the Noldor was watching.

There was more to the world than her and him and color and sound and movement.

No chance had she to approach her rescuer again, though her eyes lingered upon him as she and the other dancers proudly exited the hall together, her hand upon her partner’s arm but her heart and focus somewhere else entirely. Those eyes blinked at her, head dipping in acknowledgement, and her belly flip-flopped. The urge to dance up upon her tiptoes once more, guided by the giddy feeling of floating and falling together, almost overtook her as she went.

It was with a bit of disappointment when she realized, suddenly, that she was unlikely to ever cross paths with him again.

After all, Amaurëa was a dancer, a young lady of a lower class, who had no reason to be present at court, no reason to seek out a Prince. She was just a foolish young woman that he had saved out of kindness. There was no reason for him to even remember her beyond this night, beyond this dance. The thought sunk down into the pit of her stomach and chilled her to her bones, and the gaping maw of the open door leading to the darkened hallway was suddenly threatening to swallow her up.

The thought left her feeling unsteady. Unsafe. She clutched at her dancing partner’s arm tightly, earning herself a sideways glance of confusion. Helplessly, she wished it was _his_ arm beneath her hand instead, burning hot through his clothes, filling up her suddenly tight limbs with energy and liquid movement.

She wanted to see him again, feel him close. If she went through those doors, she would be letting this chance, this strange incidence of fate, slip away unacknowledged.

And she could not do that. Her stomach flipped.

“Wait,” she whispered, and her partner halted with surprise. His distraction was all she needed to slip away into the crowd, passing between strangers whose eyes tracked her fiery form with ease as it merged and slipped in and out of the firelight.

Those green eyes glimmered at her as she came to a stop in front of _him_ again, widening as she grasped his hands in her own and raised them to her lips, kissing his knuckles. It did not even matter to her that the hands she held shook, that the skin was strangely textured, smooth in some places and puckered in others, discolored and tough compared with the natural skin tone of his face. Some might have been repulsed, but she cared little. She kissed his knuckles a second time for good measure.

“Come and visit me,” she begged quietly. “If you look for me at the School, I am easy to find. Just ask for Amaurëa, and anyone will know of whom you speak.”

At first, he did not answer, his lips parting and then closing. And then parting and then closing again. Like he knew not what to say to her advances and requests, or perhaps that he thought of what to say and then second-guessed his words again and again. Until he seemed to surrender and remain in silence.

“Will you?” she asked quietly.

His lips pursued. Slightly, he nodded, green eyes flickering over her face and then looking away. For the first time, she saw color come to his cheeks. A gentle pink hue.

And Amaurëa was helplessly smiling, her cheeks aching with its broadness. “I look forward to seeing you again, Telufinwë,” she cried, standing on tiptoe and using her hands to tilt his face down, kissing his cheeks one after the other. “My deepest gratitude, my Prince!”

As quickly as she had come, she made to slip away, but a hand caught about her wrist. She looked back at him over her shoulder, wide-eyed and breathless.

“It was beautiful,” he whispered to her. “Your dance.”

Her cheeks flooded with heat. Many times had she heard much more resounding compliments on her dancing than that, for she had no illusions about her own talent. Perhaps not the greatest there ever was, but she had been chosen to come here for a reason. She had worked all her life to reach where she was now.

Yet, just having her dance called beautiful, just having his eyes looking into hers, she felt like her face might explode into flame. She knew him not well, but she already knew that he did not speak unless he had something important to say.

“T-thank you,” she stuttered out.

And then he kissed her knuckles. Softly. Nothing flamboyant, nothing out of order. But her breath still caught in the back of her throat.

She could dance for hours upon hours and never run short of breath.

He said nothing else, but he did not really need to. Their eyes met, and then she pulled away with a smile and went back to her waiting dance partner.

And her fingertips remembered the feeling of his warmth beneath her touch and the softness of his hair as it curled about her digits like a living thing and clung. The roughness of his cheek where his scar swirled up over the pale skin tingled, an echo of sensation in her own lips. Her hand burned where his mouth had brushed her skin so lightly.

Suddenly, the darkness did not seem so terrible.

With one last glance over her shoulder, she saw his bright green eyes.

And then she took the hand of her dancing partner and slipped away into the hallway, still feeling as though the air would nary deign fill her lungs, still swallowing down the joy bubbling in the back of her throat, still combatting the fluttering of her heart beneath her ribs.

She had never been one to let fear or disappointment get underneath her skin, nor one to allow her chances to slip away like sand between her fingers.

She was not going to let Telufinwë slip away either.

\---

“Let us slip away now,” Curufinwë whispered against his wife’s ear, knowing that she loved the intimacy, the sneaking about, the seduction of the forbidden. “Celebrations are not so entertaining with both of our families watching us so closely.”

While his brothers were mostly out of sight—he was quite certain he had seen Nelyafinwë and Istelindë slipping out the patio doors together halfway through the dance, and he suspected they were going to be missing for the rest of the night—he also had seen his wife’s parents present, their eyes narrowed and filled with ash and hate. Never had her parents overmuch liked him, a mere fifth son whose livelihood was his craft, not good enough (despite his direct relation to Crown Prince Fëanáro) for a beloved daughter of their revered and ancient line because he could offer her not the luxury in which she had grown. Worse still, he had shamelessly seduced their only daughter, flouting the rules of courtship and escaping constantly the restrictive presence of chaperones, taking their child on numerous adventures inside and outside the city which were not “appropriate” for a young lady of her standing. Drinking and dancing in taverns with the lower classes, visiting beaches and lakes to skinny dip in the cool water, sneaking out in the morning to haunt bakeries and eat the first steaming-hot pastries of the day.

There was no reason to sneak about now—a grown, married woman like Lindalórë could do as she pleased, and her parents could do little to bar her—but there was still the temptation of flaunting his position at her side, mocking those who would deny him his wife. And doing it all while bringing some of the old lightheartedness back into their union.

“Indeed,” she said, her lips quirking. “My parents only dislike you more now than they did before. I think I may receive a lecture about spending time with such riff-raff.”

“Not a lecture, surely” he teased, cupping her hand with his own and using his fingers to tease across the lines of her palm. “I suppose we should make our escape before they come over here to drive me off, then. What would you rather be doing?”

“Let us go and find somewhere livelier,” she finally said, after long moments of watching the fingers dancing upon her skin. “There are always bonfires burning around the shores of the lake by this time of night, with merrier folk. Think you that you still have the strength and fortitude to spend a whole night dancing, dear suitor?”

“Are you challenging me?” he purred against her ear. “I think I can dance an entire night away as long as I am with you.”

“Not with any other young lady?” she asked coyly, and her hand wrapped around his, pulling him away from the crowded hall. “Surely, there are going to be other young ladies present, just as eager for a dance partner, just as pretty as I.”

 _Fishing for compliments, dearest?_ He knew when to acquiesce, when to let her have her way, and he did not resist either her direction or her baiting. “Why would I dance with anyone else when I already have the attention of the most beautiful woman to walk beneath the dome of Varda’s stars? No sweet-faced young maiden can compare with you, melissë, vanya olórenya.”

She laughed at his over-the-top serenading, just like she always had in the past, and it so easily had his heart fluttering and his stomach twisting into knots. Everything about her, from her ringing laugh to her full red lips to her coy eyelash flutter were just as he remembered, just what he had longed to hear, to see. “You simply already know that, once I have had a few more draughts of wine, you might convince me to join you in the lake-water naked.”

“There is that, too,” he agreed, leaning down to kiss her hand. “Do you not want to do our level best to outdo the young, inexperienced couples?”

“You will have to prove to me that you have it in you.” Releasing his hand, she danced out of reach, and he trailed after, no better than Tilion chasing Arien across the broad expanse of the open sky. Like it had always been.

“I can more than prove it,” he assured her. “You know, it is dangerous to challenge a Fëanárion. We do not do anything in moderation.”

She again laughed, leading him towards the doors, tugging him along by an invisible thread, and they slipped away from the formal party in search of something wilder and freer in celebration. “If I wanted love, adventure or challenge in moderation, I would never have married someone like you, Curufinwë.”

Most probably true.

“Now,” she said, “Let us find a bonfire. And then dance until we collapse.”

He was looking forward to it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:
> 
> vennonya (Q) = my husband  
> Anar (Q) = the Sun  
> Isil (Q) = the Moon  
> vessenya (Q) = my wife  
> meldanya (Q) = my dear/my beloved  
> melissë (Q) = female lover  
> vanya (Q) = (adj) beautiful  
> olórenya (Q) = my dream


	21. And Then It All Falls Down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone is having a good (romantic) time, and then things go south rather quickly...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: meddling family members, love at first note, seduction, brief mention of suicidal thoughts and death, unhealthy coping mechanisms, a lot of crude language, verbal assault, misogyny, accusations of prostitution/sexual favors, threats of torture/violence/murder, actual violence (just a little)
> 
> N: The song Maglor suggests is based off a song in Italian called Dell'amore non si sa (there's a duet done by Hayley Westenra and Andrea Bocelli, though I will mention that I'm not particularly fond of the latter's voice, and I picked the song for its content, not for the voice of the guy who originally sang it).
> 
> Maedhros = Maitimo = Nelyafinwë = Nelyo  
> Maglor = Makalaurë = Kanafinwë = Káno  
> Celegorm = Tyelkormo = Turkafinwë = Turko  
> Caranthir = Carnistir = Morifinwë = Moryo  
> Curufin = Atarinkë = Curufinwë = Curvo  
> Amrod = Ambarussa = Pityafinwë = Pityo  
> Amras = Umbarto = Telufinwë = Telvo  
> Finarfin = Arafinwë  
> Turgon = Turukáno  
> Fingon = Findekáno  
> Aredhel = Írissë  
> Fingolfin = Nolofinwë  
> Argon = Arakáno

Watching the adorable little elflings singing their haphazard rendition of the ancient hymns venerating Varda Elentári, as well as more modern, upbeat tunes commemorating the beauty of the rising sun and the summer season, was surprisingly fulfilling. His younger self had always been a bit above appreciating the enthusiastic—if sometimes poor technique—of young and inexperienced performers, but something about the sweetness of it still could now reach his otherwise darkened heart.

It reminded him painfully of long spring days spent sitting beneath the trees, Elros on one side and Elrond on the other, their little faces pinched with concentration as they struggled with the notes on their harps and muttered curses they had learned from the warriors under their breaths whenever a string twanged too loudly or their fingers slipped upon a strum. He had not the heart to scold them then for saying such things, for they were boys who spent all their days surrounded by ornery old males with nothing better to do than sharpen their swords and share tales about the fires at night, boys whose role models and foster parents were Kinslayers who had done much worse things than teach little ones a few mild swears.

He would not have had the heart to scold the little ones now either, though they were no less rowdy for being raised in the calm peace of Valinórë. There was a boy in the third row back tugging the hair of the girl in front of him, and their chorus was faintly interrupted by her friend, who, upon seeing the teasing, narrowed her large blue eyes irately, turned around and loudly hissed at him to stop or she would “tell Miss Mírë he was being a meanie”. Obviously, it was a tremendous threat to quell the little boy, who retreated into pouting. Not before he stuck his tongue out at the back of the little girl’s head in public, though.

It would have been _more_ enjoyable had his uncle not pounced on him the very _moment_ it was over. Even as the audience was offering their enthusiastic applause—and the little ones were stumbling all over themselves in their excited pride—his uncle sidled up and put a hand on his shoulder. “Come along,” the King said. “Let us congratulate Vardamírë and her charges on a lovely performance.”

Sighing, Kanafinwë let himself be dragged along. Like he always did.

Still, he got his second glimpse of the lovely teacher and wrangler of little singers up close. Close enough to note that her hair was a shade darker than the pale white-blond of Istelindë, hinting towards silver, and that her eyelashes were dark with little pale tips. Her voice was light and soft, and he could imagine how it might sound when she sang, with that lyrical quality about it but the delicacy of birdsong and the flickering of the stars. When they approached, she was still surrounded by their charges, who were all piling up like puppies after the attention of their favored playmate, seeking pets and compliments from their beloved mistress. Yet, she handled it well, smiling and laughing and letting them pull at her hair and her hands.

Uncle Arafinwë coughed lightly. “I hate to interrupt.”

The children may not have recognized Kanafinwë as royalty by features alone, but every single one of them recognized the King. They fell silent with wide-eyed awe, leaving Vardamírë to catch her breath. “Your Majesty, it was an honor,” she said, dropping into a low curtsy.

“The honor was all ours, I assure you,” Arafinwë returned with one of his broad smiles, the ones that always seemed to set hearts at ease and calm nerves like a balm of sunshine and honey. “It is always a treat to have the young ones share their spirit with we of older make. Of course, we could hardly have such a treat without your help and grace, Lady Vardamírë.”

Her cheeks went pink again, and Kanafinwë found that he appreciated the color upon her fair skin. And the way her eyelashes fluttered as she looked down at her feet. And the way her breath hitched upon a soft sigh. “Of course, your Majesty.”

“And, I saw earlier that you have made the acquaintance of my nephew, Kanafinwë, who is also quite the vocalist.” Naturally, his uncle, now that his belly was warm with good wine and his guard was down after hours of Kanafinwë’s gentle disposition, was going to try his hand at matchmaking. “Perhaps we should have the pair of you sing together. It would certainly be quite the treat, a little something special for this year.”

And damn his curiosity, but Kanafinwë rather wanted to hear her sing. If that meant he had to sing as well, he would be willing. “Only if Lady Vardamírë agrees.”

“I do not know… We are not exactly _acquainted,_ he and I…” she seemed quite hesitant, a bit nervous. Not a surprise, given that she had not known his identity before and had only found out shortly after their brief meeting and interaction that she might have made a blunder with a dangerous man. Not that Kanafinwë had any intention of doing harm, nor that he had taken offense, but he knew that his family’s reputation proceeded him, and that few could claim to know he and his brothers intimately enough to know the whims and eccentricities of each brother individually. It was generally assumed that they were all as ill-tempered and wild as their sire had been, and Fëanáro’s temperament was as legendary as his craftsmanship.

“All the better to get to know one another,” Arafinwë teased.

She seemed still prepared to decline, and Kanafinwe found himself a hair disappointed at that, but hardly willing to protest. He had gotten his small bit of flirting and kissing for the night, and he could be more than content with just that, another glass of wine, and an early retreat to his bed. It might even allow his escape from singing further for his uncle’s entertainment.

It might have, at that, were it not for a timely interruption that may have reoriented the course of his existence.

“Miss Mírë!” It was one of the little girls from before, the dark-haired one weeping on the bench in the gardens. “Miss Mírë, you _have_ to sing with Mr. Makalaurë! His voice is _so pretty!_ Almost as pretty as yours! _Please!”_

The other little ones joined in, though a good portion of them had no idea for what they were begging nor were present to hear Kanafinwë singing earlier in the gardens. Such was the nature of children, he supposed, giving them a confused but fond glance before his eyes slid back up to Vardamírë’s face.

The lovely lady caved to their demands. “Very well. _One song!_ Then it is off to bed with all of you! The hour grows late for little elflings to be awake!”

Just over their jubilant cheering, Kanafinwë heard is uncle chuckle. “Saved by chance, fate and the favor of a little girl, hm, my nephew?”

Kanafinwë sent the nosy older male _a look._

As the children settled, the King once again played to his own matchmaking fancies. “How about something romantic, dear nephew? Have you any ideas?”

How that sentence could be construed in a thousand different ways! Had he any ideas about something romantic? It took all his strength not to roll his eyes in exasperation at the double entendre, even though he would admit (if only to himself) that he was indeed now thinking of some “romantic” ideas that had little to do with what duet he might suggest that they sing together before a crowd of children and half-drunken adults. And most of those ideas had to do with the way Vardamírë’s lips parted in surprise, with the way her head tilted to the side to reveal her slender throat, and how the string of sapphires about her throat dipped down to emphasize the barely-seen cleave between her breasts.

Clearing his throat, Kanafinwë made certain to keep his eyes upon her face. _“With Love You Know Not,”_ he said quietly, unthinkingly.

Foolish. It was foolish and suggestive, but not so suggestive as some things that might have come forth from his lips. It implied not even that they were lovers if they sang it together, unlike most of the traditional pieces from operatic plays.

At his suggestion, her cheeks flamed. But she did not protest. “If you would like, my Prince,” she surrendered. After all, he could have chosen something worse. “Would you take the verses, my Prince, or the chorus?”

“My lady should sing the verses,” he teased, enjoying himself just a bit despite their audience. “After all, I am here to hear _you_ sing. No doubt, my uncle will cajole and plead until I agree to sing again this night, at least once or twice, so the audience need not hear too much from me yet. I am certain everyone here will be quite sick of me by the time the singing is done and it is time to devolve into drinking and dancing alone.”

“No one sickens of hearing you sing, nephew,” Arafinwë interrupted, though he seemed pleased rather than annoyed. “Need you a harp, Kanafinwë?”

“Certainly, there is no need for an entire orchestra.” Kanafinwë was not that sort of vocalist, never formally trained nor practiced in such matters. He needed only his harp—if even that—to boost his voice.

“I shall arrange it!” With an ill-concealed wink, Arafinwë vanished.

Leaving the pair standing together, surrounding by the excited elflings who seemed to be lost in their own conversations centering around this exciting new development. Neither adult knew what they ought to say to the other. “Ah,” he began, “Forgive me for going along with this, my lady. If you are truly uncomfortable, you can make your excuses and escape now. I can simply tell my uncle that you needed to see to your charges.”

“No, no, I just…” She took a deep breath and sighed it out, though her nervous finger-tapping lingered upon her arm. “It is simply unexpected. I… would not mind accompanying one so legendary for their voice in a song. And I promised the elflings already.”

Tucking his hands behind his back, Kanafinwë leaned a little closer and tried for a reassuring smile. “Worry not. It shall be quick and mostly painless. Everyone will be paying attention to you besides, and it _is_ an honor to perform before the court, even if my personal opinion is that they have little in the way of taste.”

She giggled softly, raising a small hand to cover her lips, though it did nothing to hide the lovely tone of her voice raised in amusement. He felt his own nerves lessening as she relaxed a bit, her body’s tension melting into her natural stance and curves, clearly no longer so worried about standing near one so famed as he—for more than one reason, and not all of them so pleasant as his renowned voice. “Thank you for your kind words, Prince Kanafinwë.”

At that, he struggled not to make a face. “Just call me Makalaurë,” he said with a dismissive flick of his fingers. “Leave the ‘my Prince’ this and that to the courtiers.”

Swallowing, she gave him a nod, her eyes still a bit wide and a bit stunned, but her color returning down to a normal, healthy peaches and cream sort of hue, touched by the sun with a hint of rose in her cheeks to match the natural coloring of her lovely, full lips.

Really, she _was_ quite lovely. A pleasant distraction.

“You know, my colleagues thought I _knew_ you, that we were already acquainted,” she told him. “One seemed to think that I ought to suggest that you visit the School of Music, that the Headmaster would be eager to convince you to teach. For all that you downplay your own talent, it seems to be imprinted upon the memories of all those who have heard your voice raised in song. Surely, you are being humble when you say none will pay you any attention in comparison with someone like me.”

Teaching. He had not really considered it since his rebirth, though he once had in his younger days and had dismissed it quickly. Song and harp had been his trade, his voice his personal treasure, and he would have sought to make a living of his craft. However, he supposed that his younger self, with a bucketload of younger brothers not in the least bit interested in music, would have said he thought to make his living performing rather than teaching. Now, he had raised two young boys as his own, and taught his craft to both (though Elrond most definitely had had more of a talent for the art than his older brother, Elros), and there was something tempting about passing on his skill to apprentices rather than hoarding it all to himself. A legacy, something to pass on, something to be known for and acknowledged for that had nothing to do with the shedding of blood and steeping of sin. Something that had nothing to do with the moniker of his father’s cursed House and reputation.

“Mayhap I shall make an appearance at the School then, if only to see how Miss Mírë and her students are doing.”

“You needn’t!” she insisted, though he could tell by her helpless smile that she was flattered by his words rather that frightened or even worried. “Besides that, after singing one song, the little ones will never stop speaking of you again. They will be begging to have us perform duets day in and day out and playing to their whims will only make it worse!”

“There are worse things,” he answered just as a harp was brought forth for his use.

Both were distracted, he by moving it to a comfortable spot on the steps up to the raised floor upon which the instrumentalists performed, and she by moving the children back, coaxing them into sitting upon the floor in a circle to watch. “You must be _very quiet_ now,” she was saying. “No talking while other people are singing, right?”

“Right!” they cried out.

Kanafinwë let out a small snort of laughter. Rare was the day that anyone interrupted him in song, for they were oft too lost in their own daydreams to remember that there was anyone at their side to speak _to._

With his silvery eyes, he watched Vardamírë circle back around and set herself down upon the steps at his side, smoothing out her skirts. “Ready?” he asked quietly.

She gave a sharp nod.

And he began.

\---

Cousin Kanafinwë was singing.

Not alone. The woman whose voice accompanied his was almost as enchanting as his own, her tones impossibly pure as they floated above the heads of the crowd like silver light, her lyrics speaking of guidance from the stars and of longing for love. It was a traditional piece, one that he had heard before, but it was rare to have the image of the wide-open night sky conjured so vividly in his thoughts from naught by the strums and melodies of a harp and the sweet sighs of a maiden’s voice.

She was well-paired with Kanafinwë. More familiar with the nearly magical quality of his cousin’s voice, Turukáno was less distracted than perhaps almost any other person in the room barring Kanafinwë’s own siblings. Gazing down at the crowd from the balcony above, he watched the performing duo.

The lovely lady was looking out over the crowd, up towards the sky, her body swaying with the words, her arms performing a dance to match the emotion vivid in her voice. And Kanafinwë was _watching_ her, that way that a man watches something horrifically beautiful just out of his reach. It was a look Turukáno had seen before many times, a look he had worn once on his own face as he mooned and longed for a girl he had know from childhood, a girl who had transformed from a mere playmate to a breathtakingly beautiful vision in gold.

“Ah, Elenwë,” he breathed out. Even though she was at his side, the familiar feeling of the longing was there, aching in his chest. For many long years, he had fancied to hear her voice speaking to him on the breeze, and the nostalgia that had sickened him in those long years apart had yet to fade. Even when they were merely in a different room. Even when their hands were apart, their skin separated by cloth.

Even still, sometimes, when he felt her hand upon his own. “They are rather lovely together,” she commented, voice a nearly inaudible whisper, her blue eyes fixed upon the pair and filled with the distant light of silver and the golden haze of desire that slipped from their tongues. For Kanafinwë had countered her voice with a chorus in his ethereal voice, and the woman now looked upon him with eyes no less stricken with awe, her breath stolen away.

“It certainly seems that he would not mind making amorous advances upon her,” he commented, though the normal venom that laced any words pertaining to the Fëanárioni were calmed beneath the stroking of Elenwë’s fingertips across his bruised knuckles. “But you are right, they would be a lovely couple, if anyone were to wish a fate upon a lady such as being married to a Kinslayer.”

“You know,” she whispered, pulling him back from the balcony and into an alcove, dimming the baritone of Kanafinwë’s voice sweeping over the crowd and putting them underneath his spell, “I understand that it is hard. But, perhaps, it is time to let the bitterness go, Turukáno. Should you not want your cousins to be happy? Your family to be whole?”

As ever it was, his first response, his first instinct, was to vehemently say “no”, he did _not_ want the Fëanárioni to have _anything to do_ with his family. Cursed with misfortune, they tainted all whose lives they touched. Like they had brought Helcaraxë upon those who had sworn brotherhood to their tainted brethren. Like Arakáno, lost to the Battle of the Lammoth because no allies came to the aid of their newly-arrived kin. Like Írissë, stricken with the wanderlust and the wildness taught to her by their cousins. Like Findekáno, so loyal and so true, who marched to his death because he held Nelyafinwë in such high, undeserved regard. Even Nolofinwë, his father, had been given the burden of the crown in the Hither Lands because the Fëanárioni had not seen fit to bear it and had thrust the responsibility and the pain of its weight upon his father. And his father had ultimately died beneath the weight of that crown.

Part of him knew it was not something he could blame solely upon his cousins. It had not been his cousins who had set the ships at Losgar alight, nor his cousins who had run a sword through Arakáno's gut, nor his cousins who had tempted Írissë away with seduction and adventure, nor his cousins who had given Findekáno such a stout and steadfast heart, nor his cousins who had forced his father to accept the burden of kingship.

But it was easier to pretend. Easier to drive away the sick feeling of being _left behind_ when there was something—some _one_ —to blame.

Elenwë could not possibly understand how it felt to stand at the top of his tower in the mountains, having marched back from watching his brother being torn apart into naught but shredded skin and mangled bone and ruptured organ, and know that he was _the last._ Alone with no one to turn to, no one to trust, no one to rely on. Nothing but a supposedly hidden city to protect the last of his family, his daughter and his grandson. She could not understand how often he had looked down from that height at the courtyard below, at the fountain in his name glistening blindingly beneath the sun, and wondered how long it might take to hit the ground if he but set his feet on the open air beyond the edge of the balcony railing.

She could not imagine how much he had wanted to do it, to fall. Just to get away from that reality. Just to have the comfort of her embrace.

“I know,” he said, relinquishing his stubbornness if only before her eyes. “I worry. I worry for my family whenever the Fëanárioni are involved. I cannot explain it. Everything just seems to crumble beneath their hands to dust and ruin.”

Her smile as she cupped his face in her soft, warm palms was fond, and it never failed to tug a smile to his lips in response. Not even when half his face was aching and swollen and his pride was sore from the beating he had taken and the scolding that had come afterwards. Her touch was gentle enough to not even smart as she traced beneath his dark-rimmed eyes. “My love, endanya, I know your intentions are good. But give your cousins a chance to prove themselves, and perhaps they shall give you a chance in return.”

Right. After the things he had said before being partially sobered by being punched in the face (twice) and then having a cold glass of water dumped over his head (by his wife), his cousins probably thought him a demon. No better than he thought of them on his worst days of bitterness and paranoia.

“It does not all need to happen at once,” Elenwë soothed. None other knew how hard he struggled some days but she, and none understood so poignantly either the whims and wariness of his heart as his dear, golden wife. He was happy and blessed to have her support.

Carefully, he plucked one of her hands from his face and pressed his lips to her palm. “Maybe an occasion with less wine would be more ideal for attempting to heal family rifts.”

“Maybe,” she agreed, twittering softly at the way his mouth ticked upon the sensitive skin of her palm, tracing down towards her wrist. She looked up at him through her golden eyelashes, and he watched as her pink tongue wetted her lovely lips, feeling like his breath was caught in the back of his throat. “I think we have had enough excitement for a single night, do you not agree? Your wife would like to have you all to herself for a while.”

This woman knew how to ruin him, that was a certainty.

“Would you?” he asked hoarsely. Never had seduction been his greatest forte—Elenwë had not married him for his social graces, so she often said—and it was clear even now that he was going to be pulled along by her schemes. Not that he minded overmuch being subject to her whims and fancies. He had often said, both before and after the Exile, that she deserved his undying devotion in return for putting up with his ill temper and awkwardness.

Naturally, she said those parts of him were her favorite. Whether or not that was the truth, he could not have said. The glass of water she had dumped on him in retribution for telling his cousins they should all have burned on the shores of Losgar indicated that she may not have been as fond of the temper as she liked to pretend.

Her laughter drew him into a dream more strongly than ever could cousin Kanafinwë’s voice hope to do. “Come and find out, vennonya,” she whispered coyly, plucking at the collar of his robes before retreating.

For every step he took to follow her, she took another in retreat towards the staircase, leading him away further into the dream she conjured about his mind so easily. It was an intricate little dance, one they had not done so often after the newlywed phase of their marriage had passed them by with their daughter’s birth, but the air was thick with the sound of Kanafinwë and his songbird female companion singing of romance on a muggy summer night, and the darkening of Elenwë’s eyes was a sure sign that she enjoyed his pursuit as much as he enjoyed pursuing.

Her nails clicked as she descended the staircase, four steps down from where his own feet rested upon the steps at any time. Close enough for him to admire her slender form as it swayed to the music, to follow the way her hand twirled her golden hair into curls and brushed it back to reveal her bare shoulders. Yet, far enough away that he could not reach out and touch her before she again pulled away.

And then, all of a sudden, she drew close. She smelled of sunshine and softness, and it lit a fire in his loins.

“What say you to finding a nice cupboard or side room to have some fun?” his wife whispered, and Turukáno sputtered incoherently. One could never accuse him of being the creative or adventurous member of their coupling, and it was always Elenwë who managed to talk him into these things, but he was hardly going to resist. Not when her hand was sliding down to tickle at his thigh, tracing the inside with her manicured nails, up… and down… up… and down…

Almost roughly, he took her lips in a deep kiss. “Fine, you have convinced me, nénu.”

“I always manage to,” she purred, her hand twining with his and tugging him along the darkened hallway. “You need to have some _fun_ every now and then! It is no wonder your brother thinks you are boring!”

Turukáno did not bother to take offense. He _was_ boring, for the most part. Instead, he let out a little snort of amusement at his own expense, breathing it out against her ear, knowing that it would make her laugh because it tickled. The way she squealed and danced away left glimmers of heat sparking, dancing down his spine. He could imagine that noise squeezed out of her lungs the moment he slid his fingers into her heat with a swift stroke, her pressed up against the wall with her skirts pushed up to her waist to grant him access, the pair making love play where anyone could stumble upon them in the dim lighting.

It was her idea, perhaps, but he was not so unimaginative that he could not take the idea and build upon it. They just needed an empty room.

Unfortunate, that another couple was stumbling out at just the same moment they were looking to find their way in. Involuntarily, he looked up the moment he heard a nearby door popping open, creaking loudly, the knob hitting the wall on the other side as the pair who had occupied the room came stumbling out.

Blinking, he recognized first Írissë, her hair mussed and out of order, and her dress torn at the collar. She held the torn edges closed over her breasts, but that did nothing to hide the swollen red love-bites that spiraled up over her collarbone and throat, stark red upon her white skin. And, after her, came her male companion, looking ruffled with his silver hair unbound and his star-eyes brighter than fires blazing through the blackness of a moonless night.

_Turkafinwë._

The two couples stared at each other for a few long moments, too stunned to say or do anything else. And then Turukáno felt that familiar swooping feeling in his gut, the red haze that settled at the edges of his vision. Just minutes ago, Elenwë had asked him to give his cousins a chance, and then she had seduced him out of his rut.

In the distance, he recognized that Kanafinwë was no longer singing. The romantic mood had been thoroughly gutted by the knowledge that his sister and his cousin (half-cousin) were having intimate relations. Not even in the privacy of their guest quarters, but in a previously unoccupied parlor which now would be forever sullied in Turukáno’s mind.

 _Calm… calm… calm…_ Elenwë’s hand clung to his arm, her eyes upon his face, sensing the rising temper that clogged his lungs and stung at his eyes.

“Turukáno!” Írissë finally exclaimed. “What are you doing here?”

“Evidently, the same thing _you_ were,” he snapped out, turning his head to look away from the debauched pair. It was that or trying to rip cousin Turkafinwë’s throat open. “Our cousin, really? Írissë, have you no shame whatsoever?”

“What I do in the bedroom is none of your concern,” she countered sharply, and he imagined she would have crossed her arms rebelliously had they not currently been occupied with covering her modesty. “Turkafinwë is far more tolerable than any of those annoying, dull courtiers who think of nothing but gaining status!”

Hissing between his teeth, Turukáno turned and began to stalk away in the opposite direction. “Our cousin,” he muttered.

“At least cousin Írissë is not as bland as an unbuttered slice of bread.”

And, of course, Turkafinwë had to open his mouth and _talk._ Had to make the rage under his skin flutter and claw like a living creature. Sobered as he was, he had enough control not to immediately turn around and reach for his cousin’s throat, but…

“Just _be quiet,”_ he ground out.

“Maybe we should clear out of the way and let you and your wife have the room,” Turkafinwë crooned out, halting Turukáno’s progress with a hand upon his tense shoulder. The Fëanárion leaned close enough that hot breath slid over his cheek, all Turukáno would need to do was turn his head and he could meet his cousin’s garishly bright eyes. “Once you have pounded her into the wall a few times maybe your mood will have improved.”

The moment Turkafinwë decided to bring Elenwë into their argument was the moment his control ran out. Turning around, he grabbed at his cousin’s collar. “Leave my wife out of your sick fantasies, bastard.”

“My parents were properly married when they had me.” Turkafinwë shoved away his grasping hands with ease, brushing past him with that look of a satisfied cat, belly full of cream. “Unlike your father’s. _Half-cousin.”_

It was an old argument, one that had not been touted about since before the Darkening, since before Finwë had died and Indis had retreated back to Valmar with her (eldest) daughter in tow. The dispute about the validity of the marriage of Finwë and Indis had lasted right up until Fëanáro and Nolofinwë swore a vow of brotherhood and brushed it under the rug for the sake of their common interest in vengeance.

Turukáno bit his lip against a reply. He was not so sensitive as to feel threatened over the contended legitimacy of his father, not when the throne had long since passed his line over.

“Not so sensitive about the old family rifts anymore?” Turkafinwë came right up to his face. “What _are_ you sensitive about, then, cousin? Of all the members of _your side_ of the family, you are the most adamantly opposed to my brothers and I rejoining civilization. One must wonder what your motives might be. It cannot be about your wife’s unfortunate demise alone, for she once more stands at your side, can it?”

“That is quite enough!” It was Írissë who pushed between them. “Quite enough from both of you. The two of you go back to the party while I go and change. And try not to rip each other’s throats out while I am away. Or else.”

She gave both of them a shove and then disappeared down the hall.

So, here he was, standing in a hallway with his wife on one side and his sister’s lover on the other. What a night this was turning out to be.

Giving Turkafinwë one last dirty look, he turned away and stalked towards the main hall. At his back, Elenwë sighed and followed. So much for being adventurous tonight. Imagining his sister and cousin and what they had been doing in that room together certainly did nothing but cool his passions.

And her taste in men had not improved. Not at all.

\---

“It seems your brother has his eye on a girl.”

If he were quite honest with himself, Morifinwë had not noticed overmuch. Certainly, he had noted Kanafinwë singing—who could ignore something like that?—but he had been far too focused on Eruanna, on the way she excitedly bounced on her heels and craned her head to see, on how her delicate hand rested on his shoulder and used it to help hoist her up upon her tiptoes so that she could watch.

She was so close. Right there. The longing to reach out and touch the blooming flower of her braided hair had not faded at all.

The way she had turned and smiled at him left his heart racing.

So, no, he had not noticed that Kanafinwë had his eye on a girl. Whipping his head around, his gaze focused in on the second-born brother, still sitting up on the steps to the slightly raised platform where performers usually made their music. At his side was the lovely silver-haired vision whose voice had joined his in duet, and, true to Eruanna’s words, his brother’s bright eyes were fixated upon her as though she were the most fascinating thing Kanafinwë had yet seen. It was worse than the lovesick longing his brother had been toting about for Istelindë since she had first sat out with him in the gardens and given him the attention that he craved. The attention that every single one of them craved.

“It seems you are correct,” he admitted. “He has been a little sad as of late. Finding someone else who shares his passion might cheer him.”

“None of your brothers are also singers?” she asked softly.

“We come from a family of craftsmen. Atar, Amillë, her father and mother. It was rather expected that they would yield a brood talented in metallurgy and jewel-crafting. Yet, of the seven of us, only Curufinwë had the talent for Atar’s craft, and his talent was paltry in comparison to that of Atar himself.” Sighing, trying not to let the bitterness rise up the back of his throat like bile, he continued. “I imagine we were a bit of a disappointment.”

“Having a family legacy can be stifling,” she agreed.

He glanced her way. “You, too, yes?”

Her blue eyes dimmed just a little. “Such is sometimes the curse of our class, is it not, Carnistir? We do not have nearly as much freedom as people might think.”

Thinking back to his younger years, to the horrid parties and the stifling expectations and the curse of being restricted to trying and failing and trying and failing at a craft for which he had no talent… Morifinwë had never discovered a calling beyond the battlefield, for he had never had the chance to explore anything else while beneath his authoritarian father’s thumb. Politics and the forge—nothing else was fit for a son of Fëanáro.

And he had never had the bravery to resist.

“Let us speak of lighter things, though,” she said, driving away the dark cloud of a mood with the brilliance of her smile, pulling him deep into reverie with her at the heart. “Maybe you and your brothers are sweeter than you are willing to admit.”

_You have not seen Kanafinwë strangle someone with his bare hands or laugh as he uses dual knives to slit someone’s throat._

He could have said that to her, watched the color drain from her face, the fear darken her eyes. It was something he would have said to drive people away, chasing them off with terror because it was easier than trying to make it through the awkward social dance for which he had never had any talent either. If he was smart, he would do the same for her. Drive her off. Right now, before he let himself fall any deeper into her eyes, get lost any further in the glittering white of her smile and the gleaming gold of her curls.

This thought had occurred to him many times already tonight. And, each time, his sense had been beaten back by the look in her deep blue eyes.

Instead, he offered her a smile, just a tiny twitch of his lips. “Sometimes.”

“And anyway, the whole elopement with your brother and Princess Istelindë is very romantic, and she is a very sweet woman as well,” Eruanna told him. “She seemed very excited to have another woman to talk to and dress up with, though. I think maybe she is a bit short on female friends, what with only seven men for company.”

Morifinwë was about to agree, because he knew well that he and his brothers were most definitely not what anyone would call _good company,_ but they were interrupted. In the most crude and repulsive manner.

“Or, perhaps, she is looking for another woman to help her satisfy the sexual appetites of seven men. It could not be easy for a lone woman to _take care_ of you and your brothers all on her own, could it?”

Speechless, Morifinwë turned to look at the speaker.

It was a man, though not one he recognized. Pale-haired, dressed as pompously as any courtier, with the gem-studded velvet doublet that looked like it cost more than three month’s worth of trapping and hunting. Prodigal, silver-studded, a shade of sea-foam combined with tasteless swirl of pale green and yellow, covered then in pearls, diamonds and iridescent shell, it was a bit of an eyesore. The man’s face was not so terrible to look upon, perhaps, but it was caught in a pinched look was as unattractive as his choice in overtly expensive clothing mixed with apparent color blindness.

All of that would have made him worthier of laughter than anger, except that the man had crossed one of the few lines that Morifinwë could not tolerate having crossed.

“Nothing to say?” the man asked nastily. “It seems that they have grown bored of her already, for they are all out on the prowl to find a woman of their own. Women desperate or _stupid_ enough to become whores to Kinslayers.”

He leered at Eruanna, who was half-hidden behind Morifinwë’s towering form. Baring his teeth, Morifinwë stepped between the stranger and his female companion, blocking her from view of such an obviously sick and distasteful pile of dung. “Watch how you speak,” he hissed out. “Eruanna has done nothing to be deserving of such slander. And either has Istelindë.”

If Nelyafinwë _ever_ heard that someone had called his wife a whore, if he ever found out _who,_ this man would have a lot more to worry about than the fact that Morifinwë wanted to plant a fist upon his nose for insulting sister Istelindë. The fourth brother might lay him out, teach him a lesson about running his mouth while obviously too far into his cups (judging by his swaying and twitching), but the eldest brother was likely to outright _kill_ him for such words. These people of this peaceful land were naïve about the purported domestication of the Fëanárioni, or any man who had once ridden off to war and come back covered in blood and guts of the enemy, if they thought that retribution would come in any form but vivid and cruel violence. Morifinwë could not help but wonder if Istelindë was well-liked enough by people in high places that everyone might simply look the other way should this man show up with his intestines brutally removed from his body cavity and used to hang him from the bough of a tree.

As it was, there was a frog in the back of his throat, a tangle of yarn mixing up the harsh words that wanted to depart his tongue. So angry was he that he was literally shaking. For once, the darkening color of his cheeks had nothing to do with mortification.

“Think you not that I do not notice how you look at that Vanyarin chit?” the man asked, still giving them that suggestive, slimy smirk. “Think you not that I did not notice your brother up there using his voice to seduce that half-Noldorin slut, or the other wandering off with your cousin, the supposed Princess, to fuck? I would wonder if there is any woman of this royal line who has not turned to depraved sexual practices.”

It smelled of resentment. Had he not been burning with fury at the slight to his sister-in-law, he might have been curious.

People nearby were whispering, and Morifinwë was at a crossroads between attacking this ass or taking Eruanna off in the other direction. He had known something like this might start to spread about, and he did not want the sunny girl to be any further tarnished by his presence, not if people were about to start calling her a whore behind her back just for being nice enough to pay him some attention for a night.

It was during that time that he saw three figures reappear in the hall. Over the crowd, Morifinwë met his older brother’s eyes, verdant to mercury. Something must have shown on his face, some form of rage mixed with indecision, for Turkafinwë was drawn as a moth to flame, probably smelling the drama unfolding.

How or why Turukáno was at his side, Morifinwë could not guess. All he knew was that, in this, at least, both men were his allies.

“Curb your tongue,” he finally growled out, taking a step back, shielding Eruanna as best he was capable from those fey eyes cruelly seeking victims to stab with unjust words. “Keep in mind that your words are not a slight to only my family, but to the Noldorin royal family, and to the families of all those women you slight in such an unseemly way.”

“As if I care for upsetting the _Noldor,”_ the man sneered. “Your King was there when my people were slaughtered, and he forswore not brotherhood with murderers and traitors until the damnation of his soul was on the line. No man in your family can boast of honor.” Those vicious, pale eyes narrowed. “Nor the women, clearly. One must wonder if your family corrupts all the women it touches, if the Queen is as much of a loose woman as her niece, who married a Kinslayer and fucks all his brothers on the side, or her other niece, the Lady in White, the whore who would spread her legs for one at the drop of a hat but is too good for the attention of any decent, upright man.”

Unluckily—for the stinking sack of shit, that was—both Írissë’s brother and her newest lover were standing near enough to hear.

“Excuse me?” Turukáno’s voice raised loudly over the din, silencing the room. Everyone’s eyes turned to stare, even those who had not been listening already to the confrontation. Just behind Turukáno’s shoulder, Turkafinwë was still, and his lack of a broad, wicked smile was ominous. Morifinwë felt a shudder run down his spine, and he took another step back, this time to make sure he was standing between his brother and Eruanna. Maybe these idiots in their stupid doublets and capes could not sense danger when it stared them in the face, but Morifinwë knew his brother far better.

An amused Turkafinwë played with his victims like a cat with a mouse. An angry Turkafinwë _slaughtered_ them without mercy.

“Everyone here knows I speak the truth,” the moron cried out, now the sole focus of the room. He turned to face Turukáno, who was still looking a bit worse for wear with the bruises about his eyes, and Turkafinwë, standing just beyond their cousin’s still-stricken form. “Your bloodstained family is hardly being _subtle,_ going after all these women!”

“You know _nothing_ of my family.” For once, Turkafinwë sounded _pissed._ Not annoyed. Not entertained. _Pissed._

The last time he had heard Turkafinwë sound like this was before marching upon Menegroth. The night they had both died. The Second Kinslaying.

He turned to face Eruanna. “You should go,” he hissed out, even as he heard the idiot spewing vitriol and lies in his brother’s direction, accusing them all bringing Istelindë into their fold to service them sexually. It was only going to make Turkafinwë angrier. “Do you want me to come with you?”

Wide-eyed, Eruanna was looking past his shoulder at Turkafinwë. “Yes,” she whispered. “My father has been trailing after the King all evening. I wish to see him.”

Glancing back once, seeing that the attention had passed them over, Morifinwë grabbed her hand and pulled her away. “Yes, of course.”

He wanted to vanish into the background before Turkafinwë exploded.  
\---

Not once, since first Kanafinwë heard her miraculous voice raised in song, had he been able to look away. Not whilst his fingers strummed a comparatively dull harmony to her breathtaking starsong. Not while he twined his voice with her own in an intimate dance that left him shivering. Not when it all came to an end far too soon and left them in the stunned silence. Even now, as they were left in the wake of applause, their duet ended, he could think of nowhere else to look but upon her face.

Vardamírë might be no Lúthien Tinúviel in beauty, but he could imagine no other, not even the daughter of an Ainu, comparing to her in voice. She held him captivated.

“Your voice is of a special make,” he murmured, reaching out to catch her hand and lay a kiss to her knuckles. “I think your students’ praise was not exaggerated, Vardamírë.”

Sitting beside him, she remained breathless, as carried away on the magic of their entwined voices as any wide-eyed listener taken in by the song. He could see it in her eyes, how she floated upon the aftermath, her gaze distant and soft. “My Prince,” she answered, “The legends do not exaggerate your talent either.”

“No ‘my Prince’ nonsense,” he chastised, though it was with a crooked smile. “Just Makalaurë.”

“Makalaurë,” she corrected breathily.

“I think it is your turn to decide,” he said then, releasing her, though he would not have minded keeping her close, pulling her closer still. “Tell me what to sing—whatever you desire—and I will sing it for you, mírenya.”

Her delightful lips parted, and he waited upon her words with baited breath.

Only to be interrupted.

The warmth of their flirtations had gone so quickly that he felt bereft in its wake. Instead, ice dripped down Kanafinwë’s spine, chilly fingers of dread that crawled over his skin like spiders. Feeling suddenly that darkness which spoke of terrible things in his memories, creeping up behind him like a fiend of Morgoth in the shadow, he turned his head to take in the commotion.

The whole room had fallen silent beneath Turukáno’s shout, but the whole room was _held_ in silence by the look on Turkafinwë’s face. Swallowing, he swiftly moved the harp aside and got to his feet, just in time to hear someone ranting loudly, shouting all sorts of derogatory things at the top of their lungs.

At his side, his uncle appeared, face frozen in a state of horrified shock and helplessness. After all, the words had not spared his wife, who was standing a few feet away with her shimmering silver dress to match her soft silver hair, blue eyes wide and hurt at the tasteless accusations of immorality. And then, when the mad stranger started in on Istelindë, Kanafinwë felt like he was going to choke on the ashy hate that bubbled up from his lungs, hot with each quick breath over his tongue. But it was the words about Írissë that made Turkafinwë’s face go white and his lips twist into a toothy snarl.

 _I must step in._ Much as he would have liked to watch his little brother gut someone for calling Istelindë (and, also, innocent Vardamírë, who had done nothing wrong) unsavory names while insinuating that his family was hunting women like they were game animals rather than people, he also knew that they would not be allowed to set foot in Tirion for another thousand years if they spilled blood upon the tiled floor of the throne room.

And he knew that Turkafinwë must be armed. Turkafinwë was _always_ armed.

Swallowing down the quick beat of his heart beneath his ribs, he crossed the room on swift feet, coming upon the scene. The man in question looked Telerin, with his pale hair and eyes. “Look, another one of you. Abandoning your tart over there? You should have brought her over so that everyone can get a look at the newest Kinslayer’s whore!”

There was not a chance that he was going to respond to such baiting. “Turkafinwë,” he said instead, “Come along. Let cousin Turukáno handle this.”

“Running away?” the man asked. “Only willing to slaughter victims when they are helpless and unarmed innocents, when no one can lay witness to the horror of your crimes? Do not want to deal with someone who will _fight back?”_

Kanafinwë was watching his younger brother, not the fool who was now beginning to garner dark looks from the rest of the room, most especially given that he had not kept his insults contained to only the Fëanárioni but had cast shadows upon women of both the Houses of Nolofinwë and Arafinwë as well. Instead, he was looking at the bloodlust in Turkafinwë’s pale eyes, the way they narrowed and filled with hatred sharper than any blade. The silver-haired male’s hands were resting relaxed at his sides, but his stance was too broad and his back too straight, his muscles almost tremoring with excitement for the hunt and the kill.

“Turkafinwë,” he crooned softly, voice dropping soothingly. He approached his younger brother the way one approached a rabid animal.

“He called Istelindë a whore,” Turkafinwë whispered, “and Írissë as well.”

“I know.” And he did. He wanted to carve the man open from throat to groin just as much as Turkafinwë did. “But there are children present tonight. Please, go. I think we are finished here. Before anyone does anything… foolish.”

Silver eyes stared into his own. And then Turkafinwë spun on his heel and left the hall, heels clicking harshly on the tiled floor.

From the corner of his eye, he saw Turukáno watching.

Sucking in a deep breath now that the imminent threat had passed, Kanafinwë marched up to the man who had been running his mouth, grabbed him by the front of his ridiculous doublet and dragged him close. Wide-eyed, his victim flinched as the Fëanárion pressed into his personal space, face to face, so close their noses were almost touching. Eye to eye, the man looked not so brave, and he reeked of the alcohol he had obviously consumed. Even the gentlest of the brothers, the least likely to lose his temper and the least likely to act in fury or upon impulse, could smell the stench of terror that seemed to radiate from this fool in waves.

“If you _ever_ speak of my brothers, my sister-in-law, or anyone else in my family as such again, Turkafinwë gutting you will be the least of your concerns,” he hissed. “The way he kills men would be too fast and painless for the likes of you. But worry not… I can draw it out so much longer and make it hurt so very much more if you cross _me.”_

No one else would have heard the words, barely audible on his breath. But they _could_ see how the man’s face turned the color of old, congealing oatmeal.

With a last shove, Kanafinwë turned away and followed Turkafinwë.

He and his family had had quite enough of court for one night.

Only one backwards glance did he spare, looking over the sea of heads to where Vardamírë still stood beside the abandoned harp, her eyes wide and her face white. Still breathtaking to his eyes, except her gaze was darkened with fear and with mortification. And whose fault was that but his for drawing near to her beauty and tainting it with his curse?

He turned and walked away, leaving the hall. And his heart sank down to his toes.

A shame. He would have liked to sing for lovely Vardamírë.

\---

Left behind, Turukáno shivered. More so than any of these fools, he knew that his cousins were dangerous men. But there was a difference between _knowing_ it—the rumors and whispers of the demons who scoured the field of battle, laughing as they tore their enemies limb from limb—and _seeing_ the shadow of Fëanáro in their faces, glaring with unholy fire from their silver eyes. Even though Turkafinwë’s stare and Kanafinwë’s words were directed towards someone else, he still felt that instinctive urge to back away, to remove himself from the potential ill fortune of getting between a nexus of destructive fire and its desired target.

No one knew what words Kanafinwë spoke to that man, but the idiot looked like he might fall over in a dead faint. Nothing less than he deserved for slandering innocent women as such.

“She was going to be mine,” the man whimpered. “She was _my wife.”_

Shaking his head, Turukáno covered his eyes with a hand and wished that half this night had never happened. This imbecile was the man to whom Istelindë had been promised by her father, making a scene now out of resentment over losing his connection to the Telerin royal family. Blaming it on Istelindë being a loose woman and the Fëanárioni being desperate, sexually-deprived men looking for female companionship.

Any sympathy he might have felt for this idiot was diminished by the slight against Írissë, for all that he did not approve of her cavorting about with a man as dangerous as Turkafinwë. For the sake of the Valar, his sister had been called a whore before the entirety of the court of the Noldor in the middle of a festival.

Without thinking, he did what he knew that his cousins had wanted desperately to do. He punched the man straight between his eyes, ignoring the way the crowd erupted into shouts, women shrieking and men scrambling back. Satisfaction bubbled in his gut as the man collapsed and moaned pitifully on the floor, cupping his hands over his face. Blood seeped out from between his fingers.

“Consider yourself lucky that is all the retribution you shall receive this night,” he growled out. “I would rather have had your guts spilled across this floor for maligning my sister’s name, and I am certain my cousins would agree. And they are much less forgiving than I.” And then he spat on the man for good measure.

“Turukáno,” his wife sighed out as he grabbed her hand and pulled her from the hall. “Did you have to lose your temper _again?”_

“People have limits,” Turukáno said unrepentantly. “And he crossed mine.”

With resignation, she let him pull her aside, into a little dark room under the cover of night. There, they curled together in the dark and breathed. Just breathed. Just until the red haze diminished back into gray. Just until he no longer felt as though he choked on the phantom taste of ash on the back of his tongue.

Together, they just breathed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:
> 
> Elentári (Q) = Queen of the Stars  
> Fëanárioni (Q, p) = Sons of Fëanáro  
> endanya (Q) = my heart (soul)  
> vennonya (Q) = my husband  
> nénu (Q) = (yellow/gold) water lily  
> Atar (Q) = Father  
> Amillë (Q) = Mother  
> mírenya (Q) = my jewel


	22. Into the Shadow of the Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The important happenings of the Midsummer Festival are coming to a close...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: misogyny, arguing, minor aftermath of violence, dysfunctional family, vaginal sex, fingering, drunken revelry, skinny-dipping, kissing, flirting, nudity
> 
> Maedhros = Maitimo = Nelyafinwë = Nelyo  
> Maglor = Makalaurë = Kanafinwë = Káno  
> Celegorm = Tyelkormo = Turkafinwë = Turko  
> Caranthir = Carnistir = Morifinwë = Moryo  
> Curufin = Atarinkë = Curufinwë = Curvo  
> Amrod = Ambarussa = Pityafinwë = Pityo  
> Amras = Umbarto = Telufinwë = Telvo  
> Finarfin = Arafinwë  
> Aredhel = Írissë  
> Turgon = Turukáno = Turno  
> Fingon = Findekáno  
> Fingolfin = Nolofinwë  
> Argon = Arakáno  
> Finrod = Artafindë = Findaráto

The drama was finished, but Eruanna was still shaken.

Shaken by the wild rantings of a drunken man out to aim verbal blows as the Fëanárioni and all they were associated with, out to exact vengeance against women because a woman had slighted him and left him humiliated. To be called a whore to her face, to have it insinuated that Carnistir might be interested in her only as a tool to slake his lusts, left her feeling chilled and violated. Once again, she fell into a daze as his warm arm curled around her, hand on the small of her back (on her bare skin just shy of where her skirts began) guiding her forward as the unfolding conflict was dissipated in their wake and the hall left to simmer in the afterimages of the unholy light of Fëanáro that had flickered in Prince Turkafinwë’s eyes.

She was grateful even then that Carnistir stuck to her side, that he left his brothers to handle the aggressor and prioritized caring for her instead. It was the sort of thing that made a secret part of her body flutter and burn, for she had seen how badly her new companion (dare she think of him as friend?) had wanted to react in the clench of his teeth until they ground audibly and in the twist of his fingers in the hem of his tunic until she thought it might tear. She had seen even in his eyes, previously so gentle a green, the fire coming to life like a demon in the darkness, longing to bring down agony and bloodshed upon the nameless man who had slandered Istelindë (sweet, kind Istelindë) along with every other woman of the Noldorin royal bloodline.

When it was all over, she was delivered safely back to her family. And, miraculously, no blood had been shed at the hands of a Fëanárion.

Her father, however, looked rather stricken to see her in the company of a Kinslayer. If he had not been following King Arafinwë about the whole night, singing the praises of the court of the Vanyar and their piety towards Lord Manwë and Queen Varda, he might have noticed his own daughter making friends in unwanted places.

Not that he ever paid attention to her. Third daughter. Fifth child. She was just an afterthought most days.

Pushing all of that aside for there was little point in wasting her energy dwelling on what could not be changed, she graciously allowed Carnistir to guide her forth. The dark-haired Noldorin Prince was perfectly poised as he offered a deep bow. “Pardon my intrusion, my lord, but your daughter asked to be escorted back to your side.”

“Ah… yes, is that so, Eruanna, dear?” Her father cleared his throat and folded his hands together, his face dropping back into that tranquil persona he tried to wear at all times, the projection of a deeply religious man devoted to the laws of the Valar and the worship of the King of all Arda. “My thanks, Prince Morifinwë, for your assistance of my daughter.”

Carnistir nodded sharply and turned to her. “My apologies, Lady Eruanna. I need to be on my way, I should think.”

Formally, he pressed an airy kiss to her hand. Then, jerkily, lacking the comfortable companionship they had enjoyed the whole night, he stood to full height and departed without a backwards glance, leaving her standing there feeling rather lost and abandoned. Like they had left business unfinished between them.

Looking over at her father, she could see the disapproval in his gaze. “A Fëanárion, daughter?”

“I ran into him accidently,” she admitted.

“Of course, you did,” he commented, more resigned than disbelieving, which hurt almost as much. “Mayhap if you paid attention more often instead of dreaming your days away like a silly, useless young girl, you would encounter less trouble. Your sisters were never so prone to these types of accidents.”

_My sisters are so absorbed in their study of the stars and the secrets of their traversing across the sky that they would not notice a handsome man if he bent down and kissed them right on the lips._

Rather than saying what she wanted to say—that she was neither interested in an arranged marriage like her sisters, who barely seemed to realize that they did, in fact, have husbands, nor in dedicating her life to the worship of Queen Varda and spending long nights watching the spinning wave of stars twirling dizzyingly across the skies—she merely nodded like an obedient daughter and bowed her head. Carefully, her fingers wove together, resting on her belly clasped.

“And what on earth happened to your dress,” he added. “I would never have approved of something so… indecent.”

It was true that it was not the most modest of gowns. While Vanyarin gowns were often tightly cinched at the waist, they typically covered everything from the neck all the way down to the hands and feet, laced all the way up to the throat. Certainly, the corset-cinched pale green gown had not draped so invitingly over her breasts nor left her shoulders and back bare and exposed to the open air as did this gift from Princess Istelindë. Without a heavy robe resting over her shoulders, it would never have passed muster in the court back home, in Valmar.

“I ruined mine with my clumsiness. Princess Istelindë was kind enough to lend me a gown to replace it as a gesture of goodwill.”

By the look on his face, she could tell that he was tempted to speak ill of the infamous Princess. Had they been back home, in Valmar, he would not likely have bitten his tongue to block the cruel words, for Istelindë was no member of the Vanyarin royal family and he need not worry about casting offense unintentionally among his own people. However, here, she was the niece of the King, and Eruanna’s father was trying to get in Arafinwë’s good graces if for no other reason than to spread the doctrine of Manwë and Varda further to these purportedly lawless folk of Aulë.

Never mind that a Kinslayer had treated her with more dignity tonight than any man of the Court of Valmar ever had. The Noldor might let their women freely complain and beleaguer their men, but it was simply not done amongst the Vanyar. A daughter ought to submit to the wisdom of her father and brothers or a wife to her husband and otherwise stay silent except when directly questioned, especially about matters that were the domain of men, as were politics.

Carnistir had been a breath of fresh air. And it was already over. Her heart sank just a bit at that, for there was not a chance that her father would allow a man such as he close a second time. No doubt, he would be watching more closely now.

“You shall go and find something to cover yourself properly,” he ordered her. “And then you shall stay close to my side for the rest of the evening. Clearly, allowing you to go off on your own was a mistake.”

“Yes, Atar,” she whispered. “I shall return soon.”

“You will be expected, daughter.” He brushed her aside with the wave of his hand, dismissing her to go as he turned his back on her and made for the King once again.

And, with a resigned breath, Eruanna went.

This was her life, after all. Once they returned to Valmar, everything would go back to normal. Back to her boring life at court, twittering like an empty-headed ninny. Back to the tower of their manor, open to the wide-open sky that looked more and more like a prison each day. Back to her future that she wanted not.

Would that she had something more to look forward to. But this was just the way things were. She had long since accepted that fact.

She had long since hated it with all her being.

\---

This had been a terrible idea. Of course, it had. She always went along with his terrible ideas. Every single time.

They were at the edge of the lake, their laughter echoing through the mist and the moonlight as they stumbled away from the glow of the bonfires further up the banks. Lindalórë had had far more to drink than was recommended, and her head was foggy, the landscape spinning about her in wild circles.

At her side, her husband, equally as drunk, was laughing like the lunatic that he was as he wobbled unsteadily back and forth. Draining the last of his goblet of wine, he dropped it into the grass and wrapped both arms around her, pulling her close to plant a sloppy kiss upon her cheek. “Ah, vessenya, my dear lovely wife, it has been long since I felt so merry! What say you to that dip in the lake you suggested earlier? Or is that too wild for a pure lady of the court?”

She should never have given him ideas. Naturally, he would remember something like that, even while drunk. Especially because in involved both of them. Together. Naked.

And he knew her well. Knew that she heard the challenge and tease in his voice. Knew that she would not back down, that it was not in her blood or bones to be cowed by shame. It was what he most loved about her, she suspected, that she did not roll over obediently and give to the whims and fancies of society like some sort of slave. And that she had enough tooth and nail to push back against his battery of words and meet his bladed tongue blow for blow is response.

So, laughing, she agreed. Reaching out, she yanked open his pants first, watching as his brows raised over his glowing, pale eyes. “What? It has been centuries since I had the pleasure of seeing my husband bare. Help me along, you useless lout.”

“Whatever my lady demands,” he agreed with that cheeky grin that never failed to get him access to her knickers. Still a little wobbly on his feet, he managed to peel his tunic off over his head and then work on the shirt beneath while she peeled his leggings down and made him unsteadily stand on one foot and then the other while she removed the fabric along with his grass- and dirt-encrusted boots. Unceremoniously, it was all shoved aside just as he managed to untangle himself from his shirt and abandon it nearby in the grass.

There were scars on him. Marks she recognized not. Some small enough to be cuts and scrapes. Some large enough to make her heart skip a beat, looking like starbursts drawn upon his pale skin, dark and violent. There was a thick line across his throat.

“No locket,” she commented, noticing its lack. Her own rested on her chest, a heavy warmth between her breasts.

He blinked down at her, dazed for a long moment as his hand creeped up to feel about his throat, like he was surprised at its lack. “I… yes, it… I lost it. When I died, Nelyafinwë and Kanafinwë did not recover it from my corpse. Forgive me. I should have taken better care.”

For a long moment, that seemed to bring him out of the drink-induced haze. But she took pity upon him in his moment of shame. “You made them originally with your own two hands. Surely, you can make another to replace what was lost. Maybe I should even pose for a portrait. Think you that I should wear my best and boldest finery, or think you that I should rest naked upon a sofa so that you carry a picture of my slender form with you wherever you go?”

His cheeks flared, a lush rosy hue to compliment his pallor. “I would say yes to the latter, but I fear I might not be willing to let a portrait painter see my wife in such a state.”

“You could paint it yourself,” she teased, stepping away, not at all subtle in the way her eyes scraped up and down his body. His manhood had not changed at all, though she would reserve full judgment until she had seen him erect once more. “I know you have the skill. The question is, could you resist my naked form long enough to finish, or would you ravish me right there upon the couch amongst the cushions?”

“You know me better than I know myself,” he said, “Do you think I could resist?”

“I think you might _have_ to,” she said coyly, now reaching for the ties of her own gown. “Think of it as a challenge, my dear suitor. And think of this as a practice, for you are about to see your wife in the nude again.”

Giggling, she let the fabric of her outer gown fall away, pulling her arms from the heavy sleeves. All that fabric fell to her waist, and she had to wriggle and struggle to peel it away without tripping over her own feet. Underneath, she wore nothing but a thin shift which did nothing at all to hide the swells of her breasts or the triangle of dark curls between her thighs from his wide, glistening eyes.

Grasping at the hem of the thin fabric, she pulled it up over her head and sighed as the cool night air washed over her bare skin as invisible lover’s hands. All she wore now was her locket, heavy upon her sternum. “Well, nárinya, am I as you remember in your fondest daydreams?”

Looking down at the twitch of his cock, she tried (and failed) to stifle her laugh. Even without his verbal reply—he seemed to be struggling to find words for the moment—it was obvious what his answer would be. And, while it was tempting to take him in hand and see if her memory of his length and breadth was accurate, she did not want to spoil him overmuch so soon in their little game.

Let him work a little harder for her favor.

Turning, she arched to show off her rump and the flex of her thighs and calves, stretching her arms overhead. “Well, vennonya? I hear not the sweet honeyed words of a suitor trying to earn the good graces of his lady!”

“My words are never honeyed,” he answered, stepping closer, one foot at a time. Until his hands hovered near but did not touch. “What would you have me say? Should I write poetry to your softness, the milky pallor of your skin, the curve of your delightful bum? If you turned, perhaps I would pay homage to the roundness of your breasts, how perfectly they would rest in my palms, and how you would squeal if I swiped across your nipples with my tongue…”

“Resist, remember,” she teased, though breathlessly, for his words certainly had her squeezing her thighs tight about the sudden rush of heat between. “For this night, and many nights hence, you are to woo me, not seduce me.”

“Woo you, hm?” She finally felt his hands upon her hips from behind, sliding so gently up over the curve of her waist but no higher than her ribs, and then back down to her hips, but not low enough for his fingers to touch any part of her buttocks nor brush too near her groin.

And then he lifted her, as though she weighed nothing at all. Shrieking with laughter, she curled in upon herself in his arms, delighting in the strength of his muscles against her, the flex of his arms and the ripple of his chest. With an undignified cry of merriment, he swung her around and threw her out into the water with a splash.

_Oh my… Could he throw me so far before?_

Gasping as she surfaced, she looked up through watery eyes to see his face open and sweet with his laughter. No veils between his joy and the world, between his true being and her eyes. This was always her favorite Curufinwë. The one who was wild and free, who felt not the need to hide beneath a shroud of vicious words and darker scowls, to drive away any and all who might do harm to this beautiful creature hiding underneath.

With a leap, he joined her in the water, ungraceful and long-limbed, splashing water over her head again. Together, they swam circles about one another, using their cupped hands to send little glittering handfuls of water flying through the moonlight, their voices echoing through the intimacy of the night.

This. She had missed this so.

So easily, he brought it all back. With the way he finally captured her naked form and pulled her near, smothering her laughter with quick, worshipful kisses.

“Come,” she said, pulling away with a gasp. “The night is yet young, and long are the hours until dawn. Let us play some more in the water.”

“Whatever you want, meldanya,” he answered. “Whatever you want.”

In her truest heart of hearts, she knew exactly what she wanted. That she wanted nothing more than him. Like this. Beautiful and wild and utterly hers. The side of him that no one else but she would ever get to witness, would ever get to savor.

And she would have him again. Had she asked, he would have sworn himself to her without hesitation, without so much as a droplet of doubt. Right now, while they were both merry with intoxication, naked and prancing about like young lovers in the night, she could have called him a lovely, fey thing and claimed him as her own.

But patience was a virtue. There was a debt yet to be paid, and she would have it paid in his devotion and his attention and his longing.

And then… and then…

And only then would she be his in return.

\---

They were desperately stripping one another naked before their door even closed.

Never had Istelindë been so eager to tear his clothing off him, not even hesitating to be rough in her crusade, though she had sewn his tunic and robes with her own two hands. They were beautiful, and he had been stunning draped in their softness, and now she wanted them off her husband, wanted to have all his naked form to herself. And, just as she was struggling to free every catch and tie that held his clothes together, he was cursing at the way her pearl-laden lace robe caught on the buttons of her gown, and then cursing the buttons as well for being so tiny and hidden behind her back, that he had to wait for her to strip him of his leggings—she paused on her knees to lay kisses upon the head of his sex and tease down to the base with her lips, reveling in the tortured moan she pulled forth—before he could turn her giggling form about to get at them in vengeance.

But, when he had her bare… Eru, he was kissing her like the cycle of day and night would end if he removed his lips from her skin. Across her shoulders, against her nape, around to her collarbone. His hair fell over her shoulder as his head bowed to reach, the freefalling curls tickling against her breasts and her belly as his mouth moved across her whiteness. He pulled her close, then, let her feel how heavy and full his sex was for her where it ground against her back, and all but threw her onto their bed, following her down.

Of all the times they had been together so far, Istelindë had never felt so overwhelmed by the heat simmering in her belly, by the excitement quivering in her limbs, by the tingle of longing between her legs, as she was when she straddled her husband and attacked his mouth with her lips, swallowing his groan and feeling it fill her from the inside out. One hand she used to hold his nape, to keep their lips enmeshed and their breaths mingled, and the other she used to hold his sex, to feel his weight in her palm as she slid her hand down, to cup and massage the softness of his sac until he shifted beneath her with need, to tease him until the grip of his hand on her right buttock squeezed almost hard enough to bruise.

She wanted it to bruise. She wanted his fingers imprinted upon her skin for all of time. Just like she wanted the feeling of their spirits entwining to resonate through her soul for all eternity. Every part of her was screaming that they should come together, that she was ready to be One, that she could not wait any longer.

Still, he pulled away to breathe against her tender lips, his irises growing brighter and brighter with each passing moment as his own arousal heightened, fighting against the widening of his pupils. “Let me finish what we started in the gardens,” he begged, and his fingers reached between her thighs from behind, brushing across her sex. “And then…”

They both shivered together. They both knew what would come next.

“Yes,” she moaned out, breathless as he twisted them around, moving her with ease as though she weighed naught at all. She did not even wait for his hands to touch her, instead spreading her legs open welcomingly, letting him see the glisten of her wetness as it had dripped down her inner thighs, showing off the reddening of her sex where it lay swollen and parted open to make way for his fingers or his tongue or his length.

“Touch me,” she breathed, reaching down helplessly to rub around her opening, stinging slightly but nevertheless so shockingly sensitive that her insides quivered when she circled it with her finger. “Maitimo, I _need you…”_

There was little hesitation as he brushed her hand aside, as he lay reverent kisses upon her inner thighs, climbing rapidly to her apex. His fingers spread her open, let cool air wash over her first, and then his breath, while she writhed in sultry pleasure and hooked her fingers into the sheets. Meeting their eyes intimately, he leaned in and kissed her there. At the top of her slit, down over her throbbing clitoris, pausing to flick his tongue across her intimate pearl until her voice was raised in high cries, and then lower, kissing her all around where he would soon join their bodies together fully.

His mouth was replaced by his fingers, three immediately pushing their way in. Their breadth made her sing into the night, a long and high note of need.

“Perfect,” he crooned to her, as his digits slid in and out of her there, as they repeated the heady strokes upwards to her inner wall, bringing her waves of bliss. “You are so _perfect,_ Istelindë… I could gaze upon you forever and never grow tired of your sight…”

“Maitimo,” she groaned out, her hips finding their rhythm, arching down to meet each upward press of his fingers inside her. “Maitimo, as nice as that sounds, I… I think I…”

Immediately, his gaze was upon her face, looking for any signs of pain or distress. “Vessenya…?”

“I want you,” she told him, reaching down to stroke around where he opened her up and stretched her out in preparation. “Please, Maitimo, I want you. Fully and completely. Join with me in truth, completely, husband and wife before Ilúvatar himself…”

“Almost time,” he purred back, speeding his hand inside her body, now pushing as deep as he could reach, connecting his palm with her clitoris gently on each upward wave of sensation. “Touch yourself, melissenya, Istelindenya. I want to see you come apart first, to see your face open and colored as you come beneath my hand. And then…” He leaned near to her, his mouth against her ear, his body over hers, burning her with his heat, chafing and teasing her with the roughness of his scars. “You will be so open for me… so relaxed and wet and smooth inside, and our joining will feel so delightful…”

To the sound of his voice, its roughness growing headier and starker and huskier by the moment, she reached down to stroke herself in tandem with his motions. Helplessly, her mouth reached out and found his collarbone, his pulse, the vibrations of his throat as he told her how lovely she would feel around him…

And she imagined it. Looked down at his erect sex where it rested against her hip and imagined it _inside her…_

Her cry as she squeezed taut around his fingers was high and loud. He stroked the pleasure out of her, fingers curling frantically over and over against her inner walls, until her thighs curled inwards at the overwhelming sensation.

Panting, she came out of the waves of light and heat, her eyes blind in the darkness after being filled with stars. She felt him kissing her, moving over her, his right arm hooking beneath one of her knees to open her again. The feeling of the cool air on her burning sex had her moaning, and the brush of his fingers against her softness had her squirming.

Gently, he penetrated her again with two fingers, and she felt her channel tighten. “Maitimo? Are we going to…?”

“Nothing hurts?” he checked again. A lesser woman's temper might have been exacerbated at being made to wait, but she knew that he worried he might harm her. He always worried. But now was the time to be done worrying.

“You did not hurt me,” she soothed. “And you _will not_ hurt me. Come inside of me, Maitimo. Make us One…”

He cursed softly, sounding as wrecked and unraveled as she felt even as he hunkered down atop her, resting his full weight upon his handless forearm so that he could reach between them and direct himself. Not for the first time, she felt his sex upon her own, rubbing up and down through the slickness of her orgasm, his hand smearing the wetness across his length and breadth, his fingers guiding the head across her folds until she felt it knocking at her entrance. This was it, she realized, one part nervous and one hundred parts in need as she felt the first little bit of pressure.

And then he was pushing into her. Gasping, she clutched at his shoulders and looked down, watched as they came together.

He was wider than his fingers had been, and the only pain she felt was a faint sting at the stretch of the entrance, for her deep inner muscles were slick and relaxed and welcomed him inside easily, blooming open in acceptance and greed. It felt different, the angle strange but strangely natural, the depth greater than his fingers had reached, nudging places inside her that had never been explored. It made her toes curl where they rested against his flanks, made her voice sigh softly into their entangled hair.

Above her, he panted, and she could see that his hips shivered, that his jaw clenched. He struggled to be still when she took him all the way inside. Finally, they were fully joined, his length buried into her down to its hilt. “Eru,” he moaned out. “Istelindë, if you need me to stop, it needs to be _now.”_

The very last thing she wanted was to _stop._

He was finally _inside of her._ They were _One._

Her knees squeezed tight around his hips, her toes still stretching and flexing in languid pleasure and desire. “I do not want you to stop,” she told him, and her nails dug into his skin as they grasped at his upper arms, scraped up over his shoulders, catching on bumps and scars. “I want you to make love to me.”

It was alike yet unalike she had imagined, having him bend over her with a sound like a dying man, his face buried against her neck, his lips chasing her throbbing pulse, as he began to rock against her and into her, meeting her hips as their cradle arched upwards. They slid apart and joined together again smoothly, each time sending little sparkles of golden light up her spine, filling her up again so quickly with that liquid feeling of need pooling low.

Even now, he was being so gentle, even though she could feel how much strength it took to move slowly, to hold himself back. As sweet as that was, Istelindë was not made from glass, and the idea of seeing him let go, of feeling his strength inside her and around her through the flex of his muscles and the depths of his thrusts, had her shuddering with want.

“Let go,” she whispered, stroking her fingers through his curling hair, down over his shoulders and back. “You would never hurt me… let go… I want to feel all of you…”

“Meldanya… Istelindë…” Through the throbs of her own thundering heartbeat all she could hear was his hoarse voice repeating her name, and through the blackness of the room all she could see were his eyes, glowing out at her through the darkness, ringed in russet lashes and burning white-hot with need. Every inch of his body against hers—his mouth upon the line of her jaw, his hand tangling in her loose, pale hair, his chest scraping over her tender nipples, and his sex surging into her harder and harder—left her feeling on fire. The heat, beneath his skin, searing behind his eyes, fueling his fiery spirit, was now surging forward to fill her.

If there was any pain at all, she forgot it. If there was exhaustion, she forgot that, too. There was just him and her in all the world, burning up together.

Fisting his hair in her hands, she guided his mouth to hers, desperate for his taste on her tongue. It was heady, full of breath and the richness of wine, and his tongue made love to her mouth as thoroughly as his sex made love to her between her thighs. Until every movement he made felt like it was making white light flash behind her eyes, and her voice was raised in a song that was only his name and nothing else.

His harmony came as moans against her throat. “Yes,” he growled out, and she knew not at first if he was talking to her or calling into the vastness of the universe. “Yes, yes, Istelindë, you are perfect…”

“You are perfect, too,” she gasped out against his ear, her breath knocked from her lungs every time he surged deep inside her. “So, so perfect, Maitimo…”

Another kiss sucked her breath away.

It was all she could do now to cling to him as he came into her faster and wilder, as she lost her rhythm and felt him carry her along. She dragged her fingers down over his chest and belly, to feel the way it left him shuddering when she circled his nipples and traced the outlines of his abdominals, and then reached to where they joined. She felt them there, passed her fingers through the slickness of their joint arousal, rubbed her digits harshly against her swollen peak as she felt her end nearing, as she sensed his fast-approaching.

His breath sped against her neck along with his pace, forcing breathy cries from her throat, pushing her closer and closer. Instinctively, she arched up against his form, thighs pulling tight, ankles hooking together to hold him close as the golden knot of pleasure finally came undone and sent her shaking around him, her whole world narrowed to where they joined together at their mouths—his lips swallowing down her wail—and at their groins where the quakes originated from her center and rippled out in spasms through her belly and up her spine.

Against her, he stilled, shuddered, cried her name softly against her cheek as reverently as anyone had ever cried the name of Varda Elentári into the dark. His hips jerked in her hold as he came, surrounding her and surrounded by her, and she layered his cheeks with kisses, trying to reach every freckle and every scar, trying to memorize every ecstatic flutter of his eyelashes and the way his brows arched upwards in pained bliss.

No matter how many times she saw that expression, it would never be enough. Even as she came down from her own peak, as she felt her limbs unfurl and release him from her tight hold, he was already collapsing into her arms, spent for the moment.

They continued to kiss languidly as he pulled out. “How do you feel?” he asked her breathlessly, eyes half-hooded. Sweetly, still concerned that he might have overstepped. Never mind that she was no more able to move than he in the aftermath, so overwhelming had been her pleasure, leaving her sweaty and shivering and eager to get them both beneath the covers.

“It was wonderful.” And it had been. There was a bit of a sting, and she would definitely be sore on the morn between her legs, but that in no way dulled the perfection of their union. This was her husband, now not just in name, but undeniably by law of the Valar and in the eyes of Eru as well. Not only that, but it felt special to have joined this way, to know that she had brought him every bit as much bliss as he had given her.

And he had come inside her, left part of himself within her. The idea of it was strange to think upon, left her feeling odd as she wondered if some of the wetness she felt between her legs was _him_ as well as _her._ Thinking upon it still as he rolled them onto their sides, facing so that they could nuzzle and tangle together, she felt excitement light up in her belly, like butterfly wings, sparkles of light and champagne bubbles all mixed as one.

They had not fully discussed children, but she rather hoped he would be just as eager to start a family as she. The young, daydreaming girl in her spirit had wanted, once, nothing more than to become a mother. She had never thought that such a dream would come to fruition, not in those long years spent alone in self-imposed exile. But now…

Well, she wanted it. With him. Her Maitimo.

Letting out a little sound of happiness, she kissed his lips again. There would be plenty of time yet for that, and no guarantee that it would happen soon. For many couples, conception took years and years of dedicated work. Even so…

“What has you glowing so brightly?” he asked lazily.

“Worry about it not,” she soothed, stroking back his hair and caressing his cheek as she watched his eyes fluttered closed with fatigue and satisfaction. “Do you think your brothers will be fine without us at the party? We rather abandoned Morifinwë to handle Lady Eruanna on his own, and there was Telufinwë and his dancer! I would so have loved to meet her! And to where Tyelkormo got off to and what trouble he might be instigating, who could say…”

“Now it is you who should not worry.” He pulled her down into his arms possessively, silencing any further words with a deep kiss that took away her remaining breath. And then they parted on a sigh. “Let Kanafinwë be the responsible older brother for the rest of the evening. Can I not have the rest of Midsummer night alone with my wife?”

She giggled and settled back into bed. “Are we going to make love again?”

“As many times as we can manage,” he promised, his teeth tickling at the skin of her throat and his fingers creeping up to stroke at the curve of her breast. Rejuvenated quickly from his post-coital exhaustion, Maitimo already had her on her back again beneath the warm bubble of their sheets, and this time he was scooching downwards to grant himself access to her bosom, fingers tracing little circles about her nipples. “How does that sound, vessenya?”

And the cycle began again. The shiver down her spine. The tickle of heat in the muscles of her belly. The tightening of her inner muscles in excitement.

And then the burn followed.

“It sounds perfect,” she told him.

And it was.

\---

Returning to the main hall, Írissë found no sign of Tyelkormo, no sign of Turukáno, and was greeted instead by the sight of some poor drunken sod with an obviously broken nose being dragged off to the Healing House while moaning and whimpering piteously into the cup of his bloodstained hands.

At her appearance, all eyes turned to stare. She resisted the urge to reach up and make certain that her light, silky scarf was covering all the red marks her cousin had left dotted upon her skin in a curling wave from throat to breasts. For the next week, she would need to take extra care to keep herself quite modestly dressed or risk being cornered by her parents who would want an explanation.

Somehow, she did not think her father would take “Yes, I have a lover” and “No, it is none of your business who” for an answer.

She feared confrontation not, but there were some unpleasant tasks she would rather not be forced into dealing with, and the unfortunately prudish and excessively straight-laced nature of her parents was one of those beasts she would rather not fight to the death. Even she was not certain she could win, and the ensuing disagreement would be such a nuisance to treat with. Best take the route of caution and make pretend (at least before the older generation) that nothing untoward was afoot.

Or, at least, she would have, were it not for the fact that her parents were looking at her wide-eyed with horror as if they already _knew._

“What on earth is going on here?” she asked the quiet room.

None of her cousins would meet her eyes as she glanced from one face to another. Arakáno was still and pale when she looked his way, lips pursed tightly with obvious upset. Findekáno, standing over by the drink table, looked pained even through the haze of excessive wine. Her father and mother stood with the King, white-faced and stiff in their shoulders and backs. Poor Uncle Arafinwë looked like he was suffering under his painfully pinned-up smile, and Eärwen clinging to his side looking significantly more distressed was giving away the mood of the room. Forcing himself into a seemingly jovial state, her uncle raised an arm towards her, beckoned her near. “Dear niece, come here, join us. There has been a bit of an altercation whilst you were away.”

Quietly, she joined her parents and her aunt and uncle.

Slowly, the sound of voices once again picked up, though their joyous demeanor was dimmed with nervousness. “What happened?” she asked, somewhat startled by how skittish the intoxicated courtiers had suddenly become.

“I should have taken more care to comb through the guest list,” Arafinwë told her, and it was just like him to take all the blame upon himself without a second thought, though Írissë knew that he would have had naught to do with bashing a man’s nose in. “It seems that, in my generosity in inviting members of the courts of our brethren, the Vanyar and the Teleri, I gave Istelindë’s former husband-to-be a chance to express his feelings about being jilted. Very publicly and inappropriately, at that.”

“Oh…” She glanced around, seeing neither Istelindë nor cousin Nelyafinwë anywhere. “Did cousin Nelyo do that to his face?”

If so, he must have said something awful. After six little brothers, it took quite a bit of effort to try the eldest Fëanárion’s patience. Most days, he was patient enough to deal with Tyelkormo, which put him about at the same level as a saint.

“Ah, no…” Arafinwë cleared his throat, glancing sideways at her father, and even through the long-suffering annoyance she could see little glitters of amusement, coruscating like tiny diamonds. “It seems that the House of Nolofinwë is chief spiller of blood this night.”

Her father sent him a nasty look. To which the younger of the two brothers smiled as if he had done nothing to purposefully incite his older sibling’s temper at all.

Meanwhile, Írissë noted her only missing brother.

“Turukáno did that?” The second-born son had a temper, certainly, but it was typically made more from ice than from fire, and she would have expected no one short of Fëanárion to incite him to violence with Elenwë present to dull the blade of his rage. “If this man was so intent on casting an unpleasant light upon Istelindë and her marriage to cousin Nelyafinwë, what was Turno doing punching him in the nose? My brother is hardly interested in defending his cousins or their honor.”

She looked from one face to another.

Until, finally, Arafinwë took the role of bringer of poor news when his brother and sister-in-law were apparently too humiliated to speak of what had transpired. “He rather maligned the honor of all the women of the House of Finwë and made a point to bring to our attention that you had wondered off some hours ago with Turkafinwë and had not returned, insinuating that you and he… well… were having intimate relations with one another.”

_So, they do already know._

“Is it true, yendenya?” her father asked quietly.

She felt simultaneously her heart sink down to her toes—it was not as though she _wished_ to upset her parents, after all, for she loved them dearly—but also her throat fill with the acidic taste of rage at the _unfairness_ of it all. They were all too happy to look the other way as Findekáno and Arakáno gallivanted about, wriggling between the sheets of as many ladies as they could charm, but the moment their _precious daughter_ —who was now a grown woman and a widow—sought out companionship with a man, it was some slimy secret to be whispered about dramatically and treated like the worst of sinful crimes.

“What I do in the privacy of my own bedchambers is no business of anyone but myself and the man of my choosing,” she returned, eyes narrowing. “It is certainly no business of yours, father or no.”

“You live still under my roof,” Nolofinwë growled out, and she could see that he was angered in the purse of his lips, tight into a firm, thin line. At his side, her mother’s eyes remained downcast, and the resentment bubbled sickeningly in her belly at the inaction, at the lack of support. “As long as you are under my protection, all your business is mine as well, Írissë. You cannot just run about willy-nilly with men, ruining the reputation of your House!”

“The reputation of our House has long been ruined without _my help,”_ she hissed. “This has naught to do with anything but the fact that I am a woman and you think I cannot make decisions for myself!”

“Obviously, you cannot, if your idea of wise action is to wonder off and have sexual relations with your own cousin.” His words were cold as ice, and they almost made her wince back in shame for how they painted her character, implying that she was being a foolish and selfish girl rather than a grown and responsible woman. “Mayhap I ought lock you in your room like a child to teach you a lesson, ban you from going about freely, since you are too empty-headed to use your brain when making decisions rather than your loins!”

They were still whispering their argument, but anyone who looked their way could see that the interaction was less than friendly. People were watching, leaning in, listening.

Írissë, against her will, felt her cheeks burn.

Finally, Anairë stepped in, laid a hand upon her husband’s arm. “I think this is a discussion for another time, dear one.”

Not a rousing defense of her daughter. Not even a lick of sympathy for Írissë’s plight, lonely and trapped in her parents’ house. By the scolding glance of her mother’s eyes, begging her to keep her tongue cinched, she knew that Anairë was not on her side of this argument and only sought to keep from having her husband and daughter verbally brawling in public.

“Turukáno could not keep me leashed like a dog,” she instead challenged, “Neither will you. I am _done_ being ordered about like a doll.”

“Írissë!” her mother cried softly.

“No,” she refuted, taking a firm step back. “I am a grown woman! I have been married! I have a son! I will not be ordered about and locked up by my father like some sort of little girl whenever I meet his disapproval!”

She was leaving. Staying in this room, filled with the cloying, nauseating sound of snickers of laughter and glowing, malicious eyes, would be too much even for her untamed spirit. It felt as though everywhere she looked all her family had their backs turned, their eyes averted, unwilling to offer her support in her time of need. Even cousin Findaráto, who oft could be brought to reason, just gave her a resigned look.

_None of them can stand against both Nolofinwë and Arafinwë together._

Resisting the urge to shed tears, for they would do nothing to assist her in a situation such as this, she instead stormed from the room, her silver-white gown swishing wildly in her wake. She no longer cared if her scarf shifted and showed her marks before the entire room. She just needed to be anywhere else but here.

It was tempting to seek out Tyelkormo again, given that apparently the entirety of court already knew that they had been off having an intimate encounter together in an unoccupied parlor for half the night. What harm could it do her now, to just spend the rest of the night in his rooms, curled up with him having a sensual cuddle or perhaps a few more rounds of intercourse?

But she was no longer feeling the burn of arousal in her gut. Not even thinking about the lovely orgasms he had licked out of her earlier this evening could bring even a spark of want back to her loins, not right now.

Coming to the door of her room, she went inside and sat upon her bed.

Silently, she acknowledged what there was no way to deny. That she was saddened and disappointed. In her family. In her mother. Staring down at her hands, lying limply in the embrace of the white folds of her gown, she felt a hollow ache in her chest and a helpless sting in her eyes. Not so much from fear, for she had faced worse unknown before, alone without so much as a flinch or a whimper, but merely the dark shadow of herself whispering that she had known all along, so why was she sad? She had known already that she would receive no support, so why was she crying?

Why did it bother her so?

Looking down at her hands, limply lying in her lap, fingers chasing the soft folds of her pale gown, she felt the tears overflow. Hot, dripping down to soak into the fabric.

Why, for once, could they not see things as she saw them? Why, for once, could they not have as much faith in her as they had in their sons? Why, for once, could she not be treated with the same respect as her brothers?

It was always about her womanhood. It was never about _her._

Now, she just… She just needed to be away. To breathe. To think. To be without shame and without oppression and without _rules._

Taking a deep breath, she abruptly stood from her bed. She had not the time to waste on crying, for those could come later as a deluge upon the spirit when she laid down to rest in safety away from her home and those who would seek to force their wills upon her. Biting her lip to hold back the sting, she set about the room gathering her belongings.

She had planning to do in secret this night. And then she would vanish again, like a phantom drifting through early morning mist.

They would not even realize her absence until she was long gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:
> 
> Fëanárioni (Q, p) = Sons of Fëanáro  
> Atar (Q) = Father  
> vessenya (Q) = my wife  
> nárinya (Q) = my fire  
> vennonya (Q) = my husband  
> meldanya (Q) = my dear/my beloved  
> melissenya (Q) = my lover (female)  
> Istelindenya (Q) = my Istelindë  
> Elentári (Q) = Queen of the Stars  
> yendenya (Q) = my daughter


	23. The Plans of Princesses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's the morning after, and consequences begin to rear their ugly head...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: hangovers, secrets, lying, scheming, aftermath of rough sex, group bathing, past banishment, past illegitimate children, dysfunctional family (as usual)
> 
> And here I begin once more to take liberties with the canon timeline. Since Lalwen is never really talked about (except that she may have gone into Exile with the Noldor), she now has a tragic backstory (I blame the Silmarillion Prompts for this being my permanent headcanon). Also, tying in OFCs with canonical characters, because I'm a massive dork and can't help myself...
> 
> 2/24 N: I have gone back and started to add in dates for organizational purposes (and to help everyone keep track of what's happening when later down the road). The dates are recorded as per the calendar of Imladris, including the day of the week, with the appropriate Gregorian calendar date in parenthesis for reference so that people have a jist of the time of year.
> 
> Maedhros = Maitimo = Nelyafinwë = Nelyo  
> Maglor = Makalaurë = Kanafinwë = Káno  
> Celegorm = Tyelkormo = Turkafinwë = Turko  
> Caranthir = Carnistir = Morifinwë = Moryo  
> Curufin = Atarinkë = Curufinwë = Curvo  
> Amrod = Ambarussa = Pityafinwë = Pityo  
> Amras = Umbarto = Telufinwë = Telvo  
> Aredhel = Írissë  
> Fingolfin = Nolofinwë  
> Lalwen = Lalwendë  
> Finarfin = Arafinwë  
> Fingon = Findekáno  
> Argon = Arakáno  
> Turgon = Turukáno

_Aldúya, 40 Lairë (22 June)_

\---

They were lying in the grass.

It itched against her bare skin as she rolled over and blinked against the unpleasant brightness of the sun overhead. There was no barrier between the golden rays and her body, and she felt a bit overheated as she sat up and looked about, swaying with a bit of dizziness as her vision alternated between too bright and speckles of black for a long minute. Blinking, and blinking again, because everything was a bit blurry and needed to slowly fade back into focus, she finally comprehended a clear picture of her surroundings.

She was at the lake. As quickly as she recognized it, she looked away, for the garish sparkles of sunlight off its rippling surface felt like knives being shoved into her eyeballs. Definitely, she had had too much to drink last evening. Definitely.

Midsummer. Last night was the Midsummer celebration.

Turning her head, she looked down at the body beside hers. Pale-skinned and naked as a babe. Curufinwë was on his side, face blocked from the light by a curtain of dark hair. Now that she was no longer too drunk to be sensible, Lindalórë took his form in, found it mostly unchanged but for the addition of new marks upon his skin, sleek and raised all across his arms and shoulders, on his back and even upon his sides and chest in some places.

The temptation to reach out and explore them was strong, for they were new features upon the man she had claimed as her own and her deepest self wanted to know them intimately by their raised texture beneath her fingertips. However, she refrained, for she did not yet wish for him to awaken.

Carefully, successfully ignoring the small bit of nausea and the ache of her skull, she stood and trod about through the tickling grass in search of her clothing. First her shift, then her gown, pulling them back on despite how they smelled of her sweat-covered form after a long night of wild dancing. Somewhere about must be her shoes, and she had to search through the grass for another ten minutes to find both, for one had been left at the base of a tree but the other was yards away, abandoned in the grass.

Even by the time she was dressed and returned to his side, Curufinwë was still asleep, snoring faintly into the crook of his arm.

She should wake him, but Lindalórë was not feeling particularly charitable. It was not her desire to deal with her husband’s ill mood this morning. And it _would_ be ill, for he was likely to be in just as much pain and discomfort as she if not much more, and he was nothing if not a poor patient who would gripe and complain and bitch from the moment he awoke until he was somewhere warm and dark and sleeping the rest of the alcohol off.

Let him deal with his own poor temper.

Gathering up his clothes as well, she dumped them over his still form (laughing to herself as she covered his modesty) and left him there. He was a grown man; he could find his way back to the palace.

Meanwhile, Lindalórë had no business returning there.

Instead, she made for the home of her parents with a resigned sigh upon her lips. The streets of Tirion, even so early in the morning after the Midsummer night vigil, were already filling with the early risers. The smell of fresh bread settled over her and left her belly rumbling, tempting her enough that she paused at a nearby bakery for a quick breakfast, though she knew that breakfasts all over Valinórë were being held late to cater to those who had stayed up and danced and drank literally until dawn, so she would not have missed the first meal at home.

 _I do not remember if we made it all the way to dawn…_ Somewhere around the time they had crawled out of the water and lay on the shore kissing, she felt her memories of the evening fade. Fatigued, they had curled up together, his warmth cocooning her as she dozed away to what might have been the first streaks of sunlight tickling at the black outline of the horizon.

Nibbling her pastry, she moved from the lower-class parts of the city, housing the merchants, tradespeople and craftspeople, to the more affluent areas housing the elite, the nobility and the royalty. The change in the streets from gold-dusted cobble to gold-encrusted stone and the shift from pale white shingles to true silvery domes overhead spoke of the wealth of the upper-class Noldorin folk and their propensity for ostentatious luxury. Not only that, but the ornately-carved and jewel-encrusted porch railings, the stained-glass windows on the large, heavy wood doors and the elaborate designs of paths surrounded by well-kept and manicured flowers rather gave the whole street the appearance of a walkway made from solid sunlight and houses woven of moonlight set in a lush forest lined all about with blooms.

It was upon this street that her parents lived, though Lindalórë and Curufinwë had never lived so affluently when it was only her husband’s income supporting their small family. Truthfully, Lindalórë’s heart had always found their small, cozy cottage more welcoming and homely than any of these beautiful but distantly cold relics of her childhood past.

There it was. Her childhood home. Just as large and overstated as the rest, all white with silver-domed roofs and hard angles. It had her mother’s taste for irises blatantly displayed in the graceful bunches of flowers that grew and swayed in the breeze on either side of the path. The overhang was supported by pillars shaped and carved elegantly with patterned leaves and forest fronds. Like every other front door, theirs opened from the center outwards and was thick and heavy, two vibrantly-colored, frosted-glass windows on each side, set with images of colorful birds twittering away amidst heavy-hanging fruit and thick green foliage.

Overhead was their family crest. The blue of the open sky alighted with adamantine stars, a rainbow of gems set in two half-circles about the center, a large and vibrant opal. She scowled to look upon it.

As soon as she opened the door, she saw her mother there, waiting.

Of course.

“Where have you been?” the older woman asked, glancing up the stairs to where her father was likely in his study, sorting his money and answering morning missives. “You ran off with that Kinslaying scum, did you not? One would have thought you had learned your lesson after last time, but you clearly—”

“She was with me.”

The voice from the half-open door startled both of them. Turning her head, Lindalórë kept her face straight as she beheld Princess Írissë there in all her silver-white glory, gown looking a bit wrinkled and scarf knotted around her throat. “Lady Lindalórë accompanied me last night after the _incident._ I was upset, and she was kind to comfort me.”

“Of course, Princess.” Nothing if not loyal servants to the House of Finwë, her mother performed an elegant little curtsy and seemed not willing to question the story, never mind that its falsity must have shown in the surprise on Lindalórë’s face.

_What incident?_

“Mind you overmuch if I come inside with your daughter?” Írissë then asked. “I am certain she grows tired, so I will not stay long.”

“We live to serve, Princess,” her mother agreed immediately, bowing her head.

Good thing, too, for she saw not the way Írissë wrinkled her nose at the formality. Not much had changed about the Noldorin woman, at least in appearance, for she still looked entirely herself, flouting the court fashions with her pale dress that did naught but make her night-dark hair appear even darker. Lindalórë had not spoken with her (former) dear friend often since Írissë’s rebirth, but she could at least appreciate the small favor for what it was, even if she expected that the Princess might seek some form of repayment.

“Come along, my Princess,” she purred, beckoning up the stairs to where her own chambers lay cold and bereft.

Írissë followed her along without another word.

At least, not until they were safely enclosed in Lindalórë’s chambers. The Princess sat herself down upon the down bed, watching as Lindalórë immediately began to disrobe and rid herself of her sweat-stiff clothing. “My thanks for your assistance, Írissë,” she finally said, not in the least embarrassed to be wandering across her room in naught but her skin while she searched for a loose gown to don. “You did not have to lie for my sake.”

“We might not be as close as we once were, but I would like to think that we are still friends,” the Princess answered with a smile.

“Was there a reason you sought me out?” she then asked, pulling another gown over her head. It was a few days old, but it would do until she had a chance to bathe once her guest had departed. “I did not think that we were _that_ close of friends.”

Once, maybe. Before Írissë had left her behind. Like everyone else.

Once, they had been very good friends indeed. Two young girls who wanted to rebel against their restrictive status—Princess and Lady—and be free, taking solace each in the other. Their wild personalities had not meshed well with those of the other young women at court, cutting and tearing through the shy and quiet women gracelessly and mercilessly. But, in each other they had found a mirror, both too willing to speak their minds, both too independent to be tamed by men, both considered to be wild and undesirable for all that they were lovely to look upon in the twilight.

Once, Írissë had pulled her away on an ill-fated adventure with her two harebrained male cousins, Turkafinwë and Curufinwë, and the rest was history.

But they had not rekindled their friendship in the aftermath of the Exile, though they had had more in common then than ever before. Both married but bereft of their spouse. Both with sons out of their reach. Both lonely with no one to turn to but their restrictive family.

They had spoken a few times, but that was all.

So, why now?

“I… My father and I fought last night. Over something that happened at the party,” Írissë admitted. “I suppose I am looking for a place to stay.”

“You fought so badly?” Certainly, Írissë had had her fair share of disagreements with her parents over a great many things, but Nolofinwë had never gone so far as to banish her from his house onto the streets. “Your father sent you away? What on earth did you do?” 

“He did not send me away,” the Princess scoffed. “I left of my own free will.”

_Oh dear…_

Sitting down beside the other woman, who was not looking her usual confident and vivacious self, Lindalórë stroked her hand down Írissë’s arm. “You did not tell me what happened. Is this about the incident that you spoke of with my mother? Curufinwë and I departed earlier in the evening, so I must have missed it.”

“All you missed was a drunken man with a grudge defaming the House of Finwë because the woman he was going to marry chose another man in his stead.” For all that she made it sound so simple, like a bit of court drama, it clearly bothered the Princess more than she was willing to express. “Atar is upset because the man brought up a tryst I was having last night, spouted some lurid details about it in front of everyone, and Atar wanted me to tell him it was untrue. Of course, it _was_ true that I was having a bit of fun, but… I told him what lovers I take are none of his business, and he was upset and threatened to lock me up until I learned to be sensible. And, of course, by sensible he means polite, obedient and silent except when spoken to. And, also, chaste, because Valar forbid a woman should want the intimate comfort of a man’s embrace without being chained to him in marriage.”

“You hate all the men of court,” Lindalórë immediately countered. “Surely, you were not so desperate as to give in to one of those seekers of powerful connections.”

“Absolutely not!” For just a moment, the fire was back in Írissë’s eyes, but then dimmed again beneath what was undeniably a dark veil of sorrow. “It was Turkafinwë. Which, in retrospect, just made everything about the situation worse.”

Of course, it made everything worse. The Fëanárioni always did.

No doubt, already upset by his daughter so shamefully taking lovers where anyone might notice her indiscretions, the fact that it was a man of whom he would _never_ have approved likely did nothing but gall Nolofinwë further. The only saving grace was that they were not fully cousins, for they shared only a grandfather. But, even without that relation, Turkafinwë was still of the infamous House of Fëanáro, and Lindalórë could not imagine that he had _mellowed_ during his time in Exile. If anything, she shuddered to imagine that he might have gotten _worse,_ because that was a rather terrifying thought, given how uncontrollable and wild and cruel he had been _before_ the Darkening.

“And, of course, Amillë sided with him, as she always does.” Another point of bitterness, that Írissë found no support in any of the women in her life, not with a staunchly devout grandmother and aunt, a pious mother and no female siblings.

Slowly, Lindalórë ran her fingers through Írissë’s tangled dark hair, smoothing through the knots and undoing the braids. “So, you decided to run away?”

“I know that you live with your parents,” the Princess began, turning to face her with a look of half-hidden desperation in the wideness of her blue eyes, in the glimmer of tears upon her eyelashes, “But I did not know who else to turn to. I would never ask to stay here, for I would not want your family to get into trouble with my father, but I was hoping that you might have an idea of where I might stay… just until I can sort something out myself.”

Lindalórë _did_ have an idea. She had not lived on her own without a husband and son because, as a lady of court, she had no profession with which to earn herself money and no time to acquire the skill. It had simply been easier and safer to go back to her parents a beggar and take advantage of their kindness. Still, it was not as though the house she shared with her husband, small though it might be, had been destroyed. It still lingered at the edge of the city, half-hidden by the ever-growing oaks, with its little porch steps and overgrowth of ivy. She had walked by in a time or two, even gone inside on more than one occasion for simple upkeep, and the only problem with it was the overabundance of dust and lack of sunlight.

She still had the key, tucked into the hollow space in her locket where it rested against her chest, burning like a hot coal.

“I… may have an idea,” she admitted. “But, first, you should come and bathe with me. Stand too close and one can _definitely_ smell that you were up to a little more than ‘a bit of fun’ last night. You positively reek of sex and man.”

“And you of sweat and lake algae,” Írissë countered, but there was no bite to her words. The smile she gave was tenuous and watery. “Thank you.”

“I would not leave a sister out in the cold, not even for a grudge,” Lindalórë said, feeling not so charitable as her actions made her out to be, for some part of her heart still throbbed with rage that Írissë would show up here as though nothing had happened, as though she had not stowed away into Exile without so much as a goodbye.

(Without offering to bring Lindalóre with her.)

Gracefully, Írisse stood and followed her into her bathing chambers, not at all hesitant to strip herself of clothes even as Lindalórë ran the hot tap and set the large, round basin to fill. The dark-haired beauty was covered in marks from teeth all across her thighs, her throat, her shoulders and her breasts, clearly the work of a rather savage lover.

“No wonder you had your neck all wrapped up in a scarf despite the mid-morning heat,” she could not help but comment.

 _Seems like something Turkafinwë would do._ For all that they were close, Curufinwë was much gentler in spirit than his older sibling, and his bark was many times worse than his bite on a typical day. He might leave Lindalórë with a bruise or two from rougher play, but not looking ravaged by a wild animal.

Írissë ran her fingers over several lines of bruises on her hips and thighs, matching them with her fingertips. Places where she had been grabbed during coitus and held tightly. “I quite enjoyed his roughness, if you know what I mean. My husband in the Hither Lands was of a similar sort, and I have just never enjoyed the gentlemanly manner of men here quite so much since being so spoiled. However, I do find myself quite sore as a result. A hot bath will help with that, I expect.”

Humming her agreement, Lindalórë tested the water with a foot. Nice and steamy. Adding bathing oils and salts to the water, she turned off the tap and stepped in, immediately sinking down to her chin. Heavenly.

Írissë came shamelessly after, tangling their feet together as she occupied the other side of the basin. “Oh, yes, this is _lovely.”_

For a while, the pair just soaked their troubles away in silence.

\---

“You need to talk to her.”

They had argued about it last night, and they had continued to argue about it this morning. Were it not for the fact that he _knew_ she was right, he would have told her to drop it already, but she could smell blood in the water. His guilt reeked, and she was going to take full advantage of his weakness.

“Anairë,” he ground out, “She will not speak to me. You are her _mother,_ you go and speak to her about this mess!”

“I did not make this mess with my thoughtless words,” his wife scolded, smacking the side of his arm as she passed with the brush she held in her hand. “You cannot keep treating her like a child and then expect her to act like an adult woman. For the Valar’s sake, Nolofinwë, she was married and living on her own with a husband and child, she is no blushing, innocent maiden in need of locking up for her own protection!”

“One would have thought that she would take more care to maintain her reputation and that of her family if so wise she had grown in her time as a wife and mother.” Crossing his arms and grinding his teeth, he stared his wife down. “No one will glance twice at a woman known by the whole of court as a whore.”

“She does not want to be glanced at by the men of court,” Anairë countered, “And you very well know that, husband. I thought, after seeing what happened with Istelindë and _her_ father, perhaps you might be wiser in your approach with Írissë.”

Raising a hand, he rubbed his eyes with a sigh. Angry, he might be, but it was not his intention to push his daughter to act as rashly as the Telerin Princess. “That is not my design! I do not want to choose a husband for her or any such nonsense! I want her to find the man she wants and _marry him,_ and for him to be willing to marry her in return. Women of her status cannot expect to live their lives out without a husband unless they plan to cling to their parents all their lives or… or devote themselves to Varda or some such Vanyarin nonsense! She wants to leave the nest and I am happy for her to go. Married.”

His wife set herself upon the bed beside him, pushing the brush into his hands. “Brush my hair, Nolofinwë. _Gently.”_

Huffing, he did as she bid him. And, as it always did, running the brush through her long, silken locks soothed his temper. Between his fingers, the hair ran as silk the color of ink, rustling quietly as the bristles dragged through the strands. After a few minutes of silence, he spent more time tracing his fingers through the darkness, braiding tiny strands together and then taking them apart with the comb-teeth of his fingertips.

“Our daughter is hard to live with,” Anairë finally broached, “And you know that. It is only because she was born a woman instead of a man that her temperament is such a problem. Your sons are just as wild and untamed as she.”

“Ah, they are _mine,_ are they, not ours, when they are ill behaved and break the noses of filthy slandering Telerin noblemen.” His eyes rolled, but the softness of her hair on his palms still stroked away the bristling of his spirit. “Did she have to choose Turkafinwë? Why, for once, could she just not be happy with some nameless, unimportant nobleman of the court?”

“She would never be happy with some boring man who does nothing all day but play nice with the other courtiers and brown nose to your younger brother,” Anairë sassed in return.

The worst thing was, he knew that his wife was right, and he knew that Írissë’s aversion to settling down once again in Aman was only in part because she resisted his guidance and insistence on principle, but chiefly because none were suited to her tastes. At first, he had thought perhaps she pined for her barbarian dark-elven husband from the Hither Lands, but then there was the first affair. And the second, and the third, none yielding anything even remotely resembling romance, certainly not _marriage._

 _“Our daughter,”_ Anairë continued, turning her head just enough to glance at him over her shoulder, “Is as wild and free as the elves who first awoke on the shores of Cuiviénen. Like your older brother was. Like the Fëanárioni are. Like your oldest son is, and your youngest, too. Like your younger sister was.”

Lalwendë.

Nolofinwë’s hands stilled in his wife’s hair. Thinking about her made his throat feel tight with the flash of grief.

“Is that what this is about? Lalwendë?” his wife asked, tossing her mane over her shoulder and turning to look him in the eyes. “Arafinwë is not your father. Not so naïve to the world. Not so fixated upon the old laws. He would never—”

“It is not about her.”

It was. It most definitely was about her, his baby sister.

About her affairs that left Finwë shaking his head with cold eyes. About her illegitimate children everyone knew were hers by blood, but they all pretended otherwise for her sake. About her banishment from court when it all became too much. About the fact that he had never even checked to see if she was well.

“It _is_ about her,” Anairë insisted. “She left, and she is never coming back. And there is no one to blame for that but this family. You all reaped what you sowed with that mess. Do not make the same mistake twice.”

No one knew what became of her or whence she had gone. No one knew what name she might now use or where she might be or anything else about her. Most days, the Noldorin people pretended that the union of Finwë and Indis had yielded but three children, two boys and a girl, rather than four. Like the last Princess had never existed at all.

He had never even looked for her.

“Go and speak to your daughter, Nolofinwë,” his wife insisted. “If she wants to have Turkafinwë, let us pray to the Valar, or to the One himself if you prefer, that this time she will decide that he is the one that she wants to _keep._ But _insisting_ upon marriage is going to do nothing but make her resist your will all the more, for she yields to pressure from nothing and no one. She is just like you in that way.”

“I yielded to you,” he murmured against her ear, pressing his lips to her neck. “I mean well, Anairë. She and I, we just… she is so much like her aunt, our girl. Lalwendë and I never saw eye to eye either.”

“Compromise requires the cooperation of both parties.” His wife gave him _that look,_ the one that let him know that seducing her as a distraction from what he was _supposed to be doing_ was not going to work. Standing, she tossed her hair over her shoulder and stepped out of her nightgown, knowing how it teased and tormented him to see her as such and know that she had denied him the right to touch until he had done as she asked. “You best get started.”

Another sigh fought its way out of his chest. As much as he longed to stay abed, or to continue trying to convince his wife, or to storm away and pretend none of these problems existed, he had never been one to flee from his problems nor deny them to their face. He found his feet and went in search of his clothing. He was hardly going to go and negotiate with his troublemaking daughter in naught but his nightshirt.

And, of course, his beautiful wife was going to continue to give him the cold shoulder until he did her bidding. Whatever idiot had decided a husband held dominion over his wife had clearly never been married.

She gave him one last look over her shoulder before slipping into the bathroom.

“Figure this out, Nolofinwë,” she ordered him.

And he planned to. The right way, this time. Valar willing, he and Írissë could come to something of an understanding. And then things would calm once more.

\---

The Valar were, apparently, not willing.

There was no answer from Írissë when he knocked on her door and called her name, though it was late in the morning. At first, he thought she might be asleep, but knocking louder yielded no response. And then he thought she might be intentionally ignoring her father out of stubbornness, and annoyance crept in. Procuring a female house servant, he sent the young woman in to let his daughter know he was not going anywhere until she came out and spoke to him like an adult.

The young lady in question slipped inside. He heard shifting about, but no voices speaking, even though the door was slightly ajar. The girl returned empty-handed, mousy with her eyes downcast.

“She is not here, my lord.”

Something about it did not feel right. The tiny hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. The instinct was something he had developed in the Hither Lands, that sixth sense of something ominous riding down upon his head with all the sudden ferocity of a summer storm upon the plains, rising up to tower in the sky, black and dangerous, out of nothing but sunshine and blue skies. Swallowing, he dismissed the girl.

He went to wake his sons.

Findekáno was useless. Not surprising, given the amount of alcohol he had consumed throughout the long night. His eldest had not stirred until he threw open the curtains and let the sunlight pour in, blinding the hungover man. Even then, his son had groaned out that he knew nothing of Írissë’s whereabouts or movements, just that she had not been in her room when he had stopped by just after dawn to wish her “a good morn”. Arakáno was even less helpful, still sleeping as well, and abed with a young woman at that. He did not even bother to wake them from their slumber.

Turukáno came to the door yawning. His middle son’s face was darkened by two very impressive black eyes, making his pale blue gaze appear paler still. At the sight of his father at the door, the man blinked the sleep from his eyes. “Atar?”

“Know you to where Írissë has gone? She is not in her room.”

“Why are you looking for her so early in the morning?” Turukáno rubbed at his eyes and winced when he no doubt received a nice throb of pain in response.

“She and I had a disagreement last night,” he explained nonchalantly, not wishing to chip his own pride by saying too much. “Your mother sent me to speak to her this morning, now that tempers have calmed.”

Intelligent eyes looked up at him, narrowed suspiciously. “Is this about Turkafinwë?”

“No, not exactly,” he ground out. “Do you know where she might be or not, yondonya?”

Ah, the days where he could order his boys about and expect them to obey! Long gone were those times, though, for his two eldest had been Kings in their own right and now did not hand out trust and respect so lightly. Still, it was a bit insulting that Turukáno found his motivations suspect, as if his son were having trouble deciding whether he would take his father’s side or his sister’s in the conflict, doing mental backflips of indecision rather than hastily choosing a side without full disclosure.

_Am I really so terrible a father that he wonders if I might hurt my own daughter?_

Finally, his second-born let out a low groan and rubbed at his temples. “She may have gone for fresh air. That would be very like her. Otherwise, you might consider checking to see if she returned to Turkafinwë late last night. Up until Elenwë and I interrupted their little rendezvous, she seemed to be in good spirits in his company. More so than she has been with any other man as of late, in any case.”

As much as it soured Nolofinwë’s mood to think that his daughter might have snuck into the rooms of her most recent lover—a man like Turkafinwë Fëanárion, no less, who had stared down the entire court with the phantom of his father in his eyes, a hair’s breadth away from initiating a fourth Kinslaying right there in the main hall during the Midsummer Festival—he was willing to try searching there if he must. If she was neither in her rooms nor abed with her lover, perhaps she really _had_ gone out for some peace and quiet away from her family and the stifling palace walls. At least, then, he could return to Anairë genuinely having _tried_ to find her and resolve their differences rather than appearing to put it off out of pride or fear.

So, he went in search of his half-nephew next.

Much like Turukáno, Turkafinwë answered the door yawning and wild-haired, straight from his bed.

“Curufinwë,” the younger male moaned out, seeing only black hair, “If this is about you mooning over Lindalórë, please just go back to bed.”

“Last time I checked, Curufinwë was just a little shorter than I, and his face of significantly different structure,” Nolofinwë commented. “I shall give you a few moments to gather your wits about you, nephew, before I begin to ask my questions, since I have clearly awoken you.”

It had been his hope that, when Turkafinwë recognized him fully, his nephew might tell him that Írissë was there and abed. Now, with that niggling feeling of unease resting uncomfortably at the back of his mind like a tickling feather, he would not even have been upset at such blatant flaunting of an affair. It would have been a relief to know that she was here and well, even if it was under the keeping of this Fëanárion.

Yet, Turkafinwë did not say anything about her, instead giving his head a quick shake to clear away the lingering cobwebs of sleep. “Is this about what was said last night?”

“I was rather here to ask if Írissë was here, for I have want to speak with her but can find her nowhere.” Nolofinwë’s feet longed to shift, to prance with discomfort, but he held himself still and composed in the face of his wild-eyed nephew. “There is hardly any defense for what you and her have done, so there is no point in trying to defend it with words.”

“I would not defend actions that I do not believe are wrong,” Turkafinwë countered, and his smile carried a hint of tooth, his words a flash of sharpened steel. “I regret not what we did at all, so if your design is to drive me away, it is a fool’s errand.”

Before speaking to Anairë, that very much _would_ have been his design. If he could find a way to keep this crazed monster of a man away from his daughter, he would quite happily do so. But, as his wife had pointed out, it was not his responsibility to choose a man for his daughter, but to protect her until she chose one for herself. While he could see no appeal to the silver-haired fiend of a Fëanárion, he was not going to make the mistake of the Telerin Crown Prince and try to force his will upon his flesh and blood, not even for her own good.

Licking away the dryness of his lips, hiding the disdain in his eyes, he took a step back. “As I said, I came here only seeking her whereabouts. I have no business with you. If she is not here, then I shall leave you to your morning and greet you again when breaking fast in an hour or so, nephew.”

He turned to leave.

“Wait.” Turkafinwë stepped fully into the hallway, clad in his nightshirt and leggings, hair wild all down his back in tangles and knots from sleeping. “Is there reason to believe she is not well and safe? You seem… off.”

One could say what they would about the sanity of a Fëanárion, but their instincts were sharper than any blade and second to none, just as had been their sire’s. Of course, Turkafinwë would sense Nolofinwë’s unease about his missing daughter, scent it in the air and be drawn, eyes flickering across his face in search of a tell or a lead that would bring him to the soft spot hidden but not well enough.

“Of course not,” he lied through his teeth. “I would have liked to settle a disagreement from last night sooner rather than later, nothing more.”

Those silver eyes were every bit as sly and knowing as Fëanáro’s had ever been, dragging over his skin like red-hot knives. It was clear that Turkafinwë did not believe him, not even for a moment. It was also clear that something about his unease was, in turn, making his nephew just as stir-crazy and unsettled. The man’s hands were clenching and relaxing around the doorframe, again and again and again, and his feet were shifting upon the carpet without rest. The whole sight of it sent shudders down Nolofinwë’s back, for he had seen this very same behavior in Fëanáro after the death of Finwë. A thousand footsteps pounded into the dark sands of Araman while wild, star-bright eyes flickered through the night. Fëanáro had not been able to hold still and do nothing, had not been able to rest for even a moment, while their father’s killer was still free and unpunished.

“If I see her, I will send a missive,” Turkafinwë finally said, voice dropping in pitch, eyes still fixed firmly upon Nolofinwë’s face.

“My thanks, nephew.” With a faint bow of his head, he left Turkafinwë in the hallway, though he was loath to turn his back on such an unpredictable and wild animal. It took all his will to keep his footsteps long but even, firm upon the ground with confidence, rather than dancing lightly with fear, as he fled with dignity.

Only once he rounded the corner and heard his nephew’s door click shut did he let out a long breath and slow his steps.

If it had not been apparent before, it certainly was now, that Turkafinwë was every inch his father’s son. Every smile, every look. Every word and every movement. All of them were a remnant of Fëanáro that haunted Nolofinwë now to see.

 _She could have chosen anyone else and I would have rejoiced to have a son-in-law,_ he thought with despair. _Why did she have to take a fancy to him?_

Biting back the curse that wanted to escape his tongue, he pushed that thought away.

He would return to his wife empty-handed and hope that his daughter deigned grace them with her presence for the breaking of fast. It was clear that he was not going to find her until she decided she wanted to be found, and he would respect her in that. He knew that there were times, when he was King in Exile, that he would have liked nothing more than to be left alone for a single morning to listen to birdsong and watch the sunrise in peace.

Let her come to them, and then she might be in a more agreeable mood. And then, when their bellies were full and their tempers soothed, they could talk, father and daughter, and come to an understanding.

He would just have to wait.

(And ignore that feeling migrating from the back of his mind to the pit of his gut. It was just unease resulting from the discussion of his sister that morning and nothing more. Nothing to worry about, for what ill could befall them here, in Aman?

No, it was nothing to worry about at all.

And he pushed it away again.)

\---

“Are you certain about this?”

Lindalórë had the old key to the cottage between her fingertips, rubbing the brass, feeling its familiar curves as the metal warmed beneath her touch. It was less out of reluctance to allow another inside the house, but more out of worry for her former friend, that she hesitated once more. Sitting on her bed, watching as the Princess pulled on another white gown, she could not help but wonder if Írissë was being hasty.

“I just need some time,” the other woman huffed, “Away from Atar and away from Amillë. It is not like I plan to hide forever, just… just until I catch my breath again.”

Giving in, Lindalórë passed the key over.

“What should I tell your family should they learn that you have come here to see me and then not come home?” she asked then. If none had seen Írissë enter or leave, that would be one thing, but the Princess had arrived at her parents’ home in broad daylight and had certainly been seen by her mother, which meant her father knew as well or would very soon. “Do you wish for me to direct them to you?”

“No,” Írissë said quickly. “No, I think you should just tell them I stopped by to talk, for some comfort. Undoubtedly, it will not be long til they come knocking, and I would like to choose the amount of time I spend on my own rather than being forced back to the palace this evening so that my father can yell in my face and my mother scold me for being childish.”

On the one hand, it _was_ a little childish. On the other, Lindalórë knew what it was like to be desperate to escape one’s parents and their provincial mindsets. Silently, to herself, she promised not to let Írissë’s self-imposed exile drag on for more than a few days. If the woman had not calmed and gone back to her mother and father for reconciliation by then, she would share what she knew.

But she did understand, truly, that Írissë just needed some time alone. To think. To reconcile. To accept and forgive.

She almost wished to disappear as well. But she had plans, already.

“And what if your lover should come knocking?” she then asked. “Would you wish me to deny Turkafinwë access to your location as well?”

For a few long moments, Írissë paused in her dressing, fingers trailing through her hair as she processed the question and contemplated her answer. Finally, she nodded her head, ungracefully rolling up her soiled gown and shoving it into her pack. “Yes, I think so. If he is as good a hunter as he was before the Darkening, he will find me if he wants to. Or, perhaps, I should consider going to him if the fancy strikes me. But, for now, I really do think I wish to be alone with my thoughts.”

 _And men so oft get in the way of thinking rationally._ Neither said the words, but both thought them as one, eyes meeting, pale blue to bold green.

“Be careful,” Lindalórë warned.

“I have travelled cross country in the Hither Lands dotted with orcs and dark enchanted forests full of spiders and other ill beasts,” Írissë commented, laughing quietly, “Surely there is nothing so terrible here, in Aman, to waylay me between here and the cottage. Nevertheless, my thanks, sister.”

“You are most welcome.” Offering a hesitant smile, they exchanged a gentle embrace. “I ask forgiveness in advance for the dust. The cottage has been unoccupied for a very long while.”

“I have lived with worse.”

The pair descended down into the foyer. With a last exchange of kisses upon cheeks, Írissë slipped out of the house, leaving Lindalórë behind.

Her mother was watching from the top of the staircase. “What business had you with the Princess Írissë last night and this morning, daughter?” she asked, gray eyes blinking catlike in the shade of the house. “It has been long since you two spoke more than a few words to one another.”

“She was just seeking some female company and some comfort,” Lindalórë fibbed lightly. “After last night, I think she must have been quite shaken and upset and sought someone who might understand her plight more vividly than her mother. It must be hard, being a woman with no sisters and no female cousins, no one her own age to speak her mind to, so I am happy to be of service.”

“As long as you do not get any strange ideas of your own,” her mother commented. “Running about with a Kinslayer as such. Think you not that your father and I did not see you about with Curufinwë last night as well. I should hope you would be wise and stay far away from such trouble, not invite it to come knocking at your door.”

_You would be happy if I publicly denounced my husband. Unfortunately for you, he and I are still married legally, and he is still mine._

Lindalórë might be angry with him, might want to make him squirm, but he was _hers,_ and she was not about to let him slip away. Once she made up her mind, it was nearly impossible to change. It was what her mother would call an “unfortunately mannish quality”, but Lindalórë had long since accepted it as part of herself and moved on from worrying excessively about being perfectly dainty and feminine.

“I certainly do not need Írissë to plant any strange ideas in my head,” she replied, ascending the steps and moving languidly around her mother’s stationary form. “I have plenty of ideas of my own, thank you.”

Those gray eyes followed her as she went, knowing and tired, but Lindalórë could not bring herself to care. After all this time, she was tired of playing the obedient daughter.

She wanted her life back. And she would take it. Like a conqueror. Like a queen.

She would have her happiness once more.

And no one was going to stand in her way.

\---

The sun was fucking bright and he wanted to shoot it out of the sky.

Rolling over onto his stomach on the grass, he squirmed and groaned. The arm over his eyes did little to stop the golden light from creeping in and burning against his retinas, sending sharp jolts of pain through his skull. Worse still, he was itchy in all sorts of awkward places from sleeping naked in the grass, and his body was telling him rather urgently that he should both get up and piss but also find some food or else risk the nausea overflowing. The last thing he wanted to do was get up, but he was also not willing to lie uncomfortably on the ground next to a puddle of his own vomit either.

Slowly, he moved his arm away from his eyes, blinking against the throbbing headache and the jab of painful knives into his eye-sockets. It had been quite some time since he had been _that drunk_ and he was now most definitely feeling the effects.

Sitting up, the first thing he noticed was that his clothing and boots had been abandoned nearby. Last night, he had taken no care at all to keep track of those articles when his mind had been on nothing but getting his lovely wife naked, so he doubted they had conveniently fallen thusly. Moreover, his shirt was draped over his lap to cover his modesty.

_Lindalórë…_

She had to have beaten him to awakening. She always did when they drank, her constitution miraculously better at handling liquor than his own. Most likely, she barely felt a thing, while he lay here feeling miserable and wishing he was still in her good graces enough that she would have stayed to help drag him back home. What he would not have given to be inside and in a bed, huddled under the darkness of sheets and blankets where he did not have to hear the jarring melody of birdsong echo like screams in his ears and the nearby drone of voices alerting him that he should arise and dress himself before he was seen in such a shameful state.

Gracelessly, he pulled on his leggings and boots, eyeing the grass stains on the fabric with distaste. And then his undershirt and tunic followed, reeking of his long night of dancing and spilling no small amount of wine upon himself in the process. Even knowing how badly he handled his alcohol, Lindalórë had managed to lure him into a full night of revelry. It was just like her to then leave him hanging out to dry.

Dressed, he struggled to his feet. Next on his list of _things that need to be done now or I might perish of hangover_ was finding somewhere dark and quiet. It took him several embarrassingly long moments to even remember where he was—on the bank of the lake in the lower-class part of Tirion, a good ten to twenty minutes of walking from the palace—and then to recall if there were less public roads by which he might travel to avoid broadcasting his dastardly state of wrinkled clothing, mussed and tangled hair and obvious bloodshot eyes. One way or another, though, he wanted to be back at the palace and abed, sleeping through the rest of the morning and afternoon if he could manage.

By the time he made it back, there was a commotion.

Blinking as he was waylaid outside his room by Turkafinwë, he used the doorframe to keep himself from wobbling embarrassingly. Loud voices echoed up and down the hallways, shouting back and forth, and it was making his stomach churn with each new vibration of pure agony resonating through his brain.

“You look like you have been busy,” Turkafinwë commented slyly, but his normal cruel joviality was not in his expression this morn. It was strange and unnerving, and Curufinwë did not like it one bit.

“What on earth is going on?” he asked, voice soft and low. “Surely, there could be no cause for so much ruckus the morning after a festival.”

Turkafinwë blinked at him without a drop of sympathy. “Írissë has gone missing.”

Sensing suddenly that no more sleep was forthcoming, Curufinwë surrendered to the urge to bang his head against the doorframe with a groan. Because that could surely not make him feel any more miserable than he already did. “Lovely. Just wonderful. She could not have picked a better morning.”

His older brother just looked at him expectantly. “Get dressed in something clean, hanno. There is work to be done here.”

Curufinwë groaned again.

_I just wanted to go back to bed._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:
> 
> Atar (Q) = Father  
> Fëanárioni (Q, p) = Sons of Fëanáro  
> Amillë (Q) = Mother  
> yondonya (Q) = my son  
> hanno (Q) = brother (informal)


	24. Happenings of the Healing House

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pityo goes and gets himself a full-on crush, amongst other things happening on a not-so-usual morning in the Healing House of the Court of Tirion...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: semi-graphic injury, treatment of injuries, admiring from afar, gossiping, offscreen beatings/torture
> 
> We get a little bit more of a new character, a little bit more romancing, and a little bit of bloodshed. Because why not?
> 
> Maedhros = Maitimo = Nelyafinwë = Nelyo  
> Maglor = Makalaurë = Kanafinwë = Káno  
> Celegorm = Tyelkormo = Turkafinwë = Turko  
> Caranthir = Carnistir = Morifinwë = Moryo  
> Curufin = Atarinkë = Curufinwë = Curvo  
> Amrod = Ambarussa = Pityafinwë = Pityo  
> Amras = Umbarto = Telufinwë = Telvo  
> Turgon = Turukáno = Turno

_Aldúya, 40 Lairë (22 June)_

\---

When Telufinwë pulled the blinds and let the light stream in, Pityafinwë felt as though his skull were cleaved in two. Making a noise not too out of place for a man skewered on a spear, he turned onto his other side and steadfastly ignored the way his wrist screamed in pain, too preoccupied with clawing his blankets up to hide his face from Anar’s rays of torment. Of course, his little brother yielded no mercy and merely opened the curtains wider and peeled the blankets back.

“Kill me,” he begged dramatically, flopping limply onto his back like a boned fish. He knew that this suffering was little in comparison to a true death blow and he was being a bit melodramatic—after all, he had been stabbed in his back (in his damn spine, rendering him helpless) and then had his throat slit for his troubles—but it was truly a miserable morning. More miserable than the aftermath of some battles he had survived, for he had then had a helmet to protect his stupid head from breaking his falls every time he had been unfortunate enough to be out on the field of battle.

At his ill-thought-upon joke, Telufinwë gave him a disgusted look and sharply motioned for him to sit up in bed.

Not a good idea. Though his drunkenness had passed, and, with it, the aggression that had burned in his blood to tear into Turukáno like a famished wolf into a dead carcass, he still felt dizzy and vaguely sick as the room spun about. This was not the result of a mere night of drinking, for agony throbbed at the back of his head, and he winced to brush his fingers across the place where he had injured himself last night.

Smacking his hand away, Telufinwë reached for his opposite wrist, only to pause when Pityafinwë gave a sharp yelp of pain.

“Finger,” he gritted out between his teeth, and bile really _did_ climb up the back of his throat because that really _did_ fucking hurt. “It gave when I punched Turno last night. Did not think to bring it up to the healer.”

In his defense, he had barely been conscious at the time, and alcohol was good at dulling pain and keeping the mind abroad with other pursuits, such as vividly-imagined violence upon one’s not-too-distant relatives and litanies of venomous drivel that wanted to issue forth from his tongue like acid. Now, though, his finger smarted something fierce, the second joint and knuckle swollen quite spectacularly, the redness spreading out in a burning wave across the rest of his hand. That was going to need seeing to.

Pityafinwë released a pitiful sound. One trip to the Healing House was quite enough!

 _Wait…_ He wracked his brain, trying to remember physically _being_ in the Healing House last evening. By Angamando, he remembered not even being taken back to his own bed, let alone anything else beyond watching Curufinwë blacken cousin Turukáno’s other eye. As satisfying as that had been, things must have happened between then and now, and he remembered nothing.

Well, that was not strictly true. He remembered a woman. At least, he thought it had been a woman. Sometimes these things became a little ambiguous under the influence of drink and pain. He remembered dark hair and dark eyes, fingers massaging his wrist as it jerked and shot harshly with little stabs of red-hot pain up, until finally something popped back into place and he could breathe properly again.

Sitting still while Telufinwë examined his finger (probably broken, he concluded) and his wrist (fixed but still aching), he thought about the stranger.

“Did you drag me off to the Healing House?” he asked quietly.

Telufinwë shook his head, hand roughly cupping Pityafinwë’s chin and lifting his face to examine the bruising on his jaw and to look into his eyes, identical shades of green clashing in the morning light. Then, his brother tilted his head down to examine the back of his head from standing position, and there was a rather vivid memory of _breasts_ that seemed completely inappropriate and left him wondering if he had done anything stupid last night. Because it was a very lovely pair of breasts, fully covered or no, and his tongue might have been rather loose under the influence of drink and a head injury.

“So, there _was_ a healer,” he tried to confirm, watching as his younger brother (by but a few minutes only) began to collect clothing for them both. Nothing ostentatious this time, but their normal preferred earthen tones of brown and dark green. “I did not imagine some lovely dark-haired nymph when it was in reality just one of you wrapping my wrist, did I?”

Again, Telufinwë shook his head, holding out clothing.

“What?” He stared at the clothes, then at his younger brother, then the clothes again. “Are we planning to go somewhere? To be quite frank with you, Telvo, I have no desire to move.”

The younger twin gave the older a scolding look. Harshly, a finger jabbed at his (likely broken) finger, sending him shuffling back in defense, other hand cupping over the injured digit for added protection. “Fuck! Telvo!”

Pointing towards the door, the younger twin raised a brow.

Right. Hand needed seeing to. A pity they could not just demand a healer come here, but Pityafinwë was not bedridden and did not need to be waited on hand and foot by a healer over something so small as a broken finger. Still, he would have liked to order the curtains pulled back closed so that he could pretend at peaceful rest for a while longer.

Except, now that he was awake and fully conscious, his hand really _was_ beginning to bother, complaining loudly at even the smallest movement. He rather wanted that to stop.

Getting out of bed was a herculean effort, but Pityafinwë managed it somehow after giving the room a few minutes to cease spinning around and around. Most likely, his quivering muscles were sustained now on pure stubbornness and the will to find a way to swindle something for the pain out from under the noses of the stingy healers. Other parts of him were aching—his arse and his back and his knees—but it was still chiefly his head and his hand that pushed him to seek out something which might dull the pain so that he could crawl pathetically back into his bed (after Telufinwë quit hovering) and sleep for the next age.

Healing House first. Then sleep.

Afterward, he could lie awake in bed and worry about what he may or may not have said to a lovely woman while completely out of his senses. It was not like he would run into the very same healer this morning, surely. Whoever she had been, she would probably be still abed if she had been up all night doing whatever healers did when they were waiting for idiots like him to get into fights with dislocated wrists and concussed heads.

He held his breath through lacing his leggings—his hands, both the finger on the right and the wrist of the left—did not thank him for proceeding with such coordinated, fine movement, but he was hesitant to ask even Telufinwë for assistance. At least the loose tunic he had been given was less of a problem, for it only required that his hands pass through the sleeves and, so long as he bothered not with a belt, it did not require lacing or buttoning with which to further torture himself. Thusly dressed, he tied his hair back simply and made for the door, stepping out into the richly-carpeted hallway.

It required the waylaying of three separate house servants to find the Healing House at all. By the time he approached the door, his mood was dark and his hand screamed whenever he moved it or brushed it against his clothing.

Not bothering with pleasantries, he pushed his way inside.

It was mostly quiet. The walls were pale and barren, but the windows were thrust open wide to let in cool air before the heat of the middle of the day brought the stifling feeling of being choked with it. All that would have been fine but for the smell, a mixture of blood, alcohol and herbs of varying levels of cloying fragrance.

Two or three healers were about. Narrowing his eyes, he took them in, felt fragmented memories rising to the surface from the night prior. Dark-haired and dark-eyed, standing over him, so he had no perception of her height. Was he meant to be searching out the same woman for further treatment? Did it matter? His hand was complaining at him rather loudly, and he was swiftly running of out patience for more searching and toiling. The whole of this place was too bright and too sterile, and it was beginning to make his nose itch.

“Oh!”

He turned to look behind him. The door swung outwards, and a female stepped in. Clearly, by the noise that she made and by the glimmer of recognition in her wide, dark eyes, she indeed must be the healer who had bandaged his wrist last night.

She was short. Shorter than he had expected. All the men of the House of Fëanáro were tall and built broadly to match, but, even so, most women of court were not so petite as this one. Perhaps it was the lighting, or perhaps it was just his imagination, but she seemed to only come up to about the middle of his chest, perhaps not even that. Blinking up at him, she had to crane her head back, and her simply-woven dark locks spilled down her back in waves.

“It is you,” she finally said. “Well, sit yourself down and let me have a look at your wrist and head. Since you made it here in one piece without concussing yourself further, you seem to be mending, but I would have a look anyway besides.”

“I came here not for my head or my wrist,” he interrupted, instead holding up his right hand so that the vivid bruising and swelling redness was readily apparent. “It appears as though something was missed last night. I had not even noticed it until I awoke this morning and rolled over on top of it.”

Her big doe eyes took in the injury, and her hands, not dainty but not large either and with calluses in odd places, firmly grasped his hand and held it still. She did not need long to examine. “I would say it is quite broken, my lord, and will have to be set. Please, have a seat.”

Pityafinwë sat on one of the little cots and waited patiently, watching. The woman began to move about on light feet, fetching supplies, gathering small linen bandages, setting a kettle over the small fire at the hearth and adding herbs that filled the room with a heavy medicinal smell. She was garbed in gray, as was typical of the healers when they were in their element, and her dark hair swished back and forth as she went, drawing his eyes whenever her back was turned. The strands were longer even than some of the women of court (when they wore their hair down and not elaborately braided and decorated with beads and combs and coronets) and brushed across the swell of her rump.

Even though he was in pain, he could not help but notice that she was lovely in her own way. Her waist was slender but natural and curved outwards to her hips and upwards to her breasts in one long, breathtaking line, a lovelier one than had many of the very skinny women of court in their tight corseted bodices or shapeless, flowing gowns. As she turned, he helplessly admired her shape, the swell of her breasts (he remembered from last night, nibbled the inside of his lip hoping he had not said anything about them to her, fighting off the blush that was trying to creep up over his cheeks) and the gentle roundness of her belly. He found that he rather liked it and might have had more of an insistent itch to get closer and trace that tempting curve with his fingertips if it were not for the fact that one of them was looking a bit crooked.

When she turned around, their eyes met briefly. He saw it there, the tiny flash of fear that burned in the dark, nearly black depths, though it showed not at all on her face and was smothered quickly. Without hesitation, she went to him, setting down her supplies upon the sheets at his side.

“Let me see your hand, my lord,” she requested, hands raised to receive his own. “Setting the bone will hurt, but it should be over quickly. Then, I shall splint it to keep it straight, and wrap it with the finger beside to help give it support.” She tapped the next finger over, the middle one. “Need you leather to bite upon or herbs to deaden the feeling in your finger, or can you remain relatively quiet without?”

If it had been one of his brothers asking, he would have known it was mocking, for most of them had experienced much more severe injuries than a broken finger, and fairly often at that, given how much war they had seen. Pityafinwë had been stabbed twice at Nirnaeth Arnoediad alone, one of those times straight through his foot, and the bones there were still a bit bent out of shape despite his recovery from the wound. He had walked on that one for more than a week (getting it thoroughly infected in the process, which had not been fun to suffer through) before there was any form of bedrest to be had.

Compared with that lovely fortnight and a half, he was fairly certain he would be fine for a few moments while she pushed the bones into place and wrapped them. And, shamefully, part of him rather wanted to show off for her. Just a bit. Because not many of the men of court could remain silent and still through even this small amount of pain. And, also, because he would not have made too impressive a sight drunken and concussed last night, and he rather wanted her to have a better impression than intoxicated, fist-fighting flirt.

Stoic as ever, he said, “I will be fine without, Lady Healer.”

Her look was searching, but she questioned his decision not. Instead, she immediately set about her work, and he sat still and gritted his teeth against the pain.

As she said, it had lasted only a minute or so. Having the bones back in their correct position—she quickly pressed the digit between two smooth, shaped pieces of wood that held it straight and in place as she wrapped it with bandages—already did much to alleviate the pain. It was more than a warrior could have expected fresh of the battlefield in the Hither Lands, clean and gentle and professional compared with the haphazard treatments they were accustomed to dealing with and dealing out.

When she finished, she gave his hand a gentle pat, and he felt more dazed by the way she offered him a cute little half-grin than he was by the pain of the whole thing. “All done. Now, let me have a look at everything else, and then you can have some tea. It will help with the pain and to settle your stomach as well. Do you feel better than you did last night?”

“I felt like I might be dying last night,” he commented flatly, struggling to keep his gaze on her eyes and not on her lips, which looked very soft, “So a mere headache and some aches and pains are a definite improvement.”

She snorted in amusement. “Hardly dying. Just concussed. Let me see your head now.”

As it would happen, he certainly was bruised up, but she declared him no longer concussed based off his lack of slurred speech, pupil dilation and dizziness when standing. “You will just have some very vivid bruises, I suspect,” she commented as she poked and prodded at the injury. “As long as you are gentle with your body for a few days, all your injuries should heal well. That means staying _out_ of fist fists, my lord, no matter how exasperating your relatives may be. No weight at all on that wrist if you can help it, and keep that finger splinted and straight with clean bandages.”

He did not mind the scolding. Not much, anyway.

It was even kind of… nice. To be coddled a bit. It was not something that any of the men of their family had _ever_ been accustomed to because it was simply _not done_ in the House of Fëanáro and was a commodity no one could afford abroad. One was meant to bolster themselves against the pain, teeth gritted and silent, because whimpering and whining was negatively perceived for a grown man. He should be able to handle it on his own. It was a silent law he had learned at that age when he could no longer go to his mother or older brother for kisses on scraped knees, when his father first snarled at him for crying over a bruise or a cut.

Bizarrely, he wanted her hands back as she walked away to fetch the tea and pour him a cup. He would not have minded having them stay where they had been on his knuckles, massaging at the aching muscles around his finger, or near his left wrist soothing the throbbing ligaments, or brushing through his russet hair as they had been to get a clear view of his head injury.

But that was ridiculous. She was lovely, certainly, and had yet to run in the other direction at his mere sight, but he was an adult and he did not need her to baby him any more than she had. Silently, he waited for her return (and very much did _not_ look at her rear end again) with a steaming cup of tea. All the while, he was fiddling with his fingers, tapping them lightly against his thighs, eyes glancing up at her and then away, and then up at her, and then away again.

She came to a stop in front of him and held out the cup, and he took it between his hands awkwardly, finding the ceramic warm against his palms. The steam swirled up into his face with a deep, soothing herbal scent. He could detect some things, like ginger, but much of the rest he knew naught about. Looking up into her dark eyes, watching her watch him back, he raised the cup to his lips and tasted.

For medicine, it was not so terrible. He took another sip and watched her smile.

Quietly, they sat together until he finished it all.

“Feeling any better?” she asked again.

Warmth bubbled in his belly, fluttered beneath his ribs. “Your tea is very effective, Lady Healer,” he offered, setting the cup aside. “My thanks for your assistance.”

She offered him another of her smiles, wider this time, and sweet words lingered upon his tongue. That she should know how beautiful she looked without any of the ridiculous face-painting and heavy, gaudy gem-inlaid jewelry. That her big, dark eyes swallowed him up and left his lungs aching for air as he drowned. That he would very much like to come and see her again if she would so permit.

It was upon that last thought, though, this his high spirits dimmed slightly.

He was a Fëanárion. There was no possibility that, after treating him and Curufinwë last night, she did not know that truth. People did not simply involve themselves with the Fëanárioni on a whim, and they certainly did not allow themselves to be courted by one unless they also wanted to be courted by shame and distrust. That knowledge took away the glowing softness of his burgeoning interest, though it did nothing to temper his attraction.

Why on earth would she ever willing get involved with someone like _him?_

Releasing a sigh instead of the lover’s words, he stood to his full height, once more marveling at how petite she truly was, but how soft and how gentle as well, like a doe in the spring walking as if upon clouds, silent in the underbrush. Taking her hand, he brushed a kiss over her knuckles.

“Lady Healer,” he whispered out, tapping his splinted finger and its wrapped friend awkwardly up against the side of her palm, “I should be on my way.”

“Try not to get into any more fights until you have healed. Or, preferably, at all,” she remarked, though her chastisement was buried beneath a small bout of laughter. Their hands separated, and he wondered if she felt as bereft without his touch as he suddenly felt without hers against his skin. “Good day to you, my Prince.”

A little disappointed that he was already leaving, but knowing that he had no further excuse to stay and _should not_ stay even if he had, Pityafinwë merely gave her a nod and a tight smile before making his escape.

Standing outside the door as it clicked shut, he wondered at how his chest throbbed at the idea of never coming back. Because she was really something special. He could feel it in his bones, underneath his skin, singing through his blood.

In the back of his mind, he heard Telufinwë’s soft laughter as if through the curtain of the night, a vision of his brother’s knowing eyes looking down upon him. _“You did think she was beautiful, like shadows dancing through the moonlight, did you not, Telvo? Telvo?”_ his memory-self asked his little brother giddily, like a besotted child.

 _“Go to sleep,”_ memory-Telvo whispered. _“I doubt you will remember any of this come morning, but, yes, she was quite pretty.”_

 _“She was,”_ sleepy then-Pityafinwë asserted. _“She was…”_

And he drifted back to reality, holding his breath.

He should leave and not come back. He had no excuse. None at all. He knew how to take care of broken bones, of dislocations, of things much worse than either. There was no reason to play the hapless, helpless patient and waste _her_ time. No reason at all.

But he wanted to see her again. Out of sight for five minutes only had she been, but he would happily have gone back inside had he a reason that would not seem foolish.

Biting his inner lip, he forced himself to walk away.

Well, if he needed a reason to come back, he would just have to make one.

 _My finger and wrist will need checking again soon,_ he thought slyly to himself, eyeing the two sets of bandages. _Who better to make sure that I have properly healed than the lovely woman who treated my wounds in the first place?_

She need never know that there was anything more there than a man seeking her aid. Just looking upon her, having her smile at him, would be enough. _Must_ be enough.

It was, after all, all he was going to have of her.

\---

The other healers giggled as the Prince departed from the Healing House after giving Wilwarin a breathy kiss on her knuckles and a caress against her palm. The skin where they touched continued to tingle long after, and, had she been a younger woman and less professional, she might have pressed her lips to that spot that he had touched and tried to breathe the sensation in so it might never fade.

Instead, she looked over at the younger women, apprentices of the Healing House. “That was so romantic,” one of them told her, half-whispering as though imparting a great but exciting secret. “Do you know him, Lady Healer? Is he a suitor?”

“Dear me, no!” Wilwarin shook her head. “Most certainly not! He is not at all interested in someone like me! I treated his hand and his head last night, during the Festival, and we know each other not any more than that. Besides, he is far above my station, and made for better things than a simple healer besides.”

One of the girls, still near swooning with glee, stepped near and grabbed her hand insistently. “No, no, he was most definitely interested! No man would otherwise look upon a woman so longingly, surely!”

 _Longingly?_ “You must be imagining things, apprentice, for I am hardly worthy of comparison to the ladies of court, of his ken.”

“You say that,” another girl imparted, “But I saw him. His eyes followed you everywhere, all about the room, and paid no one and nothing else any mind at all. And he looked especially fond of your plump rear end. I saw him looking.”

“Inyë!” another scolded. “Say such things not!”

“It is true!” the first girl, Inyë, insisted. “His wandering eyes speak for themselves! Clearly, he has taken interest in Healer Wilwarin.”

The younger women continued to debate and bicker amongst themselves, and Wilwarin struggled between the urge to snap at them to all be quiet and reclaim their professionalism—the Healing House was no place for romantic pursuits, most especially between a healer and her patient—and to melt into a puddle of mortification on the floor. Men like the Fëanárioni had been raised at court, surrounded by breathtakingly beautiful women all their lives, and she could not imagine one of them finding anything about her form—let alone her somewhat cold and professional mannerisms—to be the least bit attractive. Not when they could have some perfectly trim young woman fluttering about in a brightly-colored gown with her portrait-worthy face done up magnificently in colorful designs and vibrant lip-stains.

Between the two urges, Wilwarin felt the former win out. “All of you be silent!”

At her interjection, the girls quieted and bowed their heads, folding their hands silently. Cowed, even Inyë ducked down, eyes firmly fixed upon the floor and cheeks beginning to flush in shame at her inappropriate manner and the older woman’s obvious disapproval.

“This is a Healing House, not a place of gossip and discussion of things best left out of polite conversation.” Young Inyë winced. “The Prince is a patient, a guest in this House, and, while he or any other man may conduct themselves as they see fit here, we are to conduct ourselves properly as our station and position dictates. Do not let a flirty smile lure you into behaving improperly as an apprentice of the Healing House, for you will not be remaining here long if you do.”

The girls nodded, still silent.

“Now shoo, back to your work. There are herbs to be collected before the morning sun has them done in from the heat, and poultices to be made as well. Think you not that I know you have tasks yet to be done? Shoo!”

“Yes, Lady Healer.” Obediently, they bowed their heads and scurried off to their work. As they vanished further into the Healing House, Wilwarin felt her temporary anger drain away along with her will to hold such childish behavior against the young women. They were of that age where men were utterly fascinating, where everything up to and including a smile could seem much more than it was in the mind of a romantic girl.

She sincerely doubted that the Fëanárion had so much as glanced at her once in longing, let alone stared like a lovesick fool all while her back was turned. The way he had acted was nothing out of the ordinary, not even the kiss on the hand, for it was what he likely would have done towards any lady regardless of her station or beauty. It seemed not only ridiculous, given that the apparent object of his attention was gray-garbed and smelled of overpowering herbs and antiseptic, but also out of character. For a Prince. Or a Kinslayer.

Shivering, she tucked that thought away. Think it too long, and she would not have been able to bring herself to approach him, let alone treat and examine his wounds.

At least, like this, sober and quiet, he was less worrisome and less rude than his dark-haired brother had been. Properly polite, doing nothing untoward or out of bounds, and thanking her for her work when she was done. She could appreciate that much, at least, in comparison to the ill-tempered fiend who had snarled and snapped at her for trying to do her job.

Moving to tuck away the smaller bandages and clean the kettle she had dirtied making tea for the pain and the swelling of the Prince’s hands, she did not even notice the door opening behind her back at first.

She turned and came face to face with jadeite eyes. For a moment, she thought it was the same man returned, toweringly tall with a mane of russet curls.

But there were burn scars on his neck and face. The brother, then. The silent one. He was solemn-faced and no longer dressed in vibrant gold.

“My Prince,” she greeted, dropping into a curtsy. “How might I be of assistance?”

Of course, he did not speak. Stepping closer (she resisted the instinctive urge to take a matching step back) he raised one of his hands, shaking faintly to her eyes, and showed her his palm. Across it was quite the hefty gash. Not bleeding copiously, so it was clear that it was not incredibly fresh, but perhaps something that he had gotten a few hours past or as recently as an hour ago. One glance at it and she knew it would be needing stitches for how large it was and how deeply it had cut.

“It will need to be sewn,” she told him, glancing hesitantly up into his blank face.

Green eyes stared back at her. Unlike those of his brother, which had been somewhat warm and welcoming her to conversation despite the expressionless face, these eyes were a shade darker and chilly, their gleam neither warm nor welcoming, but lingering somewhere far off in the distance, like a star embraced in winter’s chill.

Last night, this man had been cooperative and cordial. Now, she shuddered to see the way his eyes looked as they settled upon her. She did not hold his gaze.

Leaving him to occupy the same cot his brother had sat upon just a few minutes prior, she fetched the thread and the curved needle, as well as an antiseptic cream, clean cloths and bandages. Her hands were washed with soap, and then she pulled his hand near to rinse out the gash with more clean water, freshly boiled and allowed to cool and then applied the cream. Normally, such treatment stung, and often patients complained that healing should not bring more pain down upon the unfortunate injured person, but he said nothing. Did not flinch. Did not so much as move except to breathe.

She tried not to think of how pitiful the sting of cleaning a wound might feel compared with the agony of being set ablaze and left burning long enough to leave the scars that otherwise lined his hands, melted and shrunken skin and ravaged nerves leaving them not only with a permanent tremor but probably impossibly hard to move as well.

Once again, he did not so much as twitch as she sewed his wound shut with the sterilized needle. When she glanced up at his face, his cold eyes were watching her work solemnly. Not the least bit queasy at the scene, even when piercing the skin sometimes drew a little bit of extra blood. Mayhap, given how badly damaged his hands were from fire, he did not even feel her care at all. She could not tell from looking how badly damaged his nerves had been.

Only when she had finished, cleaning away the blood gently with water and plying the wound with more disinfectant before wrapping, did she dare to look at his face. His eyes were still staring down at the wound blankly.

“Does it hurt?” she asked quietly.

He shook his head.

“Need you anything else? Any other injuries I should see to?” She did not want to be a bother, most especially given the tension she could see in her patient’s body, in the stiffness of his shoulders as he shifted and the flutter of his overworked muscles as he pulled his hand back to look at the bandaged site, but it was her duty to care for all who entered this House. “Do you need anything for the pain?”

Another shake of the head. Those green eyes turned dark.

Often, burn scars continued to pain their bearers long after the injury itself had “healed”. Did he still experience pain from his burns? Did it ever go away?

If she asked, she doubted he would tell either truth or lie or speak even at all.

“Do come back if you find yourself in need of more assistance,” she then said, knowing that no words would be forthcoming, just as they had not been last night. It left her uneasy. “Try to keep that clean, and do not scratch those stitches. If you tear that open, it should be stitched shut again.”

A nod.

“And keep an eye on your brother for the next couple of days, too.” She paused. “Just to be certain he sustained no lasting problems from hitting his head.”

Another nod. He stood from the cot, his height making her feel tiny. Only, his body was not in the relaxed and open form his brother’s had taken, inviting her to step closer. Everything about him, at that moment, told her that he wanted her to stay away. No touching. No questioning.

Rather than the formality of hand-kissing and pretty words, she received an incline of the head in gratitude. And then, like a shadow, he slipped away silently.

The young apprentices had been peeking out of the other room anxiously, but now they crept back into the main treatment room upon hesitant feet. This time they were not giddy with excitement at having had a handsome male about. Instead, their wide eyes were wary, watching the door swish shut intensely, just to be certain that the strange interloper was gone and not about to return unexpectedly. The first Prince had left Wilwarin with a faint fluttering in her belly (that she ignored steadfastly, for it could lead to nowhere good) with his deep voice and his courtly gestures, but the second Prince left her wrapping her arms about herself as a chill took the room in its claws and squeezed the breath from her lungs.

“Maybe some tea would do us all some good,” she finally said when they had all stood still in silence for several minutes, the girls only half-heartedly going about their assigned tasks with shaky hands and nervous glances. “Take a break from your work. Let us have something to soothe our nerves.”

None of them said anything against her orders. Instead, one of the girls put a kettle over the hearth-fire, and the others drew near, as if being close to the older woman might bolster the strength of their own spirits against the oddness of what had just transpired.

“They looked so alike,” one of the girls whispered, looking towards the door as if the two men, identical but somehow completely different, might reappear like malevolent ghosts.

How two men, two brothers, could look so similar but _feel_ so different was a mysterious thing. Yet, there was no denying the relationship either.

“They are two of the sons of Fëanáro.” At her words, the girls’ faces went gray with shock, pallor washing the warmth and glow from their cheeks. For a few blessed moments, the girls were all silent and still.

Quietly, they prepared their tea.

And then, as they all began to sip at the hot brew, letting its warmth drive away the lingering upset and cold, Inyë said, “A Fëanárion was looking at your bum, Lady Healer.”

The tension broke like glass upon tile. The other girls helplessly giggled.

This time, she did not bother to scold. Merely sighed and looked down at the swirling golden-brown color of her drink, breathed in the steam through her nose and let it soothe her sinuses and the back of her throat. For all that it was not an appropriate topic (and she did not believe it for a second besides—just girls seeing what they wanted to see), she was grateful to have the chill driven away. What better remedy was there for that than laughter?

Twittering and whispering amongst themselves, the girls’ giggling and mock-swooning drove away the shadow, and it felt suddenly as if the sunlight were flowing once more through the open windows. Until that moment, Wilwarin had not noticed, but all had gone just a little dark beneath the cover of cloud.

The golden light on the floor was surprisingly reassuring.

Yet, not completely, for she could not push from her mind the two brothers. The one showing himself in all his frightening reality, no effort to hide his nature or his mood. The other warm and charming and quite possibly lying like a crouching feline, watching his prey draw nearer and nearer before revealing his true nature as a hunter.

She shivered. Was the first Prince’s demeanor entirely false?

There was no way to know, and that left her uncomfortable. Next time she saw him—if ever he returned to receive care—she would have to steel herself and be wary of warmth in his green eyes. After all, he was a Kinslayer. A handsome, exotic, charming and alluring man, but still dangerous and deadly, still with his hands steeped in blood. The two images were disconcerting, failing to meld into a cohesive picture, instead seeming like the shards of two separate shattered pictures that simply did not fit together into a whole.

Shaking her head, she pushed those thoughts away. It did not _matter._ Neither of them would be back, so neither of them were her concern. Furthermore, neither of them were interested in her beyond what she could do to heal them when in need.

That was all there was to this. That was _all._

(And, yet, she sat and listened to the girls gossip for another twenty minutes. Smiled and blushed and issued half-hearted refutes each time one pointed out how the first man had followed her with his eyes, how he had so gently kissed her hand, how he had drawn so near and looked upon her face with softness and smiled.

Part of her wanted that. Wanted to be admired by a beautiful man. Wanted to believe that he saw something in her worthwhile.

Later, she would acknowledge that this intuitive part of her being had known, had understood, intrinsically from the beginning, that something had been missing. That she had unknowingly been seeking not to flee from her life, but to add to it, to build it to greater heights. That she had understood him right from the start and chosen to look the other way, to veil his intentions with doubt and his smiles with uncertainty and deny it all.

For now, she sipped her tea and daydreamed guiltily.

For now, she just wished that it all was true, though her heart sank at knowing it was not.)

“Time for work,” she said, interrupting the girls as her mood darkened. “After you have finished, you can continue your gossip.”

The girls, now in a better mood, flocked to their duties eagerly and gracefully, laughing and chatting all the while.

And Wilwarin once more stood alone.

She busied her hands and found her lonely mind silenced.

\---

An hour before high noon, they received three patients.

The three men had to be carried in, for all were unconscious. Even without peeling back their clothes—the rich fabric and jewels speaking to the fact that these men were of the nobility, dressed to impress at the Midsummer Festival—she could see that their injuries were more severe than what the average healer encountered on their typical day. Little bruises, scrapes, cuts… Wilwarin might see two or three such patients each day, seeking attention after the sorts of small everyday accidents that plagued all people, from the royal family down to the lowest dock-worker or street merchant. On the rare occasion, she dealt with more severe injuries, usually the results of tussles or accidents.

To have three such patients all at once, all found in different locations but nearby, all unconscious and exhibiting the same pattern of injury…

She liked not where her thoughts took her when she ventured down that mental path.

Of the three, she was assigned but one of them. Three young apprentices crowded around her as their charge was lowered to the bed and a privacy curtain pulled around to shield them from view as they worked. From his face—extremely swollen, nose encrusted with dried blood—she knew that he had taken a number of blows right to the head. The small tangle of hair at the back of his skull, damp and knotted, spoke of a blow from behind.

The bruises on his throat spoke of hands. Strangling. Choking.

Nothing about the injuries looked accidental. This did not even look like a fight, for a quick examination of the hands showed no signs of returning the attack. No bruises on the knuckles or injuries to the fingers that might suggest blunt impact with another body.

Even as she had her helpers remove the unhelpful layers of ruined and stained party clothes, she already suspected what she would find. That their patient had been targeted, incapacitated, and beaten soundly, unable to fight back. Her lips pursed in a hard line as the torso was revealed, bruised all down one side of the ribs. Moving her hands over the bone, she felt the swollen knots where fractures made themselves known. The man was lucky that none of those breaks were serious enough to dislodge and pierce any nearby organs.

Or maybe it was not luck at all.

Nothing about it screamed of an uncontrolled bout of rage. The injuries, though painful and debilitating in the short term, were neither lethal nor maiming. The most dangerous injury so far had been the blow to the back of the head, no doubt what had rendered their patient unconscious in the first place.

Broken ankle. Intentionally done, for it had not the markings of a slip and fall. Done to keep the patient from running away.

Knife marks to the legs. Shallow but painful, the source of the bloodstains all over the man’s torn leggings. They were spaced evenly, and her belly lurched, because that spoke, as did the painful but controlled beating, of torture rather than a rage-filled attack. Cold and calculating with full knowledge of what was being done.

Carefully, the rolled the patient over onto his belly. Some of the younger healers gasped and covered their mouths, eyes wide and glistening.

Wilwarin just felt a wary sort of shock, her eyes flickering across the injury, taking it in.

Never before had she seen something like this. Valinórë was a peaceful place, quiet and tranquil, and any sort of crime was rare. Nothing like this, to the best of her knowledge, had happened since the time of the Darkening.

Carved into the man’s flesh, in jagged and torn tengwar, was the word FILTH.

She swallowed, wondering what it meant.

In a flurry, the younger girls were peeling away cloth (gently) and treating open wounds with disinfectant wash and ointments. Most were too shallow to even require stitching. It was only the word, cut deep into muscle (in some places down to the bone) that she knew would need to be stitched, the viciously torn edges of flesh held together as they healed. Little chance there was, given that they were already growing red with infection, their patient squirming and writhing his way back into consciousness with the pain as they flushed the wounds with saline, that these marks would not scar.

They were meant to scar. Intentionally placed to state a message.

Pushing the horror of that away, Wilwarin set to work helping the apprentices. Now was not the time for her speculation. Many reasons could something like this have been done, and she knew not enough about the man to know what those reasons might be. Solemn-faced, she continued to check, palpating to be certain no organs were ruptured or injured, looking at joints and bones to be sure nothing else was broken.

Part of her knew she would find nothing else serious. This attack had not been intended to kill the patient at all.

It had been intended to humiliate and to mark. Possibly to terrify.

Judging by the way the patient winced and refused to meet her gaze as the wounds were clean, now rising back up into the living world, she guessed it had done all three. Carefully, she made a concoction to relieve pain and, gently, assisted her patient in swallowing it down. The process of wrapping those ribs and treating all the cuts would be far from pleasant, and he was surely experiencing a splitting headache from the blows to his skull. But as she examined him (as the medicine kicked in and his body relaxed as some of the agony was chased away) she saw no signs of severe concussion. None of the injuries to the head were even very concerning, and the worst was the nose which needed to be set and straightened lest it heal crooked.

It was only after all most of the healing was done and the convalescing began that the questions followed. Woozy and unfocused as he was on medicine for the pain, they could not afford to wait too long. It was afternoon already, and the royal guard were getting antsy and restless in their waiting. It was a matter of concern for the safety of the other courtiers and the royal family—three nobles found beaten and slashed in three different places, all within walking distance of the palace, all very obviously targeted with single-minded focus… Who knew who might be next? Was the attack finished?

“Do you know who did this to you?” she asked softly, stroking back the man’s dark hair. “We want to help, to bring justice for this slight. The sooner you can provide information, the better the royal guard can help. The sooner you can sleep in peace.”

He stared at her, and the only sound he made was a low groan of pain when the wounds on his back were being stitched. In his eyes, she saw a tessellation of shadows curling and twining. Fear and hatred. And shame.

“My lord?” she inquired again. “Do you know who did this? Or why?”

Slowly, he shook his head.

And she knew, then and there, by the way his eyes glanced away and stared at the far wall in distant reverie, that he lied. He knew what had happened to him, who had done it, and why it had been done. But he did not want to speak of it.

The question was… Why?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:
> 
> Anar (Q) = the Sun  
> Fëanárioni (Q, p) = Sons of Fëanáro  
> tengwar (Q, p) = letters (as in of the alphabet)


	25. The Care and Keeping of Secrets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Or not. Everyone's morning gets thoroughly derailed...
> 
> (Well, most everyone)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: thinking about sex/talking about sex, flirting, kissing, eavesdropping, imagined violence, arguing in public, discussion of/conjecture about injuries from torture
> 
> Oh look, I changed canon. Whoops. If you've read the Silmarillion Prompts, you might catch it right away, but it's only hinted at here. And, also, as I've hinted at before, Lindalórë is related to a canon character :3
> 
> Maedhros = Maitimo = Nelyafinwë = Nelyo  
> Maglor = Makalaurë = Kanafinwë = Káno  
> Celegorm = Tyelkormo = Turkafinwë = Turko  
> Caranthir = Carnistir = Morifinwë = Moryo  
> Curufin = Atarinkë = Curufinwë = Curvo  
> Amrod = Ambarussa = Pityafinwë = Pityo  
> Amras = Umbarto = Telufinwë = Telvo  
> Fingolfin = Nolofinwë  
> Aredhel = Írissë  
> Fingon = Findekáno = Finno  
> Turgon = Turukáno = Turno  
> Argon = Arakáno  
> Finarfin = Arafinwë  
> Finrod = Artafindë = Findaráto  
> Angrod = Angamaitë = Angaráto  
> Lalwen = Lalwendë  
> Egalmoth = Aikambalotsë

_Aldúya, 40 Lairë (22 June)_

\---

Istelindë was still asleep, sweetly dreaming.

With no intention of waking her any time soon, Nelyafinwë languished in their bed with his body curled around hers, their feet brushing one another’s calves. The sunlight was streaming in through their half-open curtains, rippling through the lace and dancing across her bare skin like waves upon the water’s surface, warm and gentle and making her skin glow softly. Like a mirage beneath his fingers as they stroked the softness of her shoulder, traced the arch of her brow, teased across the bow of her swollen lips.

She was a creature made from light and pearl and silver-shine. Compared with him (even now, he stared at the difference between their skin as he touched her, the jagged, darkened marks that lined his weathered hand in comparison to her smooth and unbroken whiteness) she was something pure and bright.

Coming together, he had felt her. All of her.

Last night, they had been as One, he and her, in body and in mind and in spirit. Their marriage was one in truth, and it made him feel breathless to think of it, all at once elated and, at the same, more nervous than he had been ever before. Brush-stroking the pad of his thumb across her cheek, he wondered if she had felt him as he had her. The inky shadow-stains on his fëa, the marks where it had been cloven and tried to come back together but never quite healed, imperfect and ruined and tattered. Not only by torment and grief, but by sin as well.

He wondered if she would have kissed every flaw and named each beautiful beneath her soft flower-petal lips.

Breathing out on a sigh (more love-stricken than an outsider would ever imagine of a cold-hearted Kinslayer), he resigned himself to luxuriating the morning away in bed though he felt not tired and his muscles told him it was time to arise. Still, he lay staring at his wife’s beautiful sleeping face and her mussed and tangled pale-white hair spread out across the sheets. Staying right here forever, warm and naked and entwined with his much better half, seemed a perfectly acceptable state of existence. A perfectly delightful one, even.

At least, it was until the quiet and the birdsong from outside was interrupted by the sound of a male voice in the hallway, agitated and sharp. Specifically, his uncle’s voice. It was most unexpected, and his head lifted a bit from the pillow, ears straining to hear coherent words.

What was Nolofinwë doing out there in the hallway?

More importantly, what was Turkafinwë doing talking back?

Quietly, rising from bed on unusually silent feet, just to be certain he did not disturb Istelindë’s rest, he padded across the carpet and stood on the other side of the door. With practiced ease, he toggled the knob, let the heavy wood slip open just a crack. Not enough to see much through, but enough to hear more than the soft muffled dance of words.

“—is hardly any defense for what you and her have done, so there is no point in trying to defend it with words,” Nolofinwë was saying.

To which Turkafinwë, predictably scoffed. It was simply not like his little brother to be cowed or guilted by anything or anyone. Certainly not Uncle Nolofinwë, who did not hold a candle to their departed sire. “I would not defend actions that I do not believe are wrong,” his brother purred out in that usual tone, sharp and filled with hidden laughter. “I regret not what we did at all, so if your design is to drive me away, it is a fool’s errand.”

_Of course not. Turkafinwë is never sorry for anything._

But, curiously, Nelyafinwë did not know exactly what it was that his brother had apparently done or with whom that had incited Uncle Nolofinwë’s obvious annoyance and suspicion. His eyes rolled with exasperation, for he had been hoping his brothers could have kept themselves out of trouble while he went off to romance and seduce his wife.

No luck shone upon him in that. Not that he was surprised.

“As I said, I came here only seeking her whereabouts. I have no business with you. If she is not here, then I shall leave you to your morning and greet you again when breaking fast in an hour or so, nephew.” At least Nolofinwë was restraining his temper in the face of his little brother’s obvious mocking and baiting. That was more than most people managed when Turkafinwë was trying to wriggle and writhe under their skin like a particularly stubborn and uncomfortable sliver.

The man seemed to shift his feet, shuffling audibly over the floor, and Nelyafinwë expected his uncle to leave. But then, unexpectedly, Turkafinwë spoke up again.

“Wait.”

And he sounded… wrong.

“Is there reason to believe she is not well and safe? You seem… off.”

 _She._ There were not very many women that these two men had in common. Fewer that could be expected to be spending time in Turkafinwë’s presence. _They must be talking about Írissë. Well, she did drag Turko off last night…_

It had not occurred to him then—Turkafinwë and Írissë had been near each other in age and spent much time together as children and young adults, and it seemed that they had managed to remain friends despite everything and nothing more—but perhaps there _was_ more after all. It certainly would make sense that Nolofinwë would be upset if Turkafinwë was making advances upon his daughter (or if Írissë was making advances upon Turkafinwë, rather, because it was just as likely to have been her suggestion as it was to have been his) and might think she had come here to spend the night in her lover’s bed.

What a mess. Exactly what Nelyafinwë had rather _not_ wanted to deal with.

But, stranger still, Turkafinwë _did_ seem genuinely concerned that she was apparently nowhere to be found this morning. To hear anything resembling _concern_ even coming out of the third son’s mouth was incredibly out of character, worth the worry that wheedled its way into Nelyafinwë’s mind, what with the seriousness in that voice which drove away the chilly clamor of amusement and disdain normally ringing in those tones.

“Of course not,” Nolofinwë was saying then in response to his brother’s questioning. “I would have liked to settle a disagreement from last night sooner rather than later, nothing more.”

_A disagreement about Írissë and Turkafinwë, no doubt._

It was commonly known that Írissë could be as hard-headed and difficult to deal with as her Fëanárion counterpart; no doubt she would not have been too happy to have her father butting into her privacy nor, likely, telling her off for getting involved with someone as infamous (not to mention related) as a son of Fëanáro.

“If I see her, I will send a missive,” Turkafinwë said, voice still low and still lacking his normal vibrantly mocking nature.

“My thanks, nephew.”

This time, Nolofinwë _did_ walk away. He could hear the footsteps fading and the sound of Turkafinwë’s door clicking shut.

When all had gone quiet again, he opened the door and crossed the hallway, knocking on Turkafinwë’s again. Might as well find out what ridiculousness had transpired in his absence now, before going down to unexpected and unwelcome news at the breaking of fast.

Immediately, the door opened. “Nelyo. I suppose you were listening. Thought I heard someone shifting about,” his brother said flatly, leaving the door open as he retreated back into his room. No windows, so it was dark, but not so dark that Nelyafinwë could not tell that, indeed, his brother’s bed was empty. No Írissë there. At least his brother had not been lying through his teeth about that.

“You and Írissë?” he asked immediately.

“She took me by surprise. _Me,”_ Turkafinwë admitted, his lips curling into half a smile, fonder than he had been of anyone in a long time to his older brother’s eyes. “It was not what I was expecting to spend my evening doing, but it was quite an enjoyable encounter. More enjoyable it would have been, of course, if her nosy brother had not intruded.”

Nelyafinwë could not have imagined Findekáno trying to disrupt his sister’s fun—more likely, Finno would have been doing his best to set the liaison in motion given his tendency to believe that drink and merriment were the cure for most ailments—so they were talking about either Turukáno or Arakáno. Judging by the near-revulsion he heard in his brother’s tone, they were probably speaking of the former.

“Beyond that meeting, which is truly no business of anyone’s except for Írissë and myself, you should know,” Turkafinwë contiued, “That there was an… incident… after you and Istelindë retired for the night. I returned to the party after we had been rudely interrupted only to find that Morifinwë and his pretty little Vanyarin girl were being verbally assaulted by some Telerin ninny who seemed to have a very personal grudge against our family.”

For all that he tried to play it off nonchalantly, his brother’s voice took on a tone that made Nelyafinwë shudder, icy trail slipping down his spine. Many people held a grudge against the House of Fëanáro, and not for no reason at that, but that was hardly news enough to rile someone like Turkafinwe up, and certainly not enough to cause an _incident,_ nor to drive his little brother to true sadistic, hungering rage. He had not heard that undertone of malice… even hatred… from Turkafinwë for a very long time.

Something about the _incident_ was rubbing his younger brother the wrong way. And he would have the truth from his brother’s tongue.

“There is more to it than that.”

Turkafinwë blinked at him from the dim shadows, reading his face with ease. “You will not like it. Not any more than I did.”

_That is not at all reassuring._

“Tell me. You and I both know that I will hear about it later from someone. If you refuse tell me now, I suppose I should go and ask Morifinwë in your stead.”

The silver-haired fiend rolled his eyes with a put-upon sigh, yet that undertone had not faded. No sarcastic comments about Morifinwë’s lack of a backbone were forthcoming, and _that_ made him think that Turkafinwë truly _was_ bothered by whatever he had heard. In silence, he waited for his little brother to gather himself, spent those long seconds steeling himself for something unpleasant, something that he may have to spend time mopping up with pretty words to keep the fragile peace between his family and everyone else.

“He called Istelindë a whore,” Turkafinwë finally admitted, not quite meeting his eyes. “Implied that she was doing more for us—not you only, but _all_ of us—than cooking and cleaning. And then he started talking about Írissë, and I…”

Nelyafinwë did not really hear the rest.

To think, just a few minutes ago he had been abed with her, admiring the soft glow of her bare skin, tracing her purity with his fingertips. Until last night, she had never been with a man. Certainly, no one had any business implying any such thing about her or any such thing about his brothers. His loved ones, who were under his protection. His family, who, for all that they might be murderers, would never do such a thing to any woman, let alone one as gentle-hearted as his wife. His first reaction was blankness of the mind, a sort of grayed-out vision of his brother’s face blurred with shadows.

His second reaction was the wild, untamed fury of one slighted.

“Nelyo,” Turkafinwë hissed out.

Biting his lip, he reached out to grab at a nearby dresser, biting his fingers into the wood until they trembled and burned, until his nails scratched loudly upon the finish and ached. The logical part of his mind knew that he could not storm off as he was, barely dressed and smelling of the sex he and his wife had been indulging in throughout the night, to find this stranger and tear him limb from limb with his bare hands.

The illogical part, the part governed by base urge, was more than happy to bring forward the taste of blood hot and metallic on his tongue, to remind him of the satisfaction of tearing down those who would stand against him as foes, to conjure the seductive memory of the feeling of such _power_ and _retribution_ and _lust for blood…_

Feeling sick to his stomach, he swallowed back the sulfuric burn in the back of his throat. “Did you do anything that I need worry about, Turko?”

His brother was watching him with narrowed eyes. Not suspicious, but wary. Like he could sense that Nelyafinwë teetered on that uncomfortable edge of murderous rage. Like he knew that he should not push his brother’s temper right now, should not try to tease him into doing something regrettable.

“No,” his brother admitted, glancing away. “Káno stopped me. Pity. I would have liked to rip that rat’s face off with my fingernails. It would have been most satisfying.”

It sounded flippant, but Nelyafinwë knew it was anything but.

Truthfully, he would have liked nothing more than to do the same. Fey laughter at the ill humor bubbled in the back of his throat as he scraped his nails through his hair, across his scalp in lines of fire. The sound of it was sickeningly familiar, filled with broken glass, and Turkafinwë flinched faintly back at the sound, feet shifting on the carpet.

Nervous. His little brother was _nervous_ about his reaction.

Most who knew them even a little might have been surprised that anyone could make Turkafinwë even a little nervous.

But, then, people did have the tendency to forget who had been, in truth, leader and lord of the Fëanárioni in the Hither Lands. His brothers might have been allowed to run off on their own, govern their own lands, hunt and travel at their leisure across the plains and forests of the wilds, but they always gathered beneath his banner, for he had been the eldest son. It was Nelyafinwë Fëanárion who had marched legions upon the fortress of the Dark Lord and spilled rivers of blood upon Anfauglith, Nelyafinwë Fëanárion who had led their forces upon the gates of Menegroth and ordered all who resided within slaughtered, and Nelyafinwë Fëanárion who had led the ravaging and sacking of the Havens of Sirion and bloodied his sword with the entrails of their innocent mariners and refugees. And his brothers had followed.

Breathing in through his nose, he felt his chest swell with his fury.

And then he exhaled it out.

Still there, still like an itch he could not scratch beneath his skin (that he suddenly would not have hesitated to claw away), but manageable. In its place, the tightness in the back of his throat. The guilt.

Of course, they were going to slight his wife. For no other reason than that she had chosen him, for no other reason than that she now carried his taint.

“Maitimo?”

He turned, saw her in the doorway, felt like his body was going to crumble beneath her wide-eyed gaze. Just like he had done, she had come to the door and heard what had been said. His eyes turned away from her face, unable to look upon it for fear of seeing her shame and her hurt and the gleam in her eye that she _knew_ it was _his fault,_ and…

“Maitimo, Tyelkormo, you needed not defend my honor as such,” she said softly, leaving them both to flounder in surprise. “They have been calling me such things and worse for a very long time. Long before I married into your family. It was why I left the court of my grandfather, why I chose to live away from the luxury I had known growing up.”

“So, it _was_ my fault, then,” he realized. “You were my betrothed. We lied about it being a match of love rather than convenience then, too.”

“Do not be ridiculous.” She swept across the room in her gown and robe. Even tiny as she was, she so easily reeled them down, somehow managing to embrace both her husband and brother-in-law at once. “My silly boys. What happened was an accident of fate, that we were not yet wed when the Darkening took place, and that I was left behind. By no means were the resulting cruel words and rumors the fault of anyone but the self-centered and melodramatic imaginations of men and women with nothing better to do than spread about lies for their own entertainment amongst the rabble too stupid to think for themselves. So it has always been and so it will continue to be.”

“Istelindë…”

“Ignore them,” she hissed fiercely, squeezing them both tightly. “I married into this family to get away from court, not to be subject still to its whims and fancies. Let them think what they want.”

She was right. As oft she was.

He snorted out a laugh against her pale hair and nuzzled against her cheek. Her scent was sweet on the back of his tongue as he breathed her in and felt the infuriated shivers of his muscles calm back down into stillness. “You are going to choke us if you squeeze any tighter around our necks, meldanya.”

“Hush, you.” She released them, but not without planting a kiss on each of their cheeks first. “So, this strange Telerin ninny… I think I may have some idea who he might be. _And,_ I might suspect that he may not be so eager for his unwise words to reach the royal ears should he like to maintain his favor with my father.”

The threads connected, wove themselves into a complete tapestry within Nelyafinwë’s thoughts. “You think this man was the one your father would have had you marry.”

“Who else would be so slighted by _my_ marriage? If he had taken issue only with your family, he would hardly have tried to disparage _me_ in such a way, or any other woman who might give her favor upon a Feanárion.” She offered them a little smile. “Now, let us not worry any more about such things. I thought I heard something about dear brother Turkafinwë having a liaison with his lovely cousin, Írissë, who I have not even properly met. You had best introduce us at breakfast, brother Turkafinwë.”

Ah, the refreshing sight of his little brother going a delicate shade of pink. He had not seen Turkafinwë flustered (even if it remained half-hidden even now beneath a broad grin) in a _very_ long time. “Naturally, sister Istelindë, I would deny you no access to the lovely Írissë. I think you would get along splendidly!”

 _Oh dear…_ Nelyafinwë cast a thoughtful look upon his wife, eyes narrowed. Certainly, she was not so bold as Írissë in most arenas, but when incited to speak her mind she was every bit as forward as their cousin could be.

He hoped the two did not get into too much trouble.

At least the sight of his wife laughing and grabbing Turkafinwë by the elbow, bombarding his brother with questions about this mysterious Lady in White, managed to bring forth a feeling of gentle fondness to combat the bitter taste of protective fury still hiding just beneath the surface. It lingered like a noxious shadow, just waiting for the sun to set to be unleashed again.

For now, he would tuck away the urge to slowly strip the skin off this so-called former fiancé of his wife bit by bit. But only for now.

Said Telerin ninny better pray he never came face-to-face with Nelyafinwë Fëanárion.

If he did, he might not have a face to his name anymore when the offended Noldorin Prince was done peeling it off.

\---

Breakfast was a fascinating if quiet affair.

Arafinwë was quite happy to spend this morning sipping his tea and nibbling at his eggs while observing his extended family. Most were still sleepy after the long night’s vigil—he worried with half a mind that Findaráto might take a dive into his plate if he did not have Amarië’s arm wrapped through one of his—but that made it no less interesting to move his eyes from person to person, gathering information. Never had he the chance to have almost all members of his family so close together, all in one place.

Almost all, of course, because a few were missing. Beyond the few grandchildren who did not attend the festivities, Írissë had not deigned grace them with her presence—hardly a surprise after Nolofinwë had been so unyielding towards his daughter the night before, using harsh words to try to quell her rebellion rather than trying to calm her and negotiate like sensible, civilized people—and, as a result, Nolofinwë’s eyes remained downcast all morning. At least he was aware that he had been foolish and hasty in his approach. Little sympathy did Arafinwë have for such feuding, for his brother should long ago have learned that he and Írissë were very alike in many ways, including their sheer stubbornness.

The other missing face was Curufinwë Fëanárion. Last seen in the presence of his supposedly estranged wife.

Arafinwë quite wondered if they were going to see another woman moving up into the mountains with the Fëanárioni before the season was done. Little had Arafinwë seen of Lady Lindalórë, for she frequented not court very often and he could not blame her for that, but the few times he had taken note of the daughter of one of his wealthiest courtiers he had seen that she was struggling with barely-hidden misery. No matter how she tried to hide her hurts and weariness, her heartache was evident enough to those who cared to look and see.

Looking at the rest of Fëanáro’s boys, he noted that not all were so hard-faced and cold-eyed as they had been last night. 

Nelyafinwë was completely absorbed with his beautiful wife, as expected of a newly-married couple. They were holding back well enough this morning, nothing worse that brushing hands under the table, but Arafinwë had seen enough last night to know that his nephew and niece’s marriage was coming along quite beautifully. They had, after all, vanished halfway through the night, before the bonfires were even lit in the gardens. Anyone with any sense would be able to guess what had kept those two up all night, both glowing with barely-concealed joy despite the dark rings of fatigue beneath their bright, glittering eyes. They still looked like they would rather be off kissing (or doing more explicit things) than dining with their relatives.

Then, he moved on to the younger brothers. That was where things truly became interesting. There was Kanafinwë, staring off into space with his lips moving in whispers of song, fingers of his left hand strumming upon invisible harp strings while his right shoveled food blindly into his mouth. The King could not help but wonder if it was a certain silver-haired beauty with the voice of an Ainu who his nephew daydreamed about, for whose beauty he murmured ballads under his breath. They would be lovely together indeed.

On the other hand, Turkafinwë was quiet. Others glanced the way of the third Fëanárion as if expecting him to speak—they had last night as well, dear Kanafinwë only intervening when no words were forthcoming—but all he did was stare at the empty chair across the way where Írissë should have been sitting, his face set in harsh lines that reminded one far too much of Fëanáro if they cared to stare for too long. Flippancy would have been expected of a man who had had a fling with his cousin but cared not at all for her wellbeing, and the King would not have expected his nephew to fly into nearly a murderous rage over maligning of Írissë’s reputation, nor still be dark-hearted about it the next morning.

There was nothing flippant at all about the look on Turkafinwë’s face as he contemplated Írissë’s empty chair. Nor in the way he glanced over at Nolofinwë with suspicious star-bright eyes, judging and piercing. Their shared nephew had not been present during Nolofinwë’s little _row_ with Írissë, but he obviously suspected already that something had happened between father and daughter.

Then there was poor Morifinwë, who glared down at his plate as if it had brought down upon their heads all the trials and tribulations of the First Age. Anyone with eyes had seen the tall, dark-haired Fëanárion with a golden-haired female companion last night. Anyone with eyes would also have seen the way he had been smiling and red-cheeked, relaxed and drawn in like a moth to flame, letting the young lady lead about through the hall. It had been quite lovely, very sweet and very romantic. Unlikely to go anywhere, perhaps, for his nephew had chosen to pursue the daughter of the chief spiritual advisor of Ingwë Ingweron, a woman whose family were devoted to the worship of Manwë and Varda above all else and sorely unlikely to allow any daughter of their House to fraternize with a Kinslayer. But, still, a sweet daydream.

And then the twins. Pityafinwë still looked rather worse for wear, just as bruised and battered in the face as sulking Turukáno across the table. But also looking rather far-off in the eyes, like a man whose mind was a thousand leagues away, flying somewhere up in the clouds. What kind of King, who had sat upon his throne and seen a thousand romances come to pass before his eyes, would not recognize lovesickness?

Which left the final son, who seemed in rather a black mood this morn—

“Your Majesty.” Several people jumped at the sudden interruption, for the door to the family dining room had opened so quietly. Arafinwë’s teacup made a loud clatter against its saucer as he set it down.

“Yes,” he sighed out, “What is it?”

“There is a missive from the Healing House,” the house servant commented. “Three men were found this morning within walking distance of the palace, all with the same injuries. Rather severe injuries. The healers thought you should know.”

That was the last thing that Arafinwë wished to be hearing about first thing in the morning after a night-long festival. Turning his head to meet the servant’s eyes, he stared. “An accident?” he asked.

Those gray eyes glanced aside. “They were found separately, your Majesty. At quite a distance from one another.”

_Not likely an accident, then._

Another sigh, for Arafinwë would rather have continued focusing his sleuthing upon his extended family and their romantic inclinations, but this sounded more serious than a few drunken spats out on the streets. Folding up the napkin on his lap and depositing it upon the table, he stood and offered his guests a half-smile. “I am afraid I should see to this, dear family. Please excuse my early leave.”

No one said anything. Not that they would have denied the King.

A pity he could not stay for the rest of breakfast. One could only hope that he could catch a few words with his dear niece Istelindë before she departed with all her boys in tow. He had some most interesting gossip to share that might be of interest.

\---

The healers were solemn-faced.

“Tell me what has happened,” Arafinwë demanded, feeling a new chill enter his bones that had not been present last night or this morning.

The chief healer, dark-haired and older than Arafinwë or any of his brothers—old enough to have been around when Míriel Serindë was Queen—always left the King (for all his grandiose title) feeling rather like a stripling. The man was flanked by three other healers, garbed in gray and with eyes darkened by stress.

“These three men are courtiers,” he was told. “Their injuries are consistent with a rather brutal attack, both with fists and with a blade.”

Arafinwë swallowed sharply. There were many, many men and women in the city of Tirion last night, an unusually high number of visitors from the countryside and from their neighboring cities, Valmar and Alqualondë, and no small number of possibilities for grudges to have been carried out under the guise of darkness and drink. The interruption of the man last night, slighted by Istelindë marrying another man in his stead, was a perfect example of how unexpectedly such things could strike.

There were also no small number of men and women familiar with the use of knives or swords. Countless warriors called Tirion their home. Arafinwë and all the male members of the House of Finwë amongst them.

It was on the tip of his tongue to suspect his most notorious visitors. But what purpose would such a thing serve when his nephews seemed to be trying their best to integrate back into society and get into the family’s good graces? Besides that, even the Fëanárioni never attacked unprovoked, and they named no one in this city their enemy.

It made no _sense._

“None were killed, I assume,” he said, voice low.

“Two are still unconscious,” the chief healer told him, leading him away to the side of the room where several beds were hidden behind privacy curtains. “The third awoke during his treatment. He and his comrades, who he has identified as close friends, were all hobbled and then beaten once they had gone their separate ways for the night. All three were very intoxicated, and he claims to have no idea who might have attacked him or why.”

“You do not believe him,” the King concluded.

“He has injuries consistent with being choked from the front,” the chief healer commented lightly. “And one of his injuries is rather… odd.”

“Odd?” Arafinwë leaned nearer.

“Yes, odd.” The old healer let out a soft sigh. “It is unusual enough to see violence inflicted upon a person by a weapon in these times, but I cannot say that I have ever seen anyone carve a _word_ into the skin of another. Let alone _three_ others.”

 _That_ made Arafinwë chilly feeling burn through his bones like ice. He _had_ seen such things before, but only during his brief time marching with the hosts of the West during their assault upon Angamando in the Hither Lands. It had been rare, but not unheard of, for such injuries to be spotted on a victim of torture. And where else did one encounter so many victims of that form of ill treatment than in the slaves and thralls of the mines and dungeons of Angamando itself?

_Angaráto…_

Shaking his head to rid himself of visions that he had seen and rather wished to forget, he instead approached the curtained beds. “You would have me speak to him, is that it?”

“We thought, perhaps, he might be more inclined to explain to his King why his skin is carved with the word ‘filth’ and he refuses to speak of his attacker.” Those ancient eyes glowed with suspicion, none of it pretty to gaze upon.

It did strike Arafinwë, as well, of being rather questionable. For all that attacking and torturing a man was an act against the laws of Valinórë, there was also a message there. Something that the victim did not want to have revealed, even at the expense of allowing his attacker freedom.

“This way,” the healer said, leading him to the last bed.

Indeed, as the curtain was opened, he recognized the man. His courtier was looking rather worse for wear—worse than any of his fist-fighting nephews had managed. A casted ankle and foot stuck out from beneath the sheets, and he could see bandaged ribs and shoulders beneath the looseness of the pale gown adorning the man’s torso, hidden only at the waist where the blanket was pulled up. One eye was swollen almost shut, and his throat was vibrantly-colored with bruises.

Immediately, the man lowered his gaze. But not before he caught the sight of both fear and shame staring up into his face.

“Your Majesty,” the courtier murmured.

“I have been told that you feel unsafe revealing the identity of your attacker to the healers of this House,” the King said softly, setting himself down upon the bed at the side of the injured man. “Are you unwilling to share it, also, with your King?”

Stubbornly, the man’s jaw set. “I saw nothing. I was attacked from behind and knocked senseless. Never mind being completely inundated by drink.”

“And the others? Think you that they were also attacked from behind and tortured with a blade, carved open by their attacker, all the while remaining unconscious?”

“I am quite certain they were,” the man lied, not meeting his King’s eyes.

Arafinwë hummed thoughtfully in the back of his throat. A courtier of his own court, more frightened of revealing the identity of his attacker than of his own King’s knowledge that he was lying to his sovereign’s face. “Is it something to do with the reason you now have a word carved into your back?”

Those eyes stared down at the man’s bandaged hands, wringing and twitching with discomfort at being interrogated, if gently.

“Are you being threatened or coerced into silence?” the King asked then.

Long since had he grown worldly enough to know that such things happened, even in the peaceful lands of Valinórë. They usually did not involve such excessive violence, but that did not mean they were any less concerning, or that Arafinwë knew nothing of them and did not send his own spies and servants sneaking about, looking into such shady dealings.

The man, though, shook his head, unwilling to foist the blame upon its rightful owner. “I know nothing of what happened or why, your Majesty. Nothing at all.”

Clearly, he was going to get no more information from the man than the healers had. If his comrades were as terrified and brutalized into silence as he, he doubted any information would flow from their lips either. Still, they would have to try. See if anyone had seen anything or knew anything. Arafinwë was more than capable of having some quiet enquiries made.

“No idea at all why someone would want you to bear the moniker of ‘filth’ for the rest of your life?” Arafinwë asked finally.

Still no eye contact, but the man’s shoulders hunched inwards. A wince crossed his face as the motion pulled at the stitched flesh of his back. Already, the King knew what the man’s answer would be, though it would be at odds with the anxiety in shifting gray eyes, with the way he tried to make his form shrink and disappear beneath his King’s gaze.

“No. I know nothing of it at all,” the man lied. “Nothing.”

“Very well, I will leave you to your recovery,” Arafinwë said, standing from the bed. “Without the cooperation of the victims, and what with how many strangers were wandering the streets last night, it seems unlikely any attacker will have been seen or identified.”

“A pity,” the courtier said softly. “I am quite certain we shall recover, your Majesty.”

“Quite.” Arafinwë slipped out from behind the curtains, looking to the healers who had retreated to the other side of the room to give the King and his subject privacy. The chief healer met his gaze, and the King shook his head ever so slightly.

If they wanted to know more, they would have to look elsewhere. Ask elsewhere.

And he had a feeling that the victims of this assault may be less than enthused by the idea of their King snooping into their private business.

\---

“I wonder what that was about,” Istelindë whispered.

“Nothing we want to be involved in.” Suspicion was already settling into the back of his mind. That a violent crime had taken place, that it just so happened to be during the short period of time that he and his brothers were here in the city. He did not like it. At all. Especially given the fact that he and his lovely wife had retired early in the evening and had not been keeping their eyes on his little brothers.

Curufinwë had not even returned yet. As far as anyone knew, he was nowhere to be found in the palace, which made it all the worse.

Nolofinwë then cleared his throat. “Has anyone any idea where Írissë might have gotten to? She was not in her rooms this morning, and I have want to speak with her about matters of importance.”

At his side, Anairë let out a little sound and looked skyward with exasperation. It was a look all too familiar to Nelyafinwë, though he’d not seen it for a very long time. It had been commonplace, that expression, when Nerdanel was dealing with her husband’s unnecessarily unpleasant temperament and tendency towards the melodramatic.

“I will go and check her rooms again,” Elenwë offered quietly. “She might have retired there while we have been eating.”

 _Not likely,_ Nelyafinwë thought to himself.

Quietly, the family parted and went their separate ways now that Arafinwë was not sitting at the head of the table, enforcing their silent interactions with his sunny smile and cool blue eyes. Nelyafinwë could not deny, as he wrapped his arm around Istelindë and tucked her against him, receiving a teasing little kiss against the side of his neck for his troubles, that he might like to have a few more hours of privacy with her before they set back out this afternoon for home. A few more hours without having to worry about whether or not his little brothers were within hearing distance. He so would have loved to hear Istelindë’s cute little squeals and cries as he buried himself deep within her velveteen heat.

“Think you that we have enough time for some play?” he asked against her delicately pointed ear, pressing a kiss upon the shell and listening for the catch in her breath.

“I think that we can _make_ a little more time,” she answered playfully, and her hand brushed far too high up upon his thigh for it to be an innocent gesture. “It will be a few more hours yet before your brothers are awake enough to set out, and Curufinwë has not turned up yet. Besides that, I do not want to be distracted all the way home, for I would dearly love to interrogate our little brothers about all the lovely girls they spent time with last evening. Did you see how sulky brother Morifinwë was this morning over his pretty Vanyarin girl? And Telufinwë and his dancer…”

“If you can get him to speak of her, it would be a miracle,” Nelyafinwë pointed out lightly, though it was through a laugh as her lips tickled at the corner of his jaw playfully. “Careful, vessenya, I might be tempted to start something right out here in the hallway.”

“Think you that I would resist?” she whispered into his skin.

“You ought to,” he answered back teasingly, leaning down to claim her soft lips again. And again. She was pressed right up against him, her small hands creeping up over his chest and shoulders, and he shivered all down his back as sparks of heat came back to life near the base of his spine, swelling with glistening golden warmth.

“Maybe I am feeling adventurous…” Her mouth moved down to his throat again, one hand sliding down over the ridges of his abdomen towards his—

“What do you mean, her things are _gone?”_

The loud voice echoed down the hallway. Deep and sharp, with an undertone of anxiety that made Nelyafinwë’s skin itch with discomfort. _Nolofinwë._

Quickly, the kissing newlyweds separated, both looking towards the guest wing. The children of Nolofinwë had been placed down a separate hallway from the Fëanárioni—for good reason, perhaps, considering their less than cordial past—and now the pair peered around the corner at Nolofinwë, Anairë and Elenwë, all circled about the open door to what were presumably Írissë’s rooms.

Elenwë seemed to flounder just a bit beneath Nolofinwë’s uncharacteristically dark and emotional scowl, and Anairë sent her husband a warning look as she wrapped an arm around the younger woman’s shoulders. “Her things, my dear?”

“No clothes or toiletries,” Elenwë whispered. “She took them all with her this morning.”

_And why would she do that unless she was not planning on coming back when she departed the palace this morning?_

“That girl!” Nolofinwë spat out. “I thought not that she was serious last night, that little fool! But she actually _has_ taken off!”

Obviously, his wife did not appreciate his manner of foisting blame, for she stepped between him and Elenwë, and Nelyafinwë did not think he had ever seen his aunt Anairë look so angry as she did at that moment, hands upon her hips and pale gray eyes narrowed in warning. “Maybe if _you_ had not been so harsh with her last night, she would not have felt the need to act rashly in response, Nolofinwë!”

“I am her _father,_ I have a right to be concerned when she runs off and hops into some Kinslayer’s bed where everyone can see! How is she ever supposed to marry a second time if everyone in court thinks she… that she is a… a…”

“Times are quite different now, and your _little brother_ is the King! Do you think he would do anything to hurt Írissë?” Anairë asked, her voice pitched with her disappointed fury as she, evidently, ran out of patience with her husband. “We _talked_ about this Nolofinwë! For the hundredth time, let the woman do as she wants. Maybe, if you were supportive of her feelings and tried to understand her rather than spitting in her face at every turn, she would be more willing to hear out your concerns! But no! One hint of affairs circulates, and suddenly all you can think about is _Lalwendë_ and all that ancient history that is no longer relevant to anyone, and certainly not to your daughter!”

“No longer relevant? Think you that rumors and slander no longer circulate like poison through the lips of the court? Think you that people will just _forget_ what was said last night?”

“I think that your daughter has decided that she is sick of your bossing and bullying her about. If your goal was to do exactly to her what all of you did to poor Lalwendë—and without even requiring the King to sentence her to exile—congratulations! You have achieved your goal! I hope you are _happy!”_

Sniffling, Anairë pulled her daughter-in-law with her across the hallway and slammed the door closed. Behind her, the lock of the door clicked.

“Anairë!” Nolofinwë shouted, but he was already standing alone in the hallway. “Anairë, open the door!”

Clearly, she was not too interested in heeding her husband’s orders.

Nelyafinwë watched as Nolofinwë laid his forehead against the cool wood of the closed door and let out a groan of frustration. “Fine then, I shall find her myself!”

Those eyes, the palest of blues, circled around and spotted Nelyafinwë and Istelindë peering around the corner. There was just the smallest hint of humiliation before his uncle glanced away. “Know you where we might find your brother Curufinwë? Last I checked, his wife and my daughter were friends, and both were present at the festivities last night.”

“As far as I know, he has not yet returned,” Nelyafinwë commented lightly, though his mind was racing beneath his calm exterior.

_This is about Lalwendë?_

His half-aunt, Nolofinwë’s baby sister. Rare was it that anyone dared speak of her, though Finwë was no longer about to enforce the rule with his narrowed gray eyes and tightly pursed lips full of disapproval. Records of their family lineage did not include her—or her two children despite her lack of a husband.

At his side, Istelindë set him a wide-eyed look of confusion. He inclined his head and silently promised to tell her later.

Before they could make a tactical retreat, footsteps came up from behind. Turkafinwë, still looking strangely cold-eyed and solemn, with a grass-stained, soot-covered, ruffled and obviously hungover Curufinwë at his heels, yawning widely into the back of his hand. His split lip was still slightly swollen, his knuckles now dark purple with bruises, and he had the smell and image of having spent the night having a roll in the hay.

_Lindalórë? Did they…?_

“You summoned me, Uncle Nolofinwë?” Curufinwë, for all that he was disheveled and smelled off, still looked every inch his normal, ill-tempered self. It was like staring at a rough-and-tumble version of Fëanáro with tangled hair. Just as shameless. Just as arrogant.

Nolofinwë gave the fifth son a somewhat disgusted look. “I had hoped you would be willing to speak to your wife.”

“She spent all night with me,” Curufinwë grumbled. “What are you expecting her to know that no one else could tell you?”

“Was she with you this morning?” Nolofinwë asked.

And the fifth brother released a soft sound of annoyance. “I have no idea. She was gone already when I woke up. Left me asleep at the fucking lakeshore.”

Nolofinwë scowled in return, looking his nephew up and down. “Well, wash and dress yourself, nephew. I am going to go and see her, and you are coming along with me. She is your wife, after all, so it would be unseemly for me to go about demanding her presence without your cooperation.”

“I think you will find that my wife has no regard for my permission in doing anything,” Curufinwë pointed out blandly. Anyone who had known them back before the Darkening knew that that much was true. “But, if you really wish for me to attend along with you, I suppose I can be convinced to come along with. I have business with her father besides.”

Nelyafinwë cast his little brother a sharp glance. _What is he planning now?_

Curufinwë, after all, was just as “crafty” as his name implied. It was never a good thing when his brother got an idea and kept silent about it.

“I will go along as well,” another voice interrupted, and all eyes turned to the half open door in which Turukáno stood. “You may need some extra help dealing with Lindalórë’s family. They are none too fond of either the House of Fëanáro… or the House of Nolofinwë.”

“And why is that?” Nolofinwë asked, voice low and harsh.

“More than one slight has been done to her brother in Exile. And not just by the family of her sinful husband and his bloodstained brothers.”

_Well, there is that._

Aikambalotsë Helyanwen might not be too welcoming, no matter which man of the House of Finwë came knocking. He had plenty of reason to foster resentment towards both lines—Fëanáro’s and Nolofinwë’s—and very few reasons to be pleased at their presence.

Nelyafinwë did not anticipate that their visit would go smoothly.

“Well, I shall let you all take care of that, for I would be of little service in such questioning,” he finally said, desiring no part in this family drama on such a bright morning. He tugged Istelindë away with a most definite ulterior motive. “And I have other business to tend to this morning.”

Istelindë let out a soft squeak as his hand cupped her bottom and squeezed.

“I see,” Nolofinwë commented, giving him a dirty look.

And the eldest Fëanárion did nothing but offer him a sharp smirk as he pulled his wife back around the corner and into the safety of their private suite.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:
> 
> fëa (Q) = spirit/soul  
> Fëanárioni (Q, p) = Sons of Fëanáro  
> meldanya (Q) = my dear/my beloved  
> vessenya (Q) = my wife  
> Helyanwen (Q) = rainbow + of = of the Heavenly Arch


	26. Of Sunshine and Rainbows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nolofinwë would do well to take more care in his approach to interrogation. Meanwhile, Curufinwë is happy to be here, but he would also have liked to just go back to bed as well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: sass, misogyny, threats of bodily harm, flirting, talking about/thinking about sex, hangovers, herbal remedies, scheming
> 
> Maedhros = Maitimo = Nelyafinwë = Nelyo  
> Maglor = Makalaurë = Kanafinwë = Káno  
> Celegorm = Tyelkormo = Turkafinwë = Turko  
> Caranthir = Carnistir = Morifinwë = Moryo  
> Curufin = Atarinkë = Curufinwë = Curvo  
> Amrod = Ambarussa = Pityafinwë = Pityo  
> Amras = Umbarto = Telufinwë = Telvo  
> Aredhel = Írissë  
> Egalmoth = Aikambalotsë  
> Fingolfin = Nolofinwë  
> Turgon = Turukáno = Turno  
> Finarfin = Arafinwë  
> Celebrimbor = Telperinquar

_Aldúya, 40 Lairë (22 June)_

\---

It was really no surprise that callers came knocking in the afternoon.

Lindalórë had finished her bathing and socializing with Írissë long since and sent the Princess on her way. Now, she had herself settled into one of the parlors with her mother, dressed in a flowing white blouse and a vibrant flowered skirt spread out across the sofa, her hands busy with embroidery that she cared little for as it lay draped over her knees, useful only to pass the time. There had been no one but herself to sew for in so long that she had lost her favor for the hobby and did it only to combat the boredom of being restricted to her parents’ large and empty house.

The sound of the knocker was a relief. She released a sigh even as her hands stilled. Across from her, her mother paused as well.

“More guests,” the hostess of the manor said, setting her work aside. “You need not come out and greet guests if you do not wish, yendenya. You must be tired after a long night out.”

“Must I be?” Lindalórë asked flatly.

Her mother cast her a long look but said nothing more, instead leaving the parlor. She did not bother to close the door all the way.

Naturally, Lindalórë went to the crack to listen.

At first, it was just the voices out in the foyer. Carefully, she listened to the cacophony of male tones, deep and resonating. Her father was there. A few vaguely familiar tones. And then—there—Curufinwë’s voice breaking through the din, muffled but audible. Seeing that her mother was no longer in the hallway—hearing the added mixture of a female voice out by the stairs—she slipped out of the parlor and made her way towards the happenings.

“We came here to speak with your daughter,” she heard. “She is in no trouble, but I was hoping she might have heard or seen Princess Írissë.”

“Princess Írissë was here just this morning! Certainly, I think Lindalórë might have more to say if you wish to speak with h—” Her mother’s voice was welcoming, feigned in its brightness at welcoming people into her home, but it was interrupted.

“Amillë, I should think that it would be Atar’s task to say yay or nay to visitors invading his home.” Her brother. Sounding very unenthusiastic about the visitors. And making decisions for her and her mother without asking. It was a bad habit he had picked up from their father, one that even Exile had not managed to shake.

Lindalórë loved him, Aikambalotsë, her older brother who had ever looked out for her wellbeing. And despised him simultaneously.

Carefully, she opened the door leading from the hallway into the foyer and peeked out at the figures gathered therein. First, of course, her eyes were drawn to her husband, who was no longer wearing his completely ruined and sweat-stained garb from the night before. Though he still looked exhausted, he had obviously bathed and redressed in dark colors, his silver-bright eyes cutting even through the sunlight streaming through the stained-lass windows into the large, open foyer. Even without his finery—looking no part the Prince that he was by birth, but every bit the self-sustained man in his hand-sewn garb of practical fabrics and simple designs—Curufinwë was striking. As striking as his father had ever been, yet so much more beautiful than Fëanáro could ever manage to be in Lindalórë’s mind.

There were others. Nolofinwë Finwion was there, and Turukáno Ondolinden his son—her brother’s old friend, though the welcome was now grown cold—and, behind the other three, Turkafinwë Fëanárion as well. Surprisingly, the men seemed to present a rather united front in spite of the fact that Turukáno and Curufinwë had been throwing fists each into the other’s face just last night. Both were still bruised from the blows.

“Indeed,” her father said, now feeling perhaps a bit braver in the face of the towering and dark-eyed form of Nolofinwë given that his warrior son was at his back. “What business have you with my daughter? Princess Írissë is long gone from our house.”

“She is long gone from everywhere and anywhere she ought to be,” Nolofinwë snapped out in reply. “We wanted to know if your daughter might have spoken to her about where she intended to run off to next.”

“So, you came here to _accuse_ my sister of consorting against you with your daughter?” From her position in the doorway, Lindalórë could clearly see her brother’s face. Could clearly see that his knife-filled eyes were directed first towards Turukáno, his former close friend, and then at Nolofinwë. They were ashy with their hate and their dread.

“Aikambalotsë, we came not here to accuse anyone of anything,” Turukáno interrupted, and it said much about the temperaments of the other men in the room that the former King of Ondolindë was being the most sensible and clear-headed. “We just want to speak to Lady Lindalórë, that is all. Not even alone. We are just worried about my sister. Is that such a terrible thing? Surely, you understand that, meldo?”

Solemn-faced, her brother stared down at the group of men. “As usual, you care about nothing but your own interests,” her brother finally said, and his voice might as well have been formed of whips of flame studded in rusty nails. “And, I see you brought her wastrel of a husband along with you. For a while now, he has had the tiniest slice of my respect—he left her behind in Valinórë like a sensible man, did not try to drag her down into the abyss along with the rest of his worthless family, and then had the good graces to leave her alone to a better life once he was reborn—but I see even that has fallen to the wayside.”

Curufinwë’s jaw clenched, but he mercifully said nothing in his own defense. It was a smart move—and very unlike her fiery and unpredictable husband.

“If I have to order you to let me speak to your daughter as a Prince of your people, I will,” Nolofinwë finally said, “And I _will_ want to speak to her alone, then.”

All this fuss, asking her _parents_ and her _brother_ if she would speak with them rather than bothering to ask her if she even _wanted_ to talk to any of them. Last night, before she had made the decision to let her husband have a second chance at wooing her, the answer might very well have been “no” regardless of what any male member of her family wanted.

Today, it was “yes”. Also regardless of what any male member of her family wanted. Including her bitter and slighted older brother.

Pushing the door open, she stepped out into the foyer. All sets of eyes fell upon her in her casual daywear. “I should think that you could have saved yourself the trouble of all this ridiculous arguing by _asking me to speak with you_ rather than debating it behind my back with my father and brother as though I were some senseless, air-brained ninny who cannot make such decisions for herself.”

Of course, Curufinwë snorted with amusement, his lips curling into a helpless smirk. He always had been fond of her fire.

“I told you,” he murmured to his uncle.

Nolofinwë did not appreciate the humor of the situation for the way his eyebrows furrowed downward into a furious snarl, hidden at the very last moment. “Very well, Lady Lindalórë, your mother mentioned you had seen Írissë this morning. Might I ask you a few questions about what she told you, if anything?”

“You may ask,” Lindalórë said. “I may not answer.”

Her husband outright laughed at the same time as her mother hissed out a scandalized “Lindalórë! Yendenya!” as though she had loosed a foul swearword.

Nolofinwë merely pursed his lips.

“You need not answer anything at all, Lindalórë,” her brother insisted. “Would it not be better for you if you just forgot all about your connections to the House of Fëanáro and the House of Nolofinwë. You could—”

“It is none of your business,” she interrupted sharply, giving her older brother the steeliest glare she could manage. “Come into the parlor, my Prince, and we shall see about answering your questions. Or not, depending upon their nature. The rest of you can stay out and behave while you wait.”

Slowly, Nolofinwë stepped towards her while the rest stayed still and quiet. She led him away to the parlor without another word.

He glanced around with his pale eyes. “Your father’s home is lovely indeed.”

Jewels everywhere. Lindalórë thought that the whole thing was rather gaudy more than anything else. The tables littered not with expensive vases and fresh flowers, but rather statuettes and baubles of all sorts carven from or encrusted with all manner of crystals and minerals. It was their trade, after all. Not the making of jewelry or the mining of the raw gems, just the trading between the two vastly different worlds—those who scoured the earth for its treasures and plucked them with reverent hands and those who turned those jewels into something formed of their mind’s eye in elaborate designs and creations of beauty—and it had made their family rich to the point of decadence.

So, yes, their home was lovely. A lovely prison of vibrant colors and all the jewelry and finery she could ever want. But not the ability to make her own decisions.

She let her husband’s uncle into the parlor. “Come and sit with me. Ask your questions.”

They sat across from each other, Lindalórë back upon the sofa and Nolofinwë in the chair her mother had recently vacated, embroidery set down upon one of the armrests. “It is surprising that your father lets you speak so freely in his house.”

“Is that really what you wish to talk about?” she asked quietly.

“No,” he admitted. “Írissë vanished this morning. Took her belongings—everything she had at the palace save some less practical gowns and jewelry—and left this morning without any word or note of her whereabouts. And then she came here. To speak to you.”

“She was upset,” Lindalórë answered. “I think she rather wanted for female company. Certainly, she was unhappy with the argument she had with you last night, but all we did was speak—complain, bathe, chat.”

Of course, that was not what he wanted to hear from her, and she knew that. “She said nothing about leaving? She must have brought her things with her.”

“She certainly had a pack… extra clothing and such,” Lindalórë admitted, “But she said nothing about going anywhere other than out and about for some air. She just wanted some time on her own, to herself, that is all she said to me. She was lonely, and… My Prince, might I… speak frankly with you?”

He nodded diffidently, eyes hard and face set.

“Her brothers have their own lives and are allowed to find companionship where they please, but she can pick only from the men of court and all they want from her is connections to her family. They could not care less about her. Without her husband and son, without any friends, she stays with you and her mother and slowly loses her mind locked up in your house like a pretty white bauble or jewel to be hoarded and shown off silently. It is no surprise to me that she might have a limit to her endurance, for she is not perfect and far from a saint.”

“You think she has taken off then, but know not to where?”

_Did he listen to a thing I just said?_

“I think she will be back when she wants to be back, my Prince. And I do not think anyone can stop her from doing as she pleases.” Lindalórë leaned back in her seat, feeling as cold to the man’s plight as he was to his daughter’s now. “Beyond that, she and I are not as close of friends as we once were. She said nothing about where she might be going.”

Maybe she would have told him if she could have discerned even an inkling of remorse in the Prince’s face. Maybe she would have given him her genuine advice, that he leave Írissë be for a few days and she would be back in her own time and ready for reconciliation, but she let him simmer and stew instead. Lindalórë was no more a saint than her wayward friend, especially when it came to dealings with men. It was, of course, rather treacherous to lie to one of as high a status as Prince Nolofinwë, but she was a daughter of the House of Helyanwë, of the highest elite of the Noldor, and married to a Prince of the House of Finwë, for all that Curufinwë was Dispossessed and not what one would consider either rich or a catch. Lindalórë might as well be a Princess of the Noldor in her own right.

And it was not as if Írissë would ever give her away. Even if they were not “friends” in the most traditional sense of the word, the Princess owed her that much. Besides, they were allies, always had been, and ought to continue being as such.

If Nolofinwë disbelieved her words, it showed not on his face. The mark of an experienced politician, to not give away his thoughts too easily to the opponent. Instead, he stood. “That is all I would ask of you, my lady, other than that you would send word if you hear anything more or if Írissë comes to speak to you again.”

 _Írissë is not dumb enough to come here, where she is sure to be seen by someone who would spread it all about court, while she knows that you will be looking all over Tirion for any sign of her,_ Lindalórë was tempted to say with a scoff.

Instead, she nodded with a flat look on her face. “Of course, I would send news of her whereabouts if I receive any, my Prince.”

“My thanks,” he answered, giving her a kiss upon her knuckles. “I will leave you to your broidery and other pursuits. Forgive me for the interruption of your afternoon.”

All she did was incline her chin elegantly upwards.

He left her be.

\---

Watching his wife and uncle disappearing off into the parlor, Curufinwë felt the humor that had just alighted his gut now diminishing rapidly, driven back beneath the pounding of his lingering migraine. But a moment ago, he had taken great amusement in seeing that flame within Lindalórë’s eyes, that spark of hidden fury that ever rested within her gaze, that he loved dearly for it always heralded her beloved sarcastic, spear-headed words as they dug into their target mercilessly and drew blood.

She was vibrant and glorious and took his breath away still.

But he was not really here to speak with her, no matter how much he longed to follow in the trail of her brightly-colored skirts like a loyal dog. Instead, he was here to fulfill the first part of her demands. To be courted and wooed.

It was a mere formality, speaking to her father and brother. Yet, he knew that it would hurt her (for all that she pretended otherwise) to have to go about their reconciliation behind the backs of her parents and her brother, to lose them in order to gain back her husband. Young and stupid, they had once reveled in slipping away, in being independent and wild together in the dawning of the world, in slighting her parents at every turn. But they were grown now. Grown and parents themselves, for all that their son was an adult and on his own as well, more than capable of caring for himself. They were too old for those sorts of adventures, and their perspectives had changed. A bit of fun every now and again was a breath of fresh air, and Curufinwë could not deny that there was a particular sort of excitement in riling up the in-laws by being exactly what they did _not_ want for their dear daughter, but…

Well, he doubted that her family would ever like him. But he would hope that they would accept her decision—to keep him or throw him aside as her mate—and not attempt to force their will upon her one way or another.

Turning to the father of his wife, Curufinwë let his smirk slip away. “Might we have words, father-in-law?”

He could tell by those glistening green eyes, hard as stone, that he was not welcome. But Lindalórë’s father did not deny him his request. “Come up to my study and we can talk in privacy, son-in-law, Curufinwë.”

That was probably as welcoming as it was going to get.

Unfortunately, Aikambalotsë followed them up the stairs. Curufinwë had all but forgotten about his wife’s brother, a follower of Nolofinwë rather than Fëanáro, who had been left behind to traverse Helcaraxë with all the rest of his uncle’s folk. Never had they crossed paths after that except once at Mereth Aderthad. Wisely, neither had spoken to the other, instead choosing to pretend each that the other did not exist.

He could imagine that his brother-in-law’s opinion of him and his family had done nothing but plummet during their time in Exile. Certainly, his esteemed brother through marriage was no ally in this quest.

They all entered the study, still quiet. Lindalórë’s father sat behind his desk, and his son moved to stand by his shoulder in a united front, cold emerald eyes burning with the same inner fire that so epitomized his lovely wife. It was obvious from which side of the family she had inherited her attitude.

“Have a seat, son-in-law,” Lord Hendumaika offered.

But he did not, despite the rudeness of slighting a (false) gesture of welcome. He did not want his brother-in-law looming over him like a vengeful shadow. It was an instinctive aversion from his time as a warrior, to not put himself in such a position of vulnerability.

“I have spoken to my wife,” he began, “Only to give her leave to send me away at her discretion and never speak to me again, before you _accuse_ me of crawling back and begging for forgiveness.” At this, he glared at Aikambalotsë with all the fiery disdain he could muster what with how much his heart ached to be away from here with his wife instead. “I am here at her behest. Her request was that I court her again, properly.”

“And you thought I would grant you permission?” his father-in-law asked, obviously finding that to be a bit amusing in the darkest of manners.

“You mistake my intent,” he corrected, watching the half-smirk on his father-in-law’s face quickly fade. “I came here to inform you of Lindalórë’s request with the hope that you would allow her to have her say in this matter. We have no intention of hiding our doings from you. And I have no intention of stealing away your daughter—sister—from you. So long as you respect her in her decisions.”

“We should just allow you, a murderer of kin, to do as you please with a woman of our House, is that so?” Aikambalotsë loosed a skeptical look upon him, nearly laughing in that sardonic, unimpressed manner that always made Curufinwë teeth clench, for it had been a favored reaction of his own father when Fëanáro found the actions or words of his wife or children to be so ridiculous as to be _funny._

“Do you not care for what said woman desires?” he then asked, trying his best to stay calm and not allow his temper to get the better of him.

“Her mother and I allowed her what she wanted once,” Lindalórë’s father then said, temper much cooler than that of his son. “We all saw what sort of pain and suffering that allowance bought her in the end. This time will be no different. I would not allow her to make such a mistake again.”

“Allow her,” Curufinwë scoffed. “Of course, it is always about _allowing_ her, not about her making a choice in her own right.”

“All we do, we do out of love for her.”

If anything, Curufinwë was certain that was true. To an extent. But he had also spent all his childhood watching his father disregard his mother, ignoring her words, discounting her opinions, disparaging her ideas, and he would not do that to any woman that he loved. Would not allow it to be done by any woman he loved. Not even by her own family.

“All I do, I do out of love for her as well,” Curufinwë confessed, and he meant his words, for he did dearly love his wife, had learned the lesson of her value in endless nights of suffering and heartache. “If she desires for me to leave and never return, never cast my shadow upon her doorstep again, I would do it without hesitation. But only at her behest. Not at yours. Until the day she turns me away, I will continue to come back to her. Again, and again. No matter how much you hate me and mine. Consider it my warning for you.”

“You could never give her the life she deserves,” his father-in-law said. “You never could. The mere fifth son of a Prince. She could have married anyone. She could have married your eldest brother. Or Nolofinwë’s heir. Or Arafinwë’s. She could have been a queen-to-be if only she had not wanted _you.”_

“Yet,” Curufinwë said stubbornly, locking his jaw and jutting his chin dangerously, “It was I, Curufinwë Fëanárion, fifth son of a Prince, who brought her _happiness._ Never mind the mountain of useless rocks you shower her with as an expression of _love._ You might be surprised how little charm their glitter carries when it is all you have ever owned and has brought you nothing but misery to look upon.”

The look he received was a nocuous one indeed.

“But, no matter that I might disdain you, I would not take her family away from her,” he added. “All I am asking before I take my leave to visit my wife is that you, her family, who claim to love her, do not make her choose between you and her husband.”

“You ought to be an honorable man and walk away from her regardless of what she desires,” her father spat, voice barely containing his rising temper. “You ought to take responsibility for protecting her as her husband. If you loved her, you would leave her to a better life than one trapped with _you.”_

As though Curufinwë had not thought those very thoughts before himself. As though he had not debated and dragged his feet and contemplated fleeing in cowardice and shame before her gaze. His father-in-law could not begin to _imagine_ the black mass of self-hate that Curufinwë battled within the corners of his mind every day, telling him that he was not _good_ enough or _brave_ enough or _strong_ enough to protect his family… To protect _her…_

But he would not take the decision away from her.

“It is her choice to make,” he said softly. “I will not take that away from her. No matter what I think or what I want. I will not. Not ever.”

He waited not for their reply, for he knew a lost cause when he saw one. Instead, he left them there, perhaps rudely but he cared little for courtly pageantry these days, and showed himself back downstairs on quick, heavy strides. As he descended the stairs, hearing footsteps follow in his wake, he saw that his uncle had returned from speaking to Lindalórë and was looking to be in just as bad a mood as he had been in to start with. Perhaps worse. Obviously, he had not received the news he sought.

“You talk to her,” Nolofinwë demanded, hissing like an upset snake through the words. “It is clear that she has no intention of speaking to me.”

 _Maybe, if you treated your daughter with more understanding, you would receive more from her confidents in return,_ Curufinwë could not help but think, no more sympathetic towards his uncle’s plight than he suspected his wife had been. Which was to say, not sympathetic at all. It would have taken a miracle for a man of the House of Nolofinwë—let alone the man himself—to move the heart of the fifth son of Fëanáro.

He offered his disconcerted uncle his cruelest smile, teeth peering out threateningly from between his lips, and it had a dual purpose not only in driving his uncle to quiet rage, but also to hide the wince that wanted to overwhelm his features as the sunlight shone through stained glass and directly into his eyes, leaving his head aching. Nolofinwë took half a step back, unnerved. “I do hope you spoke to my wife with more respect than you just spoke to me, dear uncle. Or I would tell you that you can expect no help from me in your search no matter what I might pry from Lindalórë’s lips.”

Watching from the top of the stairs, Aikambalotsë’s eyes narrowed.

Standing behind Nolofinwë and off to the side, Turkafinwë’s eyes blazed.

The brothers’ gazes met and meshed over their uncle’s shoulder. Depending on what Lindalórë had to say about Írissë—if there _was_ anything she had withheld, which he suspected mightily there might be if he knew his wife and her tendency to be every bit as cutthroat and unforgiving as her husband—he knew he would likely share eventually. If only because it was becoming increasingly obvious that some part of his usually unflappable and merry-hearted sadistic brother did actually care, even a bit, for their female cousin.

That, and, should he withhold information too long, he would be pitting himself against Turkafinwë Fëanárion. No one with any sense wanted someone like Turkafinwë as an enemy, especially when there were already enough detractors to go around. Even more so when said Fëanárion was already in a shadowed mood. At the end of the day, ever had the pair of them been together, allies in all things, and that would not be changed now.

And it would be amusing to see his brother run circles around Írissë’s father and brother besides that. Let it not be said that Curufinwë Fëanárion forgot slights against his family, let alone forgave them. Nolofinwë and Turukáno still had much to answer for.

He would scrape it out of their egos and pride. One bloody, painful scoop at a time. And he would enjoy every second of watching them squirm.

“You test my patience, Curufinwë,” his uncle snarled out. “I want to know if you learn anything from your wife. If you withhold it from me, I will wring it from your throat.”

The threat would have been more frightening had Curufinwë not grown up beneath the overwhelming temper of his father, who was about tenfold more terrifying when he was simply snarling in frustration, never mind when he was shouting insults and threats at the top of his lungs like a volcano erupting hatefully upon everyone and everything nearby. Comparatively, Nolofinwë was but a kitten.

“Will you?” he mocked.

With a last warning look down his nose, Nolofinwë spun on his heel and departed in a flurry of motion.

Giving him a conspiratorial half-grin of amusement, Turkafinwë followed.

Leaving just Turukáno behind, hesitating. Not out of desire to stay with Curufinwë, but, rather, to make peace with another. “If I were to ask to speak with you, Aikambalotsë, would you be willing to hear me out? Not as your former sovereign, but as a comrade? I have not approached you out of respect for your upset until now, but—”

“But nothing,” Lindalórë’s brother interrupted. “I want not to look upon your face nor hear your useless platitudes and excuses. Leave me be, Turukáno.”

Turukáno’s jaw clicked shut audibly. With a sharp nod, he left as well.

“Cold,” Curufinwë commented lightly, “But not undeserved, I suppose. One would have thought you would be more forgiving towards a former dear friend, brother-in-law.”

“Betrayal of kin upon kin, even unintentional, is hard to forgive,” Aikambalotsë answered, green eyes still staring at the door out of which Turukáno had just departed. “In the last days of Ondolindë, we all looked to our King for guidance, and he failed us and neglected us, as though we were worthless compared to his pride and the preservation of a mere city, a lifeless pearl dedicated to a long-ago daydream. Many comrades and friends, many women and children, perished as a result of his arrogant disregard for the warnings and signs of the Valar.”

Those green eyes moved, settling upon Curufinwë. “Not that your House is any better. It was an army of Kinslayers under the command of your brother that killed all the refugees who managed to flee the city. Slaughtered not by the monstrous enemy of the North, but by their own kin. The people of Ondolindë—of my House, under my protection—decimated beneath the blades of your warriors and your brothers. Think not that I forgive that more easily.”

“I do not ask forgiveness for doing what I felt needed to be done to protect my family. I would slaughter millions to keep safe those who I consider to be mine by blood or choice.” If there was one thing that Curufinwë rarely ever was, it was repentant. “I am quite certain that Nelyafinwë feels the same.”

Aikambalotsë scoffed and looked away.

Curufinwë almost rolled his eyes, however childish that reaction might be. “Well, it hardly matters now. Be as bitter towards myself or towards Turukáno as you like; I care little for it so long as it transfers not to my wife. Now, if you will excuse me…”

He set off across the foyer, hand wrapping around the handle of the door leading to the hallway down which Lindalórë had disappeared. With every intention of hunting down his wife and spending time with her—as much time as he could manage before he inevitably needed to leave Tirion behind again—he pushed the door open.

“Wait.”

Pausing, halfway across the threshold, he looked over his shoulder at his brother-in-law.

“I do not approve of you,” his brother-in-law told him, “And I make no secret of that. But… I approve of your decision to allow Lindalórë the choice of accepting or denying your suit for the second time. I think it foolish for her to even consider it, but… I would have lost what little respect I once had for you that remained if you trampled upon her wishes.”

Curufinwë had been under the impression that his brother-in-law had never held any love or respect for him at all. Ever. Still, he inclined his head in acceptance. “The moment she tells me to leave, the moment she bids me go from her own lips, I will go. I swear it. And we all know that the Fëanárioni take their oaths seriously. I would never force myself upon her as a husband or as a lover.”

In response, Aikambalotsë was pale-faced. Likely from the shocked horror of hearing any Fëanárion utter an oath, even a desirable one, aloud. But he also nodded his acceptance. “I will not go out of my way to sway her mind against you,” his brother-in-law responded. “But think not that my parents will be so kind or fair. They will work against you at every turn.”

“I already knew that.”

He gave his brother-in-law a last nod, accompanied by a hard glance full of blazing-light eyes biting deep into the spirit that left the other man shivering, before he stepped through the doorway and into the hallway beyond in search of his lovely wife. Most of the doors were closed, but there was one off to the right that was just barely cracked open, afternoon sunlight glinting between the edge of the door and the doorframe, casting a long, bright block of light upon the far wall. Peering inside, he saw just the hint of her skirt, heard the soft tones of her humming, and released a sigh that was more lovestruck than he would ever admit to aloud. He could have stood there and listened to her soft voice for an age, hidden in the shadows and admiring her light from afar.

Instead, like a gentleman, he knocked on the door.

“I was beginning to wonder if you were ever going to join me,” she said from within, “Or are you planning to continue standing out there in the hallway like a dimwit?”

Slowly, he pushed the door open, leaning against the frame as he took in her form and face. Still more beautiful than any woman he had yet seen. Little for her finery did he care, though her silks and gems did suit her well enough, but he would rather have seen her smile. Instead, she was glaring down at her embroidery, as though she might cast a shade upon it through the rays of sunshine slipping in through the parlor window just by a look.

“It is considered ill-bred to enter a woman’s domain without properly asking permission,” he said.

At that, she looked up at him, and her cold façade cracked ever so slightly. “We both already know who has the better breeding between us two. No one would expect you to behave like anything but the barbarian you are.”

Curufinwë swallowed down his instinctive (and extremely inappropriate) reply to that comment. As much as he would have liked to ask her if she wanted him to rip her clothes off and have her with wild abandon on the sofa like the barbarian he apparently was, he did not doubt that her parents and brother would linger near during his visit and might overhear his ungentlemanly overtures. It would be rather funny to see the looks on their faces, but he was doing his best to be _civil_ while in the house of his in-laws. Just barely. For now.

Crossing the room in quick strides, he plopped himself down across from his wife and tried not to wince when he received a face-full of sunshine through the parlor window. “Well, my lady, barbarian or not, you have me at your disposal all afternoon. I am at your service. My only caveat is that my uncle has threatened to strangle me should I not adhere to his orders and interrogate you about what information you have withheld from him regarding the whereabouts of his lovely daughter.”

Predictably, Lindalórë let out a sound of disgust. “That man is stuck hearing naught but what he wishes to hear, and no other words reach his brain. I feel for his poor wife.” The way she jabbed at her needlework spoke quite clearly of her opinion of Nolofinwë’s behavior, and Curufinwë wondered blandly if she was imagining his uncle’s face being poked and stitched so violently beneath her hands.

“In some regards, my uncle and my father did not differ too much,” Curufinwë commented lightly, “And their tendency to ignore what they want not to hear and see is one of their shared traits.”

“It can sometimes be one of _your_ less charming traits, too,” his wife responded sharply. But, a moment later, she sighed as her furious broidering died down into resting stillness, hands falling lax in her lap. “That was uncalled for. You are far more tolerable than Fëanáro ever was, for all your other faults, Curufinwë.”

The momentary tension in the back of his throat (he absolutely refused to think of it as _hurt,_ for he had long since gotten over the misfortune of looking and, in many cases, behaving similarly to his unlikeable sire) faded. “Are you going to tell me what you refused to tell my uncle, then, or shall I report back to him that he might paint my throat with bruises first and send me back for a second attempt at garnering information from my vicious, glorious wife through pity alone?”

“It would serve you right,” she answered, her solemnity cracking just a little more beneath his teasing. “To be truthful with you, I _do_ know where Princess Írissë has gone. She came to me seeking advice and assistance, not merely to chat with a fellow female, as I told Nolofinwë. We have not been the closest friends for some time, but I still _lent_ her an old trinket of mine that might be of use and sent her on her way.”

For all that his head felt like it was filled with fluff (and not only because of the lingering aftereffects of alcohol), Curufinwë would have been a dullard to miss her hint. A woman looking for a place to stay… What would Lindalórë, who lived with her parents have had to offer, except…?

_Ah, I see._

“I _also_ know that she needs some time to herself,” Lindalórë added with a warning glance, letting him know exactly how _unhappy_ she would be if her trust was broken and word reached unwanted ears. Even, he guessed, his brother’s. “Know that, should she linger away from her family for more than a few days, I will share what I know with her brothers. _Her brothers only,_ though. Not her father. The last thing she needs is her bullheaded father barging in and blustering about because he has blundered with his daughter and wishes not to admit to himself that he was wrong. As ever with you men, his pride could use some shaving down. Women _do_ find humility attractive in certain situations, you know.”

“Humility has never been and will never be a strong suit of any son of the House of Finwë.” No one could deny that much.

“You could all do with some practice.”

“Probably,” he agreed, resting his back against the softness of the armchair he was inhabiting, eyeing up the abandoned needlework laid across one armrest. “Well, meldanya, you have me at your disposal. Did you have plans for us this afternoon?”

“Were I a crueler woman, I would say that we should go out and about the city and enjoy the sunshine and the many no doubt exotic wares and stalls available what with all the folk visiting for the Festival, but instead I called for some lavender tea and have decided I desire company as I finish my embroidery,” she answered calmly.

His suspicions peaked sharply, for his wife was not oft the sort to sit around and spend the afternoon on such things as needlework. The way she eyed him up and down with an assessing gaze may as well have confirmed it. “How could you tell?”

Lindalórë let out a snort of amusement that was patently unladylike. “Think you that I remember not how awful you are at holding your alcohol? Besides, you are still very pale-faced for such a lovely morning, and you still have a pinched tightness about the corners of your lips when you are in pain.”

Of course, he did. It probably took her half a glance to notice that he was not feeling well this morning. “And the lavender?”

“I realize that you have no skill in either healing or herbology, but even you ought to know that lavender is useful for soothing pain and stress,” she explained rather sharply, “The alternative is turmeric, but I know you have never liked turmeric in your tea.”

“Ah, meldanya,” he breathed out, “You are divine.” Had he been close enough—and more assured of her welcoming the gesture—he would have kissed her knuckles and then her palms for good measure. “So, I am here to combat boredom while you broider away, am I? Of what would you have me speak?”

“Tell me of Telperinquar,” she demanded.

 _Naturally, she would not pick an easy topic._ Even thinking about his son… Well, Curufinwë felt a dizzying mixture of overwhelming pride and of equally overwhelming anxiety. His son had been the most beautiful thing he had ever taken part in creating, looking so much like his lovely wife in all the best ways that just meeting those emerald green eyes had sent pangs of agony through Curufinwë’s chest. The Hither Lands had granted Telperinquar a chance to pursue his talents further, growing more and more in skill, and it had also lent his son access to so many new people and places, so much influence that came not from his father…

Well, his son had had his stubbornness and inner fire and Lindalórë’s persistence and open-mindedness, and he had learned to make decisions for himself.

Slowly, it all spilled out to her from his tongue. He nary ceased to speak, even when a servant came by the room to leave the tea behind. Through his words, he poured a cup first for his wife and then for himself, breathing the soft scent deeply before sipping.

Ah, he had forgotten lavender. Forgotten how it reminded him of freshly-laundered sheets and his wife’s soft nightgowns. She used to use it while washing their collective sleeping clothes. Long since had he grown used to sleeping wherever and however he might, even on a bed of rocks upon the ground, for such luxuries were unspeakably rare in the Hither Lands.

The reminder left his throat tight and his eyes weary.

After an hour, her embroidery lay abandoned in her lap, and her glowing eyes were resting upon his face. He gave a wide yawn, breaking off in the middle of an explanation of how elaborate designs of jeweled flowers and patterns had been inlaid into the carven walls of Nargothrond beneath their son’s skilled crafter’s eye. The lack of sleep from last night was catching up to him again, especially as his migraine finally dwindled into nothing more than a soft, dull ache rather than a skull-pounding monster.

“It sounds as though our son is making quite the name for himself,” Lindalórë commented, catching his fatigue as easily as she had his pain.

“He is the perfect mixture of our two Houses,” Curufinwë agreed. “A brilliant eye for gems and steady hands for forge-work and craftsmanship—he outstripped his father for ability quickly. I hesitate to think it, but Fëanáro himself would be hard-pressed to make more beautiful jewelry and gemstones than Telperinquar can with such seeming ease.”

It was not for that that they had married, of course, being a love match of two indomitable wills. But it _had_ been one of the few reasons that Fëanáro had ever been genuinely _pleased_ with his fifth son. Closest to becoming the perfect doppelganger, and therefore the most disappointing of the whole lot to fall short when he did not display the intrinsic talent of his sire. But salvaging his failure by producing the next generation with a worthy female.

Just thinking about it left gooseflesh rising upon his skin, disturbing the warm haze of sunlight lulling him nearer and nearer to rest. He was infinitely glad that his father had been dead long before Telperinquar’s talents had manifested so powerfully.

“I wish I could have been there to see it,” she whispered, her voice low and wistful and carrying a world of hurt that carved into him like a blade.

“He will return home one day, and you will still have his love, even if I do not.”

Telperinquar had never ceased to care for his mother, even if his last words to his father had been a scathing rejection of all that was his paternal lineage. Curufinwë had deserved every curse and every bruise.

They fell into comfortable silence. Quietly, he drifted towards reverie.

Just the smell of lavender tea and lily of the valley, the warmth of the sunshine as it shifted angles against the wall, the sound of her breathing and her needle stitching. He ought to be talking, but his mind could not conjure forth the words he would have wished to say as comfort lay like a blanket over his mind.

And then she appeared above him. “It seems your energy is spent, dear suitor. Mayhap you should return back to the palace.”

Eru, she was perfect. Her green eyes were close enough to see the flashes of sunlight lighting up flecks of forest green, turquoise and mint lost normally amongst the darker hues of evergreen. How many dreams had he had that were just like this, her mirage lingering over him with a gentle smile in the sunlight?

Her lips brushing across his forehead. He let out a sigh.

“How long have I been lying here? I was supposed to be telling you of our son, not napping our time away.”

“I can forgive you this once,” she assured him, tugging at his dark hair. “It is easily past midafternoon now. Will not your brothers and your sister-in-law be waiting upon your return? And you uncle, will he not be waiting for your news of his daughter?”

“My false news, you mean to say,” Curufinwë commented dryly as he pushed himself fully into sitting position. “Does my lady dismiss me from her service?”

“For now,” she agreed. “Give your lady a kiss, and then you may go.”

“I _may_ go,” he parroted with a laugh that might have been derisive had anyone else said such a presumptuous thing but his lovely wife. Instead, he found it rather endearing. “And where would my lady have me kiss her?”

Lindalórë flushed, just a bit.

“Upon her hand?” he teased, reaching out to tangle their fingers and lift her knuckles towards his mouth. “Upon her lips?” He leaned closer, traced her bottom lip with his opposite thumb. “These lips,” he whispered against her ear, “Or does she desire something more intimate?”

“Quit playing about,” she scolded, eyes glancing away. But not in time to hide the flash of heat in their depths.

He leaned down to claim her mouth. It was soft and chaste, barely a brush. “Perhaps next time, then,” he murmured.

She was looking at him again. In that way that chased some of the mist of fatigue away beneath the sudden burn of desire at the wideness of her pupils and the darkening of her lips to cherry red. “Perhaps,” she agreed.

Then, he kissed her hand and parted from her, walking away.

No one waited in the hallway—though, Aikambalotsë could have been subtler in his hiding at the end of the corridor just around the corner—and, so, Curufinwë let himself out of the manor and onto the street, ignoring how the sharp ache beneath his ribs grew with every step he took. Like a flashback of long ago, a light mockery of darker times, he was walking away from her once again. Each footstep that took him further from her scent and her softness and her sharp voice and her bright eyes raked across his spirit like fire and then rubbed salt in the burns for good measure.

 _I will be back,_ he reminded himself, forcing upon his face the nonchalant look of disdain that chased away curious eyes that might look his way as he traversed the streets. _This is not goodbye. Not like last time. Just for a short while._

But any amount of time, now that he had been near her again, now that he might have a chance to earn her forgiveness, felt like too much time.

He had lived with this agony for hundreds upon hundreds of years without any guarantee of it ending. Now, he knew it would not last forever, and he scolded himself for being so weak as to still feel the need to turn around and run back to her side like a dog to his owner. It was just a week, maybe two, and he could come back and call upon her again. A mere blink of the eye in comparison to the long life he led in Exile.

Still, he knew already that it would feel like a small eternity. Each day would be a hundred thousand years. Each second stretching painfully in the count of decades until it snapped and released him to the next second of torture.

But he _would_ be back this time.

He just prayed she would still be waiting.

\---

From a safe distance, Arafinwë watched as his nephew, sharp-tongued Curufinwë, who had only just returned to the palace from a visit with his wife, seemingly mocked and teased Nolofinwë into an apoplectic rage. At his side, Istelindë and Nelyafinwë stood watching also, and the other Fëanárioni nearby, all having prepared for their departure. They were waiting only on this conversation to end.

Leaning down to kiss Istelindë’s cheek, Nelyafinwë pulled away. “Let me go and make certain all is ready for departure. If this drags on any longer, we will be getting home in the dark as it is without any further setbacks.”

Leaving Arafinwë alone with his lovely niece. _Now,_ he thought with a secretive smile, _is the perfect time to act._

“My dear niece,” he said, capturing her attention and pulling it (if reluctantly) away from where it had been magnetically drawn to her husband’s tall, admittedly striking form cutting through the afternoon sunlight. “I actually did want to speak with you, if briefly, before you made your escape.”

“Oh?” she inquired, her eyebrows rising just a little with a look of shockingly innocent surprise. He did not believe it for a second but found it no less endearing for all that it disguised her true nature in such a misleading veil.

“Oh, yes, indeed,” he continued, feeling his own amusement coming forward despite the darker happenings that had so far shadowed his day. “I have some news of your dear brother Kanafinwë that I thought might be of interest, seeing as you and your husband retired quite early from the Festival last night.”

Her cheeks flushed lightly at the insinuation in his voice. As if all the older folk did _not_ know exactly what she had been doing with her husband in the gardens and then, later, in the safety of their private suite. Exactly the sort of wild revelry and celebration he would have been having with his wife in their shared chambers had they the luxury of leaving their own party early, he imagined.

“What sort of news?” she asked lightly, doing an admirable job of pushing her gentle embarrassment away.

“I thought you might be interested to know that he was quite taken with a woman last night,” Arafinwë explained, keeping half an eye out for unwanted listeners. No need for his nephews to know that he was gossiping about them behind their backs with their lovely and well-meaning older sister-in-law. “A lovely young woman by the name of Vardamírë, a very talented vocalist from the School of Music who oversees the teaching of the young children of the noblemen and elite.”

Now her eyes were glistening with interest. “Oh my, that is news indeed! You know this woman, Vardamírë? Have you any information about her? About how they met? Did she seem interested in return?”

“I have information about all that and more,” he assured her, leaning closer. “But let us start with their meeting. It went something like this…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:
> 
> yendenya (Q) = my daughter  
> Atar (Q) = Father  
> Amillë (Q) = Mother  
> Ondolinden (Q) = Ondolindë + -n = of Gondolin  
> meldo (Q) = friend  
> Helyanwë (Q) = rainbow/heavenly arch  
> Fëanárioni (Q) = Sons of Fëanáro  
> meldanya (Q) = my dear/my beloved


	27. The Dangers of Too Much Time to Think

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone spends some time apart. There is much mooning and much contemplating...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: lovesick daydreaming, bullying, minor violence, wanderlust, speculation
> 
> In between chapter functioning essentially as a minor timeskip but a little bit of the boys longing for their girls <3
> 
> Maedhros = Maitimo = Nelyafinwë = Nelyo  
> Maglor = Makalaurë = Kanafinwë = Káno  
> Celegorm = Tyelkormo = Turkafinwë = Turko  
> Caranthir = Carnistir = Morifinwë = Moryo  
> Curufin = Atarinkë = Curufinwë = Curvo  
> Amrod = Ambarussa = Pityafinwë = Pityo  
> Amras = Umbarto = Telufinwë = Telvo  
> Aredhel = Írissë  
> Turgon = Turukáno = Turno  
> Glorfindel = Laurefindil  
> Ecthelion = Ehtelion  
> Egalmoth = Aikambalotsë  
> Fingolfin = Nolofinwë  
> Celebrimbor = Telperinquar  
> Maeglin = Lómion

_Valanya, 42 Lairë (24 June)_

\---

It was stupid. _Stupid._

But he could not seem to help himself.

He was thinking about her again.

There was so much time for his mind to wander, and he had never realized it until he had somewhere for his mind to wander _to._ Physical labor was nothing like the breathless high and the relentless focus of battle, for it consumed not the entirety of his mind and instead left it free and unfettered to notice all sorts of things he had never noticed before, to bring forth useless memories that he should never have allowed to be made in the first place.

Indeed, even now, as he paused in the midst of his work to admire the sunlight, the way it flittered through the boughs of the trees in a golden gleam to speckle the ground, he was reminded of her. Of the curling waves of her hair. Of how he had not had the chance to touch it where it was braided at the back of her head, had not had the chance to test its softness against the coarseness of his fingertips.

He would have liked to have had the chance. To touch her hair. To look longer upon her face. To know the feeling of her in his arms as they danced.

He had promised her a dance…

What would it have been like?

It was _stupid,_ but he could not make it leave him be. No matter how darkly he scowled at the sunlight, it continued to shine unfettered. No matter how violently he chopped logs or how cruelly he threw the resulting firewood to the ground in frustration, it could not quell the empty feeling bubbling up beneath his ribs. Disappointment. Sickness.

The sensation had him pausing in the midst of his work, staring blankly down at the ground. Trying and failing and trying and failing _not to think_ about the feeling of her hand on his shoulder or the way she had smiled and laughed and told him that his amilessë was sweet. It was not like dealing with anger at Turkafinwë wherein he could imagine his brother’s face upon every log he cleaved in two, destroying the source of his frustration. He did not _want_ to destroy her image, the night-sky eyes and the color of her cheeks and the curve of her shoulder against pale pink silk. Like a moron, he was sweat-streaked, exhausted and caught in a daydream about a woman who would never speak to him again.

Imagining talking to her again. Having her eyes on him again.

If he asked her for that dance, would she say “yes” or turn away?

Naturally, that was how Turkafinwë found him. His older brother never bothered him at opportune moments. The silver-haired fiend always knew when to show his ugly face to be the greatest nuisance, always knew exactly what to say to bring forth the flash-fire rage, always knew exactly here to poke and prod to make it sting and burn.

“Slacking off, little Carnistir?” a voice teased from behind, driving away the mist of daydreams with its garish brightness.

His muscles jolted in unpleasant surprise at the sudden appearance, for he had not even heard Turkafinwë approach. Usually, he could detect his brother two out of three times, for he had the instincts of a warrior when it counted, and a warrior who could not sense an enemy at his back was a dead warrior indeed. This, however, was the fourth time in less than three days that he had been so lost in thought as to miss the telltale shuffle of long grass and soft puffs of breath breaking the summer song.

If he had not been so _annoyed_ with his older brother (Because when was he _not_ annoyed with Turkafinwë’s bullying and cajoling?) he might have stopped to wonder why the silver-haired monster was bothering him more often than was his normal habit.

Instead, he did as he always did. He parted his lips in a scowl that would rival the worst Fëanáro had to offer, verdant eyes narrowing into glittering slits.

“Find someone else to bother, Turko,” he said tightly.

“Not in the mood today?” his brother mocked, voice raised in a whining pitch that had Morifinwë’s fists clenching taut around the handle of the axe they cradled. “Does little Carnistir want to be left alone?”

“Yes,” Morifinwë snapped, “He does. _Go away.”_

“So harsh,” Turkafinwë commented. And, instead of vanishing, he laid himself out in the grass like a lazy cat gluttonous for sunshine. “I think I should stay here and keep you company while you finish up your task. Or you might get _distracted_ again.”

For all that Turkafinwë most definitely came with the inexplicable ability to ruin any dreamy or even remotely happy mood that Morifinwë might have been able to conjure through the rut he had been sulking in for the past three days, he would not call his brother’s sudden and unwanted presence _less distracting_ than spending his time staring at the dance of sunshine between leaves and thinking of _her_ silky-soft golden hair against his fingertips. “If your goal is to make me more productive, this is not the way to go about it. Must I ask you again to leave me be?”

“You could ask a thousand times,” Turkafinwë answered remorselessly, leaning his head back and looking up at Morifinwë with his hair tangled in the grass, some longer blades tickling at his cheeks, “But it will not yield any more results the thousandth time you speak those words than it did the very first.”

 _Of course, it will not._ Because that was just the nature of Turkafinwë. It was like trying to change the mind of a cliff face or a brick wall. A useless endeavor that was more than likely to end up with bloodied fists and bruised pride.

Biting back a reply (because he really should try this method of ignoring Turkafinwë’s words again, for however long that lasted), he returned to his chopping.

Predictably, after a few minutes, his brother spoke again.

“So, did you ever get that lovely golden maiden’s name? Or were you too much of a bumbling idiot to even ask that?”

 _He is insulting me while I stand over him with an axe._ At the moment, that very tempting thought occurred to him as he looked down at Turkafinwë’s sprawl, eyes closed, hands tucked behind his neck. _Except, I am supposed to be trying this method of ignoring his comments and baiting._

“Have you gone deaf suddenly, too?” Those silvery eyes opened and looked up at him. “I asked you a question, little Carnistir.”

_Keep your mouth shut… Keep it shut… As long as your teeth are gritted and locked together, you cannot rise to his bait… Just keep your mouth shut…_

“Oh, I understand. Little Carnistir is too _embarrassed_ to admit that the lovely maiden he has been mooning after for three days straight did not even deign give him her name, so unimportant and unremarkable is he. Or, perhaps, so stupid that she was too embarrassed to be seen with you in public.”

“Her name,” he ground out, “Is Eruanna. Speak not of her, fiend.”

“Ah, so you _do_ have a voice!” Now that he had broken Morifinwë’s paltry excuse for a defensive cold shoulder, he sat up in the grass and gave one of those blasted wicked smirks that made Morifinwë feel like a cornered rodent about to be pounced upon by a hungry cat. “A shame, really, that you had to pick a pretty little Vanyarin thing as your object of affection, little brother. There is not a chance of her family allowing you within spitting distance of her again, let alone fucking distance.”

Morifinwë took a particular spiteful pleasure in the next log that he split with his axe. And then in throwing the new firewood down heartily upon his brother’s stomach, listening for the involuntary puff of air escaping Turkafinwë’s lips as his lungs were forcibly emptied in response. “Go be crude somewhere else. All we did was talk. And I do not moon, most especially over a woman I have met only once.”

 _Liar,_ his mind whispered as his cheeks, as they ever did, betrayed him and burned rosy red. _She is all you think about._

 _Shut up,_ he growled at his own thoughts.

Turkafinwë shoved the wood off, uncaring for the stains and snags it left behind. “No need to be so _violent,_ Carnistir. It is quite normal to imagine having relations with a pretty girl, and to take care of the resulting _problem_ with your hand. You should try it sometime, and maybe you would be in a better mood.”

“Have you _nothing_ better to do?” he said in lieu of an answer. As if he had not already touched himself (guiltily) to the thought of Eruanna several times already since their meeting. “Maybe _you_ should go and have some intimate time alone with your hand and leave me to my work. Since I am the only one of us two actually _doing_ anything productive.”

He started in on the next log with a vengeance.

“Is that little Carnistir trying to bite back?” Turkafinwë asked, not sounding the least bit offended or like he was planning to leave anytime soon. Blast him. “Am I seeing some vestige of a backbone showing there?”

Morifinwë knew another round of firewood at his brother, who laughed and dodged out of the way playfully. He offered no words, only a hateful scowl on his face.

“And we are back to the pouting,” Turkafinwë commented, moving away as he apparently got bored with sunbathing within throwing distance of his axe-wielding little brother. “Daydream all you want about your pretty little Vanyarin girl, little Carnistir, but _Lady Eruanna_ is so far out of your league that it is funny you even bother. Especially given that you have not the courage to fight for her when the inevitable rejection comes down upon your head.”

“It matters not,” Morifinwë growled out. As suddenly as the anger had come, it was gone and replaced by resignation. “Think you not that I do not already know this?”

Cruel silver eyes bored down into him, like a spear carving holes through his spirit. It almost physically burned his skin, for it was an expression that he had ever seen on their father’s face when judging one of his children and finding them lacking. Like Turkafinwë had, for the barest moment, seen something promising in his eyes only for it to fall away and reveal itself to be nothing more than a mirage. Just disappointing. The same disappointing failure he had always been.

That was worse than any amount of teasing.

Long had Morifinwë passed the age of crying, but it was once this very expression, etched into his father’s face, that had brought him crumbling and crashing down each and every time into ruin. Now, it just left him feeling tired and achy in body and in spirit, like a wrung-out rag hung out to dry.

He waited for the killing blow. Knew it was coming.

“Well, you certainly will not win her affection with an attitude like that,” Turkafinwë commented lightly, casually brushing himself off. “I thought you were infatuated enough to not surrender to the inevitable so easily. I can see that I was wrong.”

And then he walked away. Damn him.

Leaving Morifinwë behind with the sunshine and the daydreams and his heart resting in his belly like a leaden weight.

It really _was_ stupid. The whole thing.

And he hated that he could not make it stop.

\---

Three days of quiet to think somewhere away from her family, alone and peaceful. That was what she needed to clear her head.

Írissë had arrived to find the tiny cottage at the edge of the woods, heart in her throat. It reminded her with a harsh pang, just a bit despite its small size, of the home she had made with Eöl in the deep forests of Nan Elmoth in the Hither Lands. A long winding path leading her astray of the road and off into the seeming unknown, and at the end a place to return home each day, small and layered with ivy. The gardens were overgrown with no one to care for them, the grass long and dotted with weeds, the herbs battling each other for space, but she found its wildness endearing.

Inside was cool and dark, the curtains drawn to keep curious eyes from peering inside. Those were the first thing to go, letting light spill into the small house that had been unoccupied since the days of Laurelin and Telperion. Carefully, almost reverently, she explored her current abode, let her hands sweep across the tabletop that had seen no meals since the Darkening, across the furniture that was cold and unused, over the trinkets on their shelves that remained unmoved and cupboards empty of food but still containing a set of simple dishes.

Deeper in, she found the bedrooms. One that must have belonged to Lindalórë and Curufinwë, the bed made and undisturbed. The other, smaller and barer, must have belonged to their son for a time, and she decided to use that one in the stead of invading the couple’s privacy, though they had not made use of this house in so very long.

It was clean and quiet, and that was all she had needed.

Her first day was spent on simple food and wandering out into the woods without wearing shoes or caring about how many times her dress snagged on the undergrowth. Living at the heart of Tirion, following strict meal schedules and being forced into constant social interactions with her parents, siblings and visitors, she rarely had more than a few minutes to even peruse the manicured gardens of her father’s home, let alone do as she did now, spending hours breathing deeply of the wild air and brushing her fingertips across every tree and plant she crossed. It seemed as though it had been an age since she had been allowed to breathe freely.

She tried not to linger on the bitterness in the back of her throat. The sweet, fresh air helped to cool the white-hot rage boiling in the pit of her belly. Out here, like this, she could think clearly.

She could think about what she wanted

It reminded her shockingly of the days wandering about the wilds and plains of Beleriand, contemplating a return to Ondolindë or going forth to find new territory and adventure to quell her longing. The wanderlust was a wistful coating in the back of her throat, a glittering glow of desire freshly dusted in the back of her mind.

The next day, her feet carried her further than she had gone the day before. She wore trousers and boots, found in the back of Lindalórë’s closet, beneath her skirts.

It was not that she did not adore her parents, truly. But she dreaded a return to their home, dreaded the long hours of mind-numbing womanly pursuits, dreaded the expansive dressing and beautifying before any appearance. Here, she could pull her hair back into a simple braid and forego washing and powdering her face three times a day. And there was no one to complain about her having dirt under her nails or smeared across her cheek, no one to tell her that she looked more like a wild creature than a coiffured and pampered Princess.

That night Írissë found a clearing and slept through the warm summer night beneath the stars. And she could not help but think how much she had _missed_ this freedom. The smell of the forest mulch and trees, the sounds of the wildlife and the songbirds, the glitter of the stars overhead no longer dulled by the brilliance of the city lights.

She was not ready to return.

The next day, Lindalórë came knocking first thing in the morning.

Hesitantly, Írissë opened the door, half-expecting her whole extended family to jump out from behind the trees and drag her home kicking and screaming. Instead, it was just the lone woman, dark hair bound up, solemn-faced and bright-eyed in the dawn. “No one followed you here?” she asked quietly, glancing about.

“I come here on occasion to visit,” Lindalórë explained, “So, no one finds it overly odd that I might decide to stop by on my way back from a trip to the market.”

“But why?” She let the other woman inside, watched as her new companion circled around the open kitchen with the sunlight spilling in, examining the small changes that had taken place from even just a day or two of being lived in. The open door to the second bedroom at the end of the hall, the clothing in the hamper in the hallway, the dishes soaking in soapy water in the sink, the chair pulled out at the table.

“Why am I here? Just to talk,” Lindalórë said. “Do you feel better?”

Sighing, Írissë sat herself at the table, and Lindalórë lowered herself into a chair directly across the way. “I feel less constricted. But not… not _better.”_

Those green eyes were knowing, narrowing with suspicion. “Maybe you should go home. Speak to your parents. They have been worrying about you. _Your brothers_ have been worrying about you, too. Turukáno came around asking again, and I did not want to lie to him.”

“But you did,” Írissë confirmed.

“For now, yes.” She paused. “Well, he is, in part, worried. He also has been trying to speak with my brother.”

Oh, yes, Írissë remembered her dear friend’s older brother with his beautiful green eyes and tendency towards an overabundance of finery in his dress. Their family was unaccountably wealthy, and it showed in the ostentatious nature of dress and adornment that even the men of Lindalórë’s family favored. Írissë _also_ remembered what a pillock he could be to travel with, too. Laurefindil and Ehtelion were entertaining companions when on the road, more than happy to take the scenic route and go off on sideways and backwards adventures whenever the fancy struck. Aikambalotsë, on the other hand, he almost obsessively stuck exactly to the road and the travel plan, always worried about arriving here or there at the correct time to avoid stepping upon anyone’s delicate sensibilities. No fun at all.

Well, he and Turukáno were of similar make. Probably why they had originally gotten on with one another so well, and why Turukáno had placed his trust in the son of the House of Helyanwë to guard his baby sister as he had. For what little good that did, at the end of the day. No stick-in-the-mud nobleman was going to stop her from doing exactly what she wanted. Then or now.

“I suppose that Aikambalotsë is not interested in speaking,” Írissë inferred.

“Do not think you can redirect the conversation away from why I am here,” Lindalórë warned coolly, “But you are correct. My brother is no fonder of the House of Nolofinwë than he is of the House of Fëanáro.”

Indeed, Írissë had only heard tell of the Fall of Ondolindë—and how it had been instigated—and part of her was quite happy to have been dead and gone before having to watch her home burn and her family fall apart. Part of her guiltily wondered if, had she lived, she might have been able to prevent the spiraling series of events that had brought them all to ruin.

Any victim of the Fall of Ondolindë indeed was right to resent the House of Nolofinwë. No one could deny that. It surprised her not at all that Lindalórë’s brother had no interest in rekindling a friendship or in playing at pleasantries.

“So,” Írissë then began, “You think I should return back to my parents. Back to my prison. Is that it?”

“Do not get upset,” Lindalórë scolded, sensing the rising temper of her friend. “Think you not that I have faced that very same dilemma? Think you that I wished to crawl back to my parents and beg for their support in my time of need? How would you plan to live on your own for longer than a few days, besides the fact that someone will inevitably notice your presence and give you away? Food will not appear of its own free will in the cupboards, nor will torn clothes mend themselves magically in time to be draped across your back.”

It was a scold, and Írissë scoffed at it. “I have lived in the wilds before. I can do so again, given that I can get my hands on a bow. I may not have any money to purchase bread or flour or butchered meat, but I can assure you that I can hunt and kill my own dinners.”

“Is that what you want?” Lindalórë asked. “To be on your own in the wild, lost to civilization, gorging yourself on animals that you have killed and butchered?”

There was a pause, a silence in which Írissë knew not what to say.

“Fine,” she conceded, and the word was bitten out with scalding intensity. “We would not want everyone to _worry_ about the poor, helpless woman who is too ninny-brained to make decisions for herself.”

That just earned her a long, dispassionate look. “You and I both know that you are far from the average insipid female of court, Írissë. But, if you want to be free of your father’s house, do it properly. Convince a man to court and marry you, and choose one who would kiss the ground upon which you walk, who would give you all that you desire including the choice to come and go as you choose.”

“And where would I find one of _those_ in Valinórë?” Írissë countered with disbelief. “Certainly not in the court of the King of the Noldor!”

A slight smile formed on Lindalórë’s red lips. “Can you think of no one?”

“I have been searching for years!”

“You seemed pretty pleased with what you found the night of the Festival,” Lindalórë pointed out with just a hint of laughter upon her tongue. “Or are the rumors of a liaison completely baseless?”

“I… that… We were just…” Írissë found herself slightly at a loss for words. “It is not that I did not enjoy his company, but Turkafinwë is hardly the sort to offer marriage. Even if I wanted to marry him, I think he would find the whole concept of that sort of commitment to be a foreign one indeed.”

“He was willing to marry Lúthien Tinúviel,” Lindalórë pointed out, “At least, in the tales, he was, in any case.”

“For power and position during a time of war,” Írissë countered. “It would have been a smart political move, granting him potential access to the armies of Doriath. That is not at all the same thing as marrying out of love, or even marrying for companionship. There is no reason for him to marry me at all when we can enjoy each other just as well out of wedlock.”

“Or, you could enjoy each other in a socially acceptable manner while married and, as an added benefit, convince your husband to let you run amok outdoors as much as you like. If what Curufinwë says about him is true, Turkafinwë is still just as much of a wanderer and enthusiast of the outdoors as you are.” Lindalórë let out a sigh. “Just, promise me you will go home and stop worrying your family. And consider what I suggested, as well.”

She thought about it for a few long moments. Not only about going back to her family—which she dreaded to do—but about Turkafinwë as well.

Never had she really considered her cousin in such a way. For all that she had seen him on the night of the Festival and decided he made a striking figure and had the potential to be a fun bedpartner for a night, the idea of _marriage_ and _Turkafinwë_ together in the same string of conscious thought was a strange one indeed. He seemed not the type to care for such formality, which is what made him the perfect opportunity for a night of fun in the first place.

But, indeed, she could still feel the traces of his presence on her body even after several days, just as he had promised. The places where he had bitten and sucked bruises into her skin were still dark and twirled in a pattern like falling flower petals, looping down around her throat and towards her breasts. And her nipples were still sensitive, seemingly connected to her core by a smoldering wire at the barest touch. He certainly had not failed to impress. Had things not turned out so poorly otherwise, she might have spent these last few days contemplating another rendezvous with her newest lover.

Maybe she _should_ have another rendezvous with him. Spontaneous and wild as he was, Turkafinwë would nary bat an eyelash at a surprise visit.

_My father would never allow such a thing, though…_

“Give me another day,” she begged, “And I promise I will return home and speak to my father. But I need another day. To think things through. You have presented a compelling case, and I would like to form my own opinions on its merits away from the stifling presence of all the men in my family who would serve as Turkafinwë’s detractors.”

Lindalórë could not deny that that was what Írissë’s father and brothers would be. It would be hard to find any person who did not wince and shy away at the idea of association with the Fëanárioni, let alone at the idea of _marriage_ to one of them. It was no wonder that, when Istelindë had contemplated as such, she had kept those thoughts and plans all to herself and spoken her heart to no one save her cursed lover. Her family would have been just as vocal in their derision towards such a match as would be Írissë’s own.

Still, was marriage even what she desired? She had been married once before, to Eöl, who had been a more than satisfactory lover, but who had (after their vows were done and their bond sealed) tried to restrict her movements and deny her the rights to wander as she might please and see her friends as she willed. Being sworn to one man—provided he was not lacking in imagination when it came to matters of the bedroom—had not been so terrible. But the rest…

She was not so sure that she wanted a repeat. And with a man even more temperamental and unpredictable than her first husband had been.

Yet, Turkafinwë was not Eöl, and their characters were fundamentally different in as many ways as they were similar. For one, Írissë could not imagine Turkafinwë ever being so jealous and so restrictive as her first husband had been, for her cousin valued the right to his freedom just as much as Írissë valued her own. Too many times in their youth had she been privy to his struggles, to his ranting and raving against his father’s imprisoning ways, to his terrible and agonizing longing to be free of the burden of his family’s name and reputation, to his wild laughter as they rode through the forest recklessly with their bows aloft and the song of the hunt ringing through their hot blood.

More so even than that, she sensed not the hatred in Turkafinwë that had so poisoned Eöl’s heart and spirit, growing stronger the longer they spent years entwined. Cruel, vicious, even sadistic, Turkafinwë might be. But he was not usually a creature of hatred. Sharp, fiery and uncontrolled, but not dipped in venom nor steeped in salt unless the occasion called.

Maybe she should consider giving him a chance to prove himself a worthy and willing partner. Maybe he _could_ be what she was searching for.

But she needed more time.

“Very well,” Lindalórë agreed, if reluctantly. “I _will_ tell your brothers of your whereabouts and send them to retrieve you if you linger too long here. Regardless of how you disagree with your father, I think the rest of your family need not suffer for his stubbornness.”

“Perhaps not,” Írissë said with hesitation. “Either way, I need to think with a clear mind, uninfluenced. Can you imagine how Turukáno would react to even the slightest _hint_ of a suggestion that I might consider marrying into the House of Fëanáro? I think we might have to be concerned that his heart might fail in the midst of a rage! And Atar…”

Well, Nolofinwë could, potentially, be reasoned with. If only because her affair with her cousin was all but confirmed and already public knowledge. A swift marriage would salvage any damage her reputation might take.

He would not be _happy_ about it, but…

Well, she did not want the choice forced upon her either way. Whether, by chance, her father decided to fight against the idea of marriage because of whom she was considering as a potential husband or whether he decided to support her marriage instead, she knew him well enough to know that he would think himself in the right and would _push_ her to agree with his decision rather than allowing her to make her own.

And she could not abide by that.

“But I will return home,” Írissë repeated, lied through her teeth without so much as blinking. “Just give me more time.”

“One more day. Two at most,” Lindalórë agreed, standing up and smoothing out the wrinkles in her skirts. “I see you have let some sunlight into the cottage. I had quite forgotten what it looked like with golden light spilling across the floor.”

The words came out wistful as the other woman looked around this place that must once have been her dearest sanctuary, the home she had built together with her husband, the home to which her son had been born. She may even have given birth to Telperinquar in the very bed that she had shared with her husband, just in the other room.

The memories must be beloved. And painful. The Valar only knew that Írissë still thought often of her son, of holding him in her arms as a squalling newborn while Eöl looked over her shoulder and smirked in the midst of his pride at their shared, precious creation. Of how the little one had toddled about and called to her in his pure voice, begging for stories, or how he had trailed after his father like a little dark shadow and watched with huge, dark eyes filled with curiosity as Eöl taught him his very first lessons at the forge-fire.

Not yet to her knowledge had Lómion been granted rebirth. For obvious reasons. But that did not lessen the heartache of no longer having her child with her. Or the loneliness of being alone and isolated. Or the desire for companionship, both emotional and sexual.

Perhaps Turkafinwë could soothe her spirit. Just a bit. And help her find her place here, in the Undying Lands, where she had ever felt that she had no place of belonging, no place of acceptance. Perhaps she ought to try, one way or another, for there was no better plan offered to her except surrender, to return home in defeat. Hardly an acceptable compromise for a Lady of the House of Nolofinwë.

Either way, she pushed those thoughts aside in favor of practicality. She had bought herself some time, but not very much. She would need to make the most of it. “Need you anything else, dear Lórë? I will be certain to close up the windows and doors when I leave. We would not want to cause fading on the rugs or the walls.”

“It is not that,” the other woman said softly. “Just lost in thought… Nothing important. I have to be getting back, or people will start to suspect.”

“Of course.” Írissë did nothing to protest.

Lindalórë set aside a basket of food on the table—fresh breads and fruit most likely straight from the marketplace—with a little flourish. “That should be plenty to last you until tomorrow evening. I would have come yesterday, but those who know my habits would have thought it a strange day to be out and about.”

“I told you, I am capable of fending for myself,” Írissë said softly, “But my thanks, nevertheless. It is a kind thought.”

With a small huff, Lindalórë slipped out the door and made her way down the winding path through the woods. Standing at the kitchen window, Írissë watched her go, disappearing into the trees with a swish of skirts and not a single backwards glance.

She waited approximately five minutes before packing her bags.

With half a thought, she added the food to her meager belongings, saving only an apple in the hidden pocket of her gown. Putting her hair up, rinsing the dishes, pulling the curtains and locking the door behind her, she left the key tucked in one of the unlit porch lanterns and set out in the opposite direction of her well-meaning friend, nothing with her but her pack and a waterskin and the sound of the forest creatures and birds for company. And her feet were glad for the lack of road beneath their soles, her heart finally lifting to know that she was heading out on this adventure with no plans of return to sully her joy and excitement. Guilt for her lie was a distant pang in her heart, a whisper in the back of her mind, beneath the feeling of the morning air filling her lungs, smelling of dew.

If this crazy plan had even a chance of working, it certainly was not going to come to fruition in the house of her father under his watchful gaze. She sincerely doubted that Turkafinwë was the sort to come calling for a lady like a proper gentleman anyway, even if he could be convinced to participate in what he likely considered to be the ridiculous social dances that precluded purposeless empty gestures of false affection.

No, if she was going to make a husband out of Turkafinwë Fëanárion, she would be the one doing the seducing. And he would be helpless prey.

Írissë Anairwen of the House of Nolofinwë was ready for the hunt.

\---

_Elenya, 43 Lairë (25 June)_

\---

“If I did not know better, I would say that he is anxious.”

The two brothers exchanged glances where they stood on the porch, both watching with nonchalant expressions as Turkafinwë began _yet another_ minor spat with Morifinwë over something trivial. This had to be the sixth or seventh in fewer than five days. Bullying and poking at Morifinwë was one of the third brother’s less endearing habits, and it was commonplace, but nothing so excessive as this.

“If you did not know better?” Nelyafinwë asked. “ _Do_ you know better?”

“I have never known Turko to be worried about anything or anyone,” Curufinwë admitted, sounding even the slightest bit confused though mostly hiding it beneath the sharpness of his tongue. “Worrying is not something that he _does.”_

 _Besides,_ they were both silently thinking as they eyed up red-faced Morifinwë shouting at the silver-haired nuisance, _what did he have to be anxious or worried about?_

Still, it was undeniable that the behavior was, indeed, most strange.

The ruckus of loud, angry voices outside drew attention from indoors. Soft footsteps approached from behind, even but quick, and Nelyafinwë released a sigh as he felt his wife’s small hand brush against his back and hip as she slipped into the gap between the two men. “Are they fighting _again?”_

The trio stared as Turkafinwë released a bout of that high-pitched laughter that made one’s bones cold. Morifinwë, in response, decided that it was a fantastic idea to attempt to brain his older brother (if half-heartedly) with a shovel.

“At least it gets their minds off other things,” she commented lightly. “Poor brother Morifinwë has been rather sulky these last few days. I think he is a little heartsick for the beautiful Lady Eruanna. And brother Tyelkormo has been most anxious. I think he would have liked to hear tell of whether Princess Írissë had been found and was safe.”

The men gave her a skeptical look.

“Why would Turkafinwë be worried about Írissë?”

In response, Istelindë gave them a look that spoke quite clearly of what she currently thought about their collective intelligence. “Well, she went missing with no note and no word to anyone! If they are as close of friends as you have intimated to me, why would he _not_ be concerned for her safety?”

The pair of men blinked down at her, both surprised at the suggestion. Nelyafinwë had not really even considered that it might be a _woman_ causing Turkafinwë to act out, for he could scarcely imagine his brother thinking of a woman in any context other than competitor (such as Írissë during a hunt) or potential mate (apparently also Írissë while under the influence of much alcohol), but certainly not as a romantic partner. And ever had the pair been close friends, even in childhood, so Turkafinwë would have known of Írissë’s skill and ability, would have known of her wild and independent temperament, and would have known she could very well take care of herself thank you very much! She was the sort of woman who could stand toe-to-toe with the Fëanárioni with ease, who laughed in the face of fear and pulled danger close like a lover. A dauntless creature indeed!

“Írissë is more than capable of taking care of herself,” Curufinwë pointed out, echoing Nelyafinwë’s thoughts exactly. “Hells, that woman can out-hunt Turkafinwë! And you have obviously never seen her throw a punch. She broke more than one unfortunate and rude courtier’s nose at court back in the old days.”

She was not at all convinced. “Surviving in the wild and surviving as a lone woman in a city are two very different things,” she pointed out. “Besides, who knows what sort of trouble she might have encountered? Who knows where she might have gone to?”

Nelyafinwë nibbled at his inner lip, eyes blankly watching as his two little brothers turned to scuffling in the yard, getting themselves covered in dust and dirt. He hated to think it, but maybe Istelindë’s words might have a glimmer of truth, even if he still was quite certain Írissë could take care of herself. If it had been _his_ lover who had vanished without a note or a word of where she was planning to go or when she was planning to be back, he, too, would be anxious for her return no matter how competent he believed that she might be. The unknown painted a daunting picture of possibilities that one preferred not to contemplate if they could help it.

Contemplation. It was a terrible enemy at times, especially for those stricken with dark thoughts. It gave one too much time to look back and to look forward, to think about all that had gone wrong with the world, and all that might still unravel. Until Istelindë had painted a brighter, more wholesome picture of the future, Nelyafinwë had rarely dared think forward towards the endless stretch of self-imposed exile and the downward spiral of his brothers and their minds into darkness and isolation.

Things were better now. Even having her near, close enough to feel her warmth not even a foot away, was comforting. If she had just vanished without a trace…

Well, bothered and anxious were words that could not encompass the depth of the unease that he would have felt. More than likely, he would have paced holes into the yard, would have itched to search for her until he dropped from exhaustion, would have been imagining every terrible scenario or ill fate that might have befallen her while he was not there to protect her. And he _knew_ she was competent, knew that she had lived on her own for centuries before they had ever even met face to face, that she was more than capable of caring for herself. For Eru’s sake, she cared for seven men _and_ herself every day!

But there was nothing logical about the way his breath caught at the idea of _not knowing._ At the idea of being able to do _nothing._ It would have driven him mad as surely and as cruelly as had his inability to fulfill the Oath and salvage his family.

Was Turkafinwë feeling that right now? That circling madness closing in?

It was hard to say. His little brother _always_ behaved like he was two steps short of all-out insanity, and he had never given any indication that he cared for anyone or anything to the same extent that Nelyafinwë cared for and loved Istelindë. Was it possible that Turkafinwë felt a friendship and affection for Írissë even half so deep?

Who knew what went on in that man’s head? Would Turko even know?

Glancing over at Curufinwë, he was surprised to see that his little brother was looking just as thoughtful and just as disturbed at the realization that Turkafinwë might possibly be lovestruck and hiding it—like he did everything else—between a violent tide of fey behavior. Two pairs of silver eyes met, exchanging thoughts silently between them.

“Well,” Istelindë huffed, watching them, glancing back and forth between their faces. “I suppose someone ought to do _something_ about this, before poor Morifinwë really _does_ lose his temper and try to take Tyelkormo’s head off with a shovel.”

Both brothers looked towards her, neither particularly inclined to intervene on behalf of their amusingly upset younger sibling. If Moryo wanted to bash Turko with a shovel, Nelyafinwë was hardly going to stop him. For the most part because the third brother did usually deserve it and had been making an absolute annoyance of himself for days. When neither man made any move forward to assist, she sent them both a withering look.

With a few purposeful strides, she came to stand at the top of the stairs leading up to the porch. “Brother Tyelkormo! I have need of you!”

Almost immediately, the scuffling ceased, but only because Turkafinwë lost interest in the face of potential new entertainment. If it were anyone else, Nelyafinwë would be jealous at how easily his wife commanded his siblings and how eager they were to obey. Turkafinwë _never_ listened to him so obediently or so willingly as he did (sometimes) for Istelindë. And Morifinwë immediately lowered his weapon of choice, head lowered as he gravely contemplated his feet like a child caught misbehaving.

In a way, it was endearing and heart-wrenching. As though both his brothers were an image transported forward through time, each overlaid with their younger, ganglier, more innocent selves, and, in Istelindë’s place, their mother. It was with three parts amusement at their plight and one part nostalgia at the remembrance that he observed the proceedings from well out of the way, letting his wife take over and set all back to right in the world. She, at the very least, seemed to have distracted Turkafinwë away from his near-constant bothering of poor Morifinwë. For now.

“What need have you, dear sister?” Turkafinwë asked with his usual wide smile, coming to stand at the bottom of the steps looking up.

“I am starting the evening meal. Come with me to choose cuts of venison. You are far handier with a knife.”

Watching them head off to collect meat from the most recent kill, leaving Morifinwë to wander off on his own unmolested once more, Nelyafinwë wondered if his dear wife was just impossibly brave or perhaps a touch crazy to have willingly put herself into a situation where she was alone with a knife-wielding Turkafinwë.

 _Of course, she must be just a little crazy. She married_ me _after all._

Fondly, he gazed after her until he could no longer see her as she and his brother cut around the corner of yonder barn and vanished. Eru, he was pathetic, but he already missed having sight of her, already missed feeling her close, even though he knew he would get to hold her and make love to her again in just a few short hours. If he could have, he thought he would have plastered himself to her side, made himself her shadow, entangled himself in her soul and stayed close to her at all times, though he was certain she would get sick of his constant presence quickly. Such was the nature of love, though, he thought. It made one think such strange thoughts.

Turning his head to the side just a little, he caught Curufinwë also staring after the pair with an odd look on his face.

“Think you that she is right? That Turko is bothered by Lady Írissë, worried for her safety even in the peace of Valinórë?” his little brother asked.

“I think none of us would know the whims and fancies of Turko better than you,” Nelyafinwë pointed out with practicality. “But… it is possible. They were once very close friends, though never lovers to my knowledge until Midsummer. It would not be the first time he has managed to hide things from everyone. What with how people reacted to my marriage, with the unpleasant whispers and rumors spreading through the courts and the nobility, and with our reemergence from our long sabbatical… who knows? With the return of the Exiles, Valinórë is certainly not as safe as it once was. After all, we are here now, walking about unfettered.”

If anyone was dangerous, it was the Fëanárioni and others of their ilk. Men of war and violence who had seen and done too much. Whose hearts were cold to suffering and filled with all sorts of rage and bitterness.

With others just as broken and ruined as they also walking about free, how could Valinórë be as safe as it once was?

The cynical part of Nelyafinwë found that just a little humorous. The protective part of him that had once nurtured and cared for his baby brothers, the part that held his wife close at night and breathed in the soft sweetness of her pale hair, found it terrifying.

“True,” Curufinwë agreed with a slight upturn at the corner of his lips. “Much in the world has changed.”

And the pair fell into silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:
> 
> helyanwë (Q) = lit. sky-bridge, heavenly arch/rainbow  
> Ondolindë (Q) = lit. Stone Song, Gondolin (S)  
> Fëanárioni (Q, p) = Sons of Fëanáro  
> Atar (Q) = Father  
> Anairwen (Q) = daughter of Anairë


	28. Contemplations and Revelations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is some thinking and there is some doing...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: semi-explicit memories of death/torture, Valinor is not a nice and happy place, small joke about the penchant for men of Fëanáro's blood to have sons very quickly after legal marriage
> 
> Made up a name for Istelindë's father, finally. He figures his daughter out a little, though he still isn't too pleased with having a Kinslayer for a son-in-law. Otherwise, things are set in motion.
> 
> Maedhros = Maitimo = Nelyafinwë = Nelyo  
> Maglor = Makalaurë = Kanafinwë = Káno  
> Celegorm = Tyelkormo = Turkafinwë = Turko  
> Caranthir = Carnistir = Morifinwë = Moryo  
> Curufin = Atarinkë = Curufinwë = Curvo  
> Amrod = Ambarussa = Pityafinwë = Pityo  
> Amras = Umbarto = Telufinwë = Telvo  
> Aredhel = Írissë  
> Fingolfin = Nolofinwë  
> Finarfin = Arafinwë  
> Galadriel = Artanis

_Elenya, 43 Lairë (25 June)_

\---

That night, Telufinwë could not help but stare into the fire.

The past few days had been most strange. For him. For all of them. While Istelindë and Nelyafinwë twined closer and tighter together, slowly developing that feeling of cohesive oneness that they had been lacking, the rest of the brothers were shadowed. Not with grief and not with anger, for once.

Even Telufinwë felt it. The heartache.

Sitting in the quiet of the main room across from the hearth, brother at his side, he contemplated the fire’s golden glow and felt his mind wonder off into other realms and places of deep thought and dreams. Many thousands of nights had he stared into those flames and thought of all that had befallen him, remembered ever the red and gold glow distorted by the surface of the water overhead as his lungs filled with cold heaviness and sucked him down, assessed each and every burn that curled across his skin, which ones pulled and twanged with pain even now after so much healing and so much time.

Usually, the flicker of the flames would bring forth the phantom of agonizing burning just under his skin. His body remembered all too well how it felt to be aflame, how it felt to have layers eaten away, melted and charred, until it seemed that even his bones were besieged. It was then that he would have to look away, would have to leave the room lest he fall back into the memory and scream until his lungs were empty and raw.

Tonight, though, he was not reminded of death. Instead, he was captivated by the movement, the almost sensual writhe of the fire.

Tonight, it reminded him of her.

_“Just ask for Amaurëa, and anyone will know of whom you speak.”_

It was not that Telufinwë had never seen beautiful women before. Before the Darkening, he had been too young to be anything but shy of the ladies of court, and, after, he had been crippled and repulsive to look upon. Even without the deterrent of his name, no woman—pretty or no—would glance his way twice. He was _ruined._

Yet, none had he ever seen who had so fascinated him as this woman, Amaurëa. Dark-haired, golden-eyed, twirling and swaying and bending like the flickers of the fire in the hearth now, like the roaring flames that had crawled across the boats and caught alight in his hair. Impossibly beautiful to look upon, and impossibly dangerous if one drew too close. That was the nature of fire.

Except, she had touched him, and he had not been burned. He remembered the feeling of her lips on his face—traversing over the curl of scar tissue in which he felt little more than the pull of her soft skin against his roughness—and the way she had smiled when she pulled back from their embrace.

She had been warm, but not fiery. Bright, but not searing into his skin.

 _“Thank you,”_ she said against his ear. _“Thank you so much, Telufinwë. Thank you!”_

And she had kissed his hands—even now, he looked upon them and cringed to see what they had become, how they shook helplessly even now from the burn of his raw nervous and were numb in places, how his fingers struggled to curl and straighten—even though everything about them should have brought her to stomach-churning disgust. He could not understand it, but, after feeling her mouth upon his skin (barely there, for he could feel little on the flesh so ravaged by fire) he had been unable to draw breath into his lungs for a few long moments.

She was precious. He did not understand why he felt so strongly, why he had seen her dancing like living fire and felt so helplessly drawn, but he did.

It was those feelings, that passion, that burn that settled in the pit of his stomach and left his heart galloping beneath his ribs, that ever got him into trouble. If there was one feature of the old Telufinwë that could not be denied, it was that, once his mind was set and his heart entangled, he could do naught but see things through to the end.

And someone had dared to try and defile her.

He had saved her, driven off her attackers, but they had not seen the consequences of their actions. Only a fool would think that she was the only woman to have fallen victim to their cruelties and unwanted advances. How likely was it that they had not done this very thing to other helpless young females, other women of the lower class who had not the protection of a family name and fortune at their backs? How likely was it that, without the deterrent of an angry Fëanárion standing like a hungering shadow at their backs, that they would not do the same again to the next pretty thing that came along?

Unfortunately for them, they had attacked the wrong woman at the wrong time, brought themselves to his attention, and they had made an enemy willing to hunt them and punish them no matter the potential repercussions upon himself. Telufinwë felt the shadow of his old self arise, white-hot and furious, dauntless and itching beneath his skin for justice.

 _“She was just a nobody! One of many!”_ His fingers clenched at he recalled that voice, high and wild with terror, face blood-streaked and wide-eyed with desperation as the worm crawled on the ground at his feet. _“Why are you doing this? Why are you doing this for her?”_

_Telufinwë just stared at the pathetic creature at his feet, squirming and sniveling, and felt not a droplet of pity. Blade in hand, he stalked his prey as the man tried to crawl away from him, lower than the lowest dog. Lower than the lowest worm. Not deserving to even lick the dirt from the bottom of Amaurëa’s feet—or the feet of any other woman._

I do it because no one else will do it. Because there is no one else who has stepped forward and stopped this sickness.

I do it because she cannot do it for herself.

_He cut into the flesh on the back of the man’s legs until his prey squealed and begged. Blood stained his hands and the ground beneath. A half-hearted kick nearly knocked the knife from his grasp, leaving a deep gash bleeding upon his palm as he fumbled to grasp the handle and missed, though he barely felt the injury for how destroyed the nerves of his hands were._

_And his prey sobbed. “Please, I will never do it again! Please, no more!”_

_Except, that had not been enough._

_Pressing the man face-down onto the ground, he tore back the ridiculous velvet doublet and set his knife to quivering shoulders. And then—_

“Telufinwë? Are you well?”

He blinked, and it all vanished back into the fire. Glancing up, he saw that Istelindë was leaning over his hunched form, her pale blue eyes worried.

“Here,” she offered, holding out a glass of water. “Do you want me to lower the fire?”

He shook his head and quietly took the water, bringing it up to his lips. The coolness passed over his tongue, went down his throat, settled in his belly soothingly. The rage that had started to rise up the back of his throat, acidic and cruel, was quelled.

Beside him, she sat upon the rug. “I saw you with that girl, you know. The young dancer,” she confessed quietly, had his heart stuttering, his belly flipping over and filling with fluttering butterfly wings. “She is very beautiful.”

Swallowing sharply, he nodded.

“Were you thinking of her as you looked into the fire?” his sister-in-law asked. “You seemed quite lost in the glow tonight, but your expression was soft for a few moments.”

Again, he nodded. Quietly, almost shyly, he looked down at the ugliness of his ruined hands, twisting and turning, fingers tangling clumsily. There was barely a sting where he had been cut across his palm, now five-days healed and soon ready for the stitches to be removed. He kept it bandaged even now, for his fingernails would pick and pull at the sutures otherwise. There were no feelings of pain in his hand to deter him from pulling out the stiches one by one.

“She seemed to like you just fine,” Istelindë commented with a quiet smile, reaching out to still the movement of his hands. “Are you going to see her again?”

He should not. If he was sane, he would go out of his way to never see her again.

She deserved much better than a ruined Kinslayer for a suitor.

So, instead of giving affirmation, he merely shrugged his shoulders and looked away. Away from Istelindë’s sweet, encouraging smile. Away from the inviting and terrifying light of the flames in the hearth.

Away from the temptation.

“I am certain you will see her again,” Istelindë soothed, misunderstanding his hesitance. “All you boys have been so quiet the last few days. Hardly are you the only one longing to see his pretty girl again.”

That, at least, garnered some amusement in Telufinwë’s breast, for he had indeed been watching all his older brothers heave and sigh over the women they had met on the night of the Festival. Pityafinwë had been daydreaming nearly nonstop, always fiddling about with the bandages on his hands, taking extra time to learn about the herbs that Istelindë put in the tea and what remedies they were useful for. None of the others knew what he knew, that his brother had was stricken with puppy love over the dark-haired healer who had tended him so gently, that he was probably just showing interest in the herbs to impress her the next time they met.

It was kind of sweet in a boyish sort of way. Sometimes it was easy to forget that neither of them had had a chance at romance before the Darkening had torn them away from their home in Valinórë. That all they had known from the time they were young men was war and death and suffering and misery.

And the rest of them were no better. Everyone knew that Morifinwë spent all his time sitting out on the porch steps in the sunshine thinking about his Vanyarin girl. And there was Curufinwë, who was hazy-eyed and sighing with thoughts of his wife, watching Nelyafinwë and Istelindë being sweet and affectionate with envious eyes. Meanwhile, Kanafinwë had scarcely left the gardens for the last five days, and, everywhere he went, his voice was humming the same melody again and again, bringing to mind’s eye a dark blue gaze ringed with black lashes tipped in silvery white.

Even Turkafinwë was stricken, though he hid it the best of all. Who would have thought that even such a heartless beast could be captivated by a fearless woman?

Istelindë spotted his crooked little smile. Leaning closer, she whispered, “I have plans for most of them. Now, if only there was a girl for brother Pityafinwë.”

Had he been one to speak and plot such things, now would have been the perfect time to tell her all about his brother’s infatuation with the pretty, petite healer of Arafinwë’s court. Instead, he remained ever silent. Eventually, Istelindë would figure his brother out without his assistance. It was not as if Pityafinwë was being subtle.

The pair sat in companionable silence until Nelyafinwë returned. Predictably, Istelindë was drawn away almost magnetically to her husband’s side, curling up with him on the small loveseat now decorated with a thick quilt. With a sigh, she placed herself upon her husband’s lap and lay her head upon his shoulder, and the eldest Fëanárion kissed her brow. It was a lovely sight to see, the pair all aglow and cast in the flickering golden light.

It warmed his heart to see them happy, even if it also brought down a stinging pain upon his heart. Lucky had his brother been in love, in finding a woman so compassionate as Istelindë was, who loved so fully and joyously.

The rest of them could not possibly be so lucky as that.

Still, it was a nice thought that Istelindë was trying so hard, that she wanted so desperately to see them all as happy as she was with Nelyafinwë. Like a good sister.

She was trying her best to look out for them all.

And he could be grateful for that.

\---

_Anarya, 44 Lairë (26 June)_

\---

In the morning, Turkafinwë was gone.

His absence was conspicuous at the breakfast table. Nelyafinwë was sitting at the head, sighing into a cup of coffee and nibbling on freshly-baked blueberry muffins while the rest of them passed around the food in silence. When, a good ten minutes after she had called them all to come forth to break their fast, the third brother had not appeared, Istelindë’s eyes dimmed ever so slightly with a subtle frown.

“Worry not,” Nelyafinwë said to her. “It is clear from these past few days that he needs some time on his own to think. One can only hope it will not be long before he returns.”

Quietly, Curufinwë saw to his toast and his eggs and said nothing of what he knew.

After all, the night before, it had been _his_ words to Turkafinwë that had sent his older brother running off into the darkness like a demon made from starlight on a steed with winged feet. Nary another word had he gotten in since telling his brother who he had inferred from his own lady wife about the whereabouts of Írissë.

Still, after hearing what Istelindë had said the day before, after pausing to think about how he would have felt had Lindalórë vanished into the ether without so much as a word, the idea that Turkafinwë might be stricken with worry of that like had bothered him too greatly for him to remain silent. Not when he had knowledge that might alleviate the obvious anxiety that had stricken his normally unflappable older brother.

_“Is it Írissë?” he asked quietly, coming to stand beside Turkafinwë._

_His brother had taken up vigil upon the porch, looking out into the woods with eyes that shone like beacons through the blackness. They were painful to look upon as they turned, wide and unblinking, to stare into his face._

_The smile that was normally presence in the knife’s edge of his brother’s lips was dimmed and dulled. “I have no idea of what you speak, Curufinwë.”_

_“I think you do,” he murmured._

_Those eyes stared through him, speared him with light. “Why would you ask such a thing? I am not alike to you, wistfully daydreaming of a woman rather than doing something to reclaim her favor.”_

_“Think you that you can goad me into forgetting my question?” he asked. “You may not be daydreaming about cousin Írissë day in and day out, but we can all tell that you grow antsy and restless. You ever have been a man of doing rather than sitting and waiting, but there is nothing to be done as long as Írissë cannot be found.”_

_Turkafinwë scoffed. “She may very well have returned home by now. It is not as if word would be sent up the mountain of her safe recovery.”_

_“When has Írissë ever been found and dragged home against her will?” So many times, young and bold in the Years of the Trees, had she gone off on her own, racing off fleet-footed into the wildlands without so much as a word to her father or her brothers, though never alone. And that trend had only worsened in the Hither Lands. Why on earth would any of them have expected that to change? “But I… may have tell of where she might have gone. I was not entirely honest—with you or with Uncle Nolofinwë—about what my wife told me of her last conversation with Írissë.”_

_It was only because, of all his brothers, Turkafinwë had ever stayed by his side and defended his back wholeheartedly that he believed his brother’s anger would not lead to permanent maiming or death. Indeed, he could see the way fury twisted those features momentarily, the mocking half-smile turning downwards into a snarl that could have sliced through galvorn. It was all the confirmation that Curufinwë needed to know that, indeed, his brother was more invested in the wellbeing of their dear cousin than he was willing to admit._

_“What have you kept from me?” the third brother whispered._

_“I was speaking the truth when I said that Lindalórë told me not to where Írissë had gone. But she_ did _tell me that she had lent the Princess assistance in the form of a token. Something that would help her in finding a safe place to stay for a few days. To think.”_

_Those eyes glistered, filling up with knowledge. “Your home. Lindalórë gave her access to the home you shared with her.”_

_Curufinwë sighed quietly. “That was my conclusion, though she spoke not of it directly. She claimed to me that she would send word to the House of Nolofinwë after a few days if Írissë did not turn up on her own. She will be found eventually.”_

_Except, rather than providing relief, this only made his brother scoff. “If she is truly as angered as she seemed—running off in defiance of her father—she will not stay in a single place waiting to be found. She will be gone long before they go looking for her.”_

_“You know that not. Besides, where would she go?”_

_Turkafinwë did not answer. Instead, he turned to look back into the forest, and his eyes were so bright that they left a golden afterimage behind when Curufinwë blinked away their blinding light. “You kept this from me.”_

_Warily, he looked upon his older brother. “I did not think it would matter to you so very much. No woman has before now.”_

_No answer was forthcoming. Perhaps Turkafinwë did not wish to admit it aloud._

_Sensing that no more words would be forthcoming from his brother’s lips, Curufinwë backed away and into the house. There, Istelindë and Nelyafinwë were curled close, Kanafinwë sat in an armchair off to the side murmuring under his breath, and the twins made their home before the hearth, though only Telufinwë, of the pair, wore the impassive expression that had become a fixture on their angular faces since rebirth. Pityafinwë, on the other hand, was looking off into space and seeing something not there, and looking far too happy about it to be reliving a memory of some hideous tragedy or trial of Exile. Finally, there was Morifinwë by the window, looking outside as if the night had done something to personally offend. Probably that there was no golden sunlight to admire and compare to a fair Vanyarin lady’s hair._

_Not that Curufinwë could blame any of them. He went to seat himself on the floor, leaning back against Kanafinwë’s chair to look blankly up at the ceiling. Just as he had suspected, each and every moment of these past few days had been a long and glorious torment, waiting in agony for the time when he could return back to his wife’s side, bring her gifts and kiss her hands and have her eyes focused solely upon his face._

_And, so, he waited silently for the quiet footsteps to follow him back inside, for his brother to join them and gracefully fall upon the rug and pull out a knife for whittling or snark at Morifinwë in that sibilant voice just to end the silence._

_When Turkafinwë did not come inside, he knew already that his brother had gone._

No, he was quite certain that it would be some time before Turkafinwë returned. And he suspected, in his heart of hearts, that his brother might not be returning alone.

But he said nothing of it.

\---

It was a most unpleasant task which brought Arafinwë to the halls of his father-in-law this day. A most unpleasant task indeed.

No matter how unpleasant the task, it was undeniable that the palace was still a lovely sight. Open, airy balconies with domed roofs of mother-of-pearl and ocean glass. It was a different sort of finery than Arafinwë knew in his own halls, which were opulent with riches rather than elegant and open. Everywhere, instead of multi-colored gems and rich carpets and bold colors, there was silver and white, pale blues and greens, translucent curtains lacking complex lace that fluttered softly like phantoms made from mist. Strings of pearls and white gems hung over the windows to glitter in the sunlight and shed rainbows down upon the wide open swirling pattern of mosaic on the floor.

Upon his throne, white and wide and carved in the shape of many swans taking flight with pearlescent wings and amber and obsidian beaks, Olwë of Alqualondë was perched, silver-haired and sky-eyed. On one side sat his beautiful wife, Marilla, looking every bit as nacreous and otherworldly as her namesake. And, of course, on the other side, as silver-haired as blue-eyed as his father, sat Olwë’s heir and Eärwen’s older brother, Éleärwë. He did not look particularly pleased to see the King of the Noldor, his brother-in-law. After all the fuss with Istelindë’s elopement, Arafinwë could hardly blame him for his wariness.

“Some time has it been since you have graced my halls with your presence, Arafinwë,” Olwë said in way of greeting, his smile cool and distant as the far-off glimmer of starlight on the waves of the sea. “You brought not my daughter with you?”

It was rare that Arafinwë ventured here without his wife. Most especially after the Darkening, for he was aware that his people (and he by relation) were not so well-accepted amongst the Teleri as they once had been. It mattered little, at the end of the day, that his own sword had never been stained with the blood of kin, for his brothers’ _had_ been, and, yet, he had still stood by their side in brotherhood even after they spilled the blood of mariners and craftsmen upon the docks of Alqualondë.

There were some battles a man could not win. Arafinwë had never tried to make war upon the cold rejection of the hearts of his wife’s people. Little felt he that he had the right to ask such things as forgiveness from the slighted people, the merry merchants and craftsmen who had lost their lives and loved ones beneath Noldorin blades. Even he, the kindest of heart and the coolest of temper of his own family, would never have forgiven such a slight had their positions been reversed.

It was enough that they did not shun him entirely, that they did not shun his wife for staying loyal to her marriage.

But things were now strained. As always, he could sense it in the air, like a thick blanket that surrounded him wherever he went and tainted wherever he stepped so long as he was within the borders of his father-in-law’s lands. It was there in Éleärwë’s quiet resentment. In Olwë’s calm acceptance hiding underneath his obvious disapproval. Now, more than ever before, it had the feeling of a cloying, suffocating smoke of deceptive sweetness, smelling so welcoming but yielding nothing but ice underneath. Of course, neither man would be pleased with a daughter of their line marrying a Fëanárion, nor would they be pleased with Arafinwë for allowing it to happen under his very nose with no resistance.

Still, he regretted not his decision. Not the freedom it granted his niece nor the happiness it had gifted his nephew. Let them sulk.

He was not here for niceties besides.

“Indeed,” he agreed, “I did not want to bother my dearest wife with such an ill task. I am here to return something of yours.”

“Something of mine?” Olwë leaned forward, head tilting curiously to one side.

“Some _one,_ rather,” Arafinwë corrected. With a motion, he had his own guards escort the wayward courtier into the hall, still bruised on his face, though his nose had certainly been set and straightened, and he had been given clean, plain white clothing not stained with his own blood and poor taste.

Immediately, Éleärwë stood. “What is the meaning of this?”

All around, the courtiers’ voices rose in murmurs, eyes flashing and darting about. Even now, the man was standing in defiance rather than cowering as he ought to be, a darkened splash of color all across his nose and seeping into his eye sockets. It was an ugly mark indeed, and none could mistake it for anything other than a blow to the face by a fist.

“It seems you would have made this man your son-in-law,” Arafinwë commented lightly. “He sought to make certain we were aware of his disdain for your daughter’s actions in choosing a husband of her own. Very publicly. In the middle of the Midsummer Festival.”

Éleärwë’s eyes narrowed, though Olwë seemed unmoved and mostly unconcerned. The Crown Prince stepped down from his place at his father’s side, coming to meet Arafinwë on even ground. “And, so, you have seen fit to beat his bitterness out of him, is that it, háno? I seem to recall that it was not a crime for a man to have an opinion and share it openly.”

It was not as rare for Arafinwë to feel exasperation and annoyance as most thought looking upon his demeanor. Part of his nature was in wearing a smile and soothing tempers, trying to keep the peace, and he liked to think he was rather good at it after all these years of dealing with the more temperamental characters of his family line. Now, though, he felt little need to soothe the whole incident away, found his tongue longing to spew forth words just as bladed and venomous as had ever crossed the tongues of his older brothers. Not for his own sake, for he had been called plenty of unflattering things in his many long years and cared little for the blind slights of naysayers, but because of Eärwen. Because of his daughters and his nieces. Because of his sisters and sisters-in-law.

He felt his temper, usually a quietly purring beast in the back of his mind, stir and hiss with fury. Did this man really know the imbecile he had planned to marry off to his daughter so little that he would defend such a man’s horrible words?

“In all the many years I have been married to your sister—who is more beloved to me than any birthright, with whom I have had a happy life and marriage, with whom I have conceived five children—I have never been so _offended_ by anyone as I was when this man suggested that she, my love and my mate, was some sort of adultering, unfaithful creature of _sin_ for daring to marry into my line.”

As if stricken, Éleärwë winced. Arafinwë was gratified to see it.

“Furthermore, he went on to suggest that your daughter, who is quite happily married to my nephew in spite of your disapproval, is spreading her legs for every single one of my nephews. Like some kind of _whore._ And _then_ he proceeded to imply the same about _every woman of the House of Finwë._ He is lucky to have escaped my halls with nothing more than a broken nose, lucky that Nelyafinwë was not in the room to hear, lucky that Fëanáro’s second-born is level-headed and kept his younger brothers from slitting this slanderer’s belly and spilling his guts on my floor in retribution, and lucky that none of the Nolofinwioni or my own sons chose to remove his head from his body! So, no, I do _not_ feel as though he is justified in vomiting such ridiculous lies all over my halls in the middle of a festival.”

There were many expressions crossing his brother-in-law’s face. A little bit of shocked horror. A little bit of surprise at seeing Arafinwë _angry._ And no small amount of fury, for no man enjoyed hearing such things implied about his sister or his daughter.

Up upon his throne, Olwë was no longer smiling.

“Is this true, Oivárin?” the Crown Prince asked, addressing the scowling man kept under guard, still looking no more scolded or sorry than he had been before Arafinwë had reported his words to the ears of his former fiancée’s father.

“We all know she was having relations with that cursed Kinslayer long before they married,” the courtier sneered out. “It is beyond a shame for a woman of the royal house to be consorting about with one of such a bloodstained bloodline, a man whose hands are marked with the blood of her people! A whore is the _kindest_ she should be called! Traitorous bitch and betrayer of kin is what she is!”

Appropriately, Éleärwë was enraged by such harsh words against his daughter. Olwë was no longer leaning back in his throne but was sitting up straight with the brilliance of stars in his ancient eyes. At his side, his wife was alert, her hand resting upon his forearm where it stayed still upon the armrest of his throne, fingers tautly curled.

But, to Arafinwë’s dismay, not so many of the courtiers seemed surprised or even offended on behalf of their supposedly beloved Princesses. Some were visibly repulsed by such crude language being bandied about in public, and some remained cold and impassive to the obvious confrontation, but others gave small nods, their eyes glimmering with gleeful agreement in the shadows. So peaceful was Valinórë at times that Arafinwë forgot how bitterness could fester and rot through even the most steadfast of hearts, that it was not only those who had slain kin and made war upon the far shores who were susceptible to the darkness sung into the Music at the beginning of the world.

Eä was a fundamentally flawed reality. It always had been. But rarely did it show itself for all its cracks and mars so visibly and painfully. Rarely did it leave his heart feeling so heavy with disappointment.

“I may not agree with Princess Istelindë’s choice of mate,” Éleärwë admitted quietly as he looked around the halls of his home, stricken with the same melancholic resignation as his brother-in-law, “But I will not allow such words to be spoken in these halls. Of my sister or of my daughter, no matter what man they have chosen to pledge their lives and love to. No matter your opinion on their marriages, it changes not the fact that you have embarrassed the House of Olwë and the Telerin people.”

“Would you punish a loyal subject for being honest?” the courtier, Oivárin, asked sharply, chin rising pridefully, lips twisting hatefully.

“No,” Éleärwë countered, “But I would have liked to believe better of the man who was going to become my son than to slander my daughter out of self-pity and resentment at being rejected. Methinks perhaps your words are more personal than you would have the people of this court believe. And that it is a stretch to label what you have said as _honesty.”_

A flush of mortification spread across Oivárin’ cheeks.

“It is not my place, however, to punish the people of Alqualondë,” the Crown Prince then said. “That right belongs only with the King.”

All eyes turned to Olwë.

The King was solemn-faced, though his fingers were no longer clenched upon the rests of his throne. The whispers faded into an unsettled silence, and even the unrepentant Oivárin looked somewhat uncomfortable with the King’s unblinking judgment. Barely could the man meet those eyes for their heaviness. Such were often the gazes of those who had seen the years before the Eldar had come to Aman, who had seen the ages of the world where there was no light in the vastness of the sky but for the stars. That timelessness lingered in their eyes and left one feeling very small and very childish. Even one so old as Arafinwë himself.

“Have you evidence—seen or heard—to indicate truthfulness of the words you spoke unto the ears of the people of the Noldor?” the King of the Teleri asked calmly, “Or, as Éleärwë has stated, were your words false and filled with malice?”

Oivárin looked away sharply. “I was angry. However, while there is evidence of the Princess Istelindë behaving inappropriately for one of her status and consorting with a Fëanárion outside of wedlock, I have seen no evidence nor heard anything but conjecture to support any other rumors about Princess Istelindë or Queen Eärwen.” He cast a sharp glance sideways at Arafinwë, and there was still hate in his gaze. “However, I apologize not for my words about Írissë. There is no denying what she was doing with that filthy Fëanárion while they were off on their own out of sight.”

It took a great deal to make Arafinwë display anger. Such cruel words about his niece—who was still nowhere to be found even after five days—had even his teeth clenched. How he would have liked to be as free as his nephew in the public eye, able to act out in violence without repercussions, for he would have felt much vindicated to add his own decoration to the face of this worthless slug.

Such was not the place of a King, most especially one currently standing in the domain of another ruler. Instead, he turned also to look upon his father-in-law, eyes narrowed with his displeasure, and waited for his fellow regent’s judgment.

“Be that as it may,” Olwë said, “Did you think there would be no consequences for such an indiscretion, that you could insult the House of Finwë and the House of Olwë and your sovereign would look the other way? It was certainly an unwise move, to ply yourself with drink and then unleash your unwary tongue upon the audience of the Court of Tirion. Foolish, as well. For lesser transgressions might a man be banished from these halls in shame.”

“But you are not going to banish me?” Oivárin ascertained.

“Shamed you have already been, publicly, and your slander revealed to those who might otherwise have remained blind to your true thoughts,” the King noted, and his endless eyes rested for but a moment on Éleärwë and Arafinwë standing together. “What good would it do for me to send you away where no one need see your shame and whisper about your penchant for using lies as retribution when slighted? I would confine you to the Court of Alqualondë, forbid you from going forth elsewhere for a time, until you have learned better to hold your tongue. And, of course, Arafinwë is more than welcome to banish you from his own court and city permanently without the say so of his father-in-law.”

“Indeed, it is my preference that I need not see his face again in my kingdom. You are quite free to keep him.” And that was that.

Éleärwë looked annoyed at the light sentence, his face soured with a frown and his blue eyes darkened with disappointment. Arafinwë was simply happy to be rid of his charge and would be even happier once he had managed to escape this place altogether. Without Eärwen at his side, he felt terribly out of place, more so now that he knew exactly how much of the Telerin court thought lowly of his wife only because of her marriage into his family, no matter that they had been married since long before the First Kinslaying was even a shadow of a thought in Fëanáro’s fey mind.

“So we have spoken,” Olwë declared, flicking his hand in dismissal. “Be gone from my halls for today. I have no more desire to see your face than my son-in-law. I certainly will not be forgetting your words of hatred towards my daughter or granddaughter anytime soon.”

Though there was nothing threatening—or even angry—about how Olwë had spoken, it left even the obviously foolishly brave and opinionated Oivárin pale in the face. “Of course, my King. I shall make myself scarce until such a time that you see fit to call me back at your leisure.” With a low bow, he fled the hall.

At that, Olwë’s gaze settled again upon Arafinwë, who felt the weight of it down to his bones. It reminded him so painfully of his father’s gaze that he almost looked away. “Well, my son-in-law, a shame it is that you were not here on kinder business. Have you plans to stay long in our lovely city?”

“Not long,” Arafinwë admitted.

“Let us not keep you too long, though it would be remiss for us to fail to offer you an evening meal and a bed for the night should you wish to stay.” Ever was his father-in-law welcoming as was expected of one sovereign to another out of simple necessity, even in the years after the slight of the First Kinslaying drove a wedge between the Noldorin and Telerin peoples and their once-friendship had fallen to the wayside. Still, Arafinwë hesitated, for he urgently longed to return home, to his wife, so suddenly it left his lungs feeling tight.

For once, Olwë’s generosity was not accompanied by Éleärwë’s scowl. It was no secret to Arafinwë that his brother-in-law was not fond of him, had disdained the Noldor more so than his father since the Darkening. Now, however, the Crown Prince met his eyes without dark disapproval in his gaze.

“Let us at least offer you refreshments before you depart if you so desire to leave this day,” the Crown Prince suggested.

Immediately, Arafinwë understood. His brother-in-law wanted to speak in private.

The last time they had spoken in private, it had resulted in a large amount of destroyed furniture and belongings. Only could he hope that Éleärwë had less reason to be upset and violent towards inanimate objects this time.

“I would appreciate some tea, brother,” he acquiesced.

Hopefully, the rift between them was not about to widen further.

\---

“I am ashamed to think of how blind I have been.”

The admission was sudden. Sudden enough that Arafinwë paused with his teacup halfway lifted to his parted lips. Slowly, he lowered it back down to the saucer and leaned back in his armchair, turning his gaze upon his brother-in-law.

_So, we are not starting with simple pleasantries after all._

The pair were sequestered away. Away from the prying eyes of the people and away from the watchful gaze of Olwë. Instead, they had a quiet balcony to themselves overlooking the bay, both wrapped up in sunlight and the smell of saltwater coming up from the sea. It was refreshing after the stifling shadow that hung over the court so long as Arafinwë dared grace them with his unwanted presence, and it was certainly an improvement upon the awkwardness of his last interaction with his wife’s brother.

“Do you think Istelindë suspected?” Éleärwë continued, eyes distant as they rested upon the water dotted with white ships. “So many of my people were not even surprised by his words… So many _agreed_ with his words… Do you think she knew of the cruel thoughts of the people of court? Is that why…?”

It made sense to Arafinwë. A woman shunned from court for her previous engagement, knowing that she would be unwelcome and treated poorly upon her return, would search for a way to escape. Slowly, the events started to unfold in his mind, and pieces began to slot together sensibly. Why Istelindë would seek a husband outside her own people, why she would choose someone so notorious for resisting authority as a Fëanárion, why she would not have immediately fallen into her husband’s bed, why their marriage had been unconsummated a month after their wedding night. They may very well have started out as nothing more than friends marrying for mutual benefit. Maybe not even friends. They may have been outright strangers.

He supposed it mattered little now how it had happened or what the circumstances had been. Istelindë had gotten what she wanted.

“Yes,” Arafinwë agreed solemnly, looking down into his teacup as the liquid slowly began to cool to lukewarm. “I believe she knew. I believe she wanted to spare her family the disappointment of the truth over what could not be changed and sought a different escape.”

_Without seeing it for yourself, hearing it from the mouth of a trusted courtier so vividly and cruelly, would you have believed her words?_

Arafinwë would have liked to believe that Éleärwë would have trusted his daughter more. But he was a son of the House of Finwë, and he had seen enough dysfunctional ridiculousness, enough broken trust, enough bitter hatred between members of his own family—perpetrated by anger and pride and willing blindness—to know that things were not always so perfect. For a Crown Prince, always beloved by his people, always living in the harmonious peace of Valinórë, it must have come as a shock to know that his daughter was treated so poorly behind his back and no one had ever dared tell him to his face.

“She never said a word,” Éleärwë whispered.

The pair sat in silence. Slowly, Arafinwë sipped at his tea, struggling not to wrinkle his nose. It had gone cool beneath the chilled breeze.

“Is she happy?” his brother-in-law then asked. “I meant what I said, that I do not approve of her husband. But it is clear to me now that she would not have been happy here—that Oivárin, had they married, would never have treated her with the love and respect she deserves—so I would wish to know. Do you think she is happy where she is now, with _him?_ Is she treated as she should be?”

Arafinwë thought about it. About the secretive little smiles and the way Istelindë reeled Nelyafinwë in close and cuddled up against his warmth. About the night of the Festival, watching the pair stumble about as they came inside from the gardens, exchanging kisses and laughing quietly against one another’s lips. About the adoration with which his niece looked upon her spouse whenever he was not watching, and about the besotted light in his nephew’s eyes that glowed bright and hot in return. About how gently Nelyafinwë touched her, as though she were something precious made from the most delicate glass.

“From what I have seen of them together, Istelindë and Nelyafinwë are very much in love with one another,” the King said, even now feeling some of his irritation and temper wane, replaced by a helpless smile at how ridiculously in love the young couple was, how utterly transparent they were sneaking out into the gardens and sneaking back inside with their clothes in disarray, and how he had never seen Nelyafinwë so filled with playful joy even _before_ the Darkening and Exile had ruined the beautiful and loving creature the Fëanárion had once been. “She has not hesitated to claim him and looks at him like she had never seen anything so beautiful, and he has been stumbling over his own feet like a stripling with his first love trying to see to her happiness and wellbeing. I truly do think they are happy with each other. Besides that, Nelyafinwë’s brothers have accepted her as one of their own, and they have grown as protective of her as they would be of any member of their line. You should not worry about her happiness or her safety, for I believe she has both in spades.”

“Can a father help but worry about his daughter?” Éleärwë asked, though some of the lines in his face seemed to ease at the reassurances. “She ran off and married a man well known only for his terrifying visage in battle and his penchant for shedding the blood of kin. Am I not right to fear for her?”

“I can understand it.” And he did. More than Éleärwë perhaps knew. For Arafinwë’s own daughter was across the sea, married to a man he had barely met, a man he had never had the chance to judge worthy or unworthy. No way had he of knowing if Artanis was safe, if she was content, if she was treated well, if she even still lived at all. Not a single day went by that he did not think of her and wonder, did not feel the way his heart shuddered in his chest at the thought that, if she needed him, he would have no way of knowing, that he would not be able to come to her aid. It was jarring, galling and horrifying in equal measures.

But he also trusted her. Artanis was strong and brave and more intelligent than all her brothers put together. If any of his children could make their way alone in the world without his help, it was she. Besides, once she made up her mind, it would not be changed, not with a will of adamant like hers.

And it was clear that Istelindë, though their temperaments might be different, had some of that same spark in her breast. That same indomitable will in her eyes.

“Still,” he continued, “Istelindë made her choice. The more I see them together, the more I believe she made the right one. Now more so than ever.”

“Indeed! To think that I thought I knew Oivárin! And, yet, all this time he has harbored such deplorable thoughts and visions of my sister and my daughter!” It seemed to shake the Crown Prince just a bit. “I knew that there would be people who were unhappy with Eärwen’s choice to stay by your side, and I knew that there would also be those who would be horrified by Istelindë’s unsanctioned marriage to a Kinslayer, but this… It seemed to personal and too established to be recent. Like these thoughts have haunted Oivárin and others for many long years and have been intentionally hidden from my sight.”

 _Well,_ Arafinwë could not help but think, _no man wants to bear ill news to his sovereign’s ears! Who would be brave—or foolish—enough to say what they truly thought of Istelindë in the presence of her loving father?_

Even as a gentle and kindly sovereign, Arafinwë was still often the last to hear those sorts of happenings. And, even then, often only from his wife’s lips. Most were too frightened of losing status or being blamed to step forward in honesty and speak of such slights. Even less often were the detractors willing to share their ill thoughts in the presence of one with the power to banish them from their homes and families with nary a word.

In an ugly sort of way, it made terrible sense, then, that Éleärwë would not have known unless Istelindë deigned speak of it. And, of course, she had not.

“She left court, did she not, after the Darkening?” Arafinwë vaguely remembered hearing about it from Eärwen. At the time, he had felt pity for the girl who would have been married to the second-in-line to the throne of Finwë. Pity that her dreams of marriage had been dashed. Pity that she had been so crushed as to leave court altogether in shame.

“I simply thought that she needed some time to recover from the shock of nearly being married to such a monster as a Kinslayer,” Éleärwë admitted a bit sheepishly, “Not that people were saying such awful things about her because of an engagement to a man she had never even met. Yet, in retrospect, it makes sense. Few knew that the engagement of Istelindë and Nelyafinwë was a purely political one. There was a rather large fuss about making it seem as a love match to those outside of the families. What kind of a woman could love a man who would go on to kill her people in the cold blood but for one of questionable morals?”

They both knew it was not so simple. But people liked simple. They liked assumptions. They did not want to look deeper or understand.

And, so, the cycle continued ever on. Rumors, slander and ill will.

“What is done is done,” Arafinwë breathed out, feeling more of the weight of his many years than usual. “For her part, I think Istelindë regrets not her choice, and I think both she and Nelyafinwë are now happily married. I would not have an unlikeable and unwanted guest such as Oivárin trying to ruin their joy.”

Éleärwë bit his lip, still looking just a touch uncertain beneath an attempt at a straight face. “Perhaps not. Was she not in the room when this all was said?”

Shaking his head, Arafinwë released a small laugh. “Aiya, she and Nelyafinwë think they are being sneaky, but they are as obvious as any pair of newlyweds, long gone off to be alone by that time. Going out into the gardens, kissing in the hallways, returning to their rooms early on a Midsummer night! I have never seen my nephew so sweet on anybody before! If the typical pattern for the House of Fëanáro holds true, you will be holding your first grandchild within the year, I should think.”

At that, Istelindë’s father sputtered and coughed into his raised cup of tea. “The pattern?”

“Aye, t’was so with Fëanáro and with Curufinwë. Marriage followed swiftly by the firstborn son. Nelyafinwë was born so shortly after the wedding of Fëanáro and Nerdanel that there was no question that he was conceived outside legal wedlock; there was most definitely a reason that particular ceremony was rushed. They managed to put together all that grand finery and decoration fuss in just weeks instead of the normal months.”

Mayhap this particular conversation would have been inappropriate, but it did manage to drive away the somber veil lying over their words. Helplessly, through the red flush of his cheeks and ears, Éleärwë choked out a chuckle or two. “Indeed?”

“It does not sound so bad, does it, having a grandchild added to the family after all this time?” To Arafinwë, in fact, it sounded quite nice. It had been so very long since the House of Finwë had been graced with new life.

“Not so bad,” his brother-in-law agreed. “It sounds not so terrible at all.”

\---

_Isilya, 45 Lairë (27 June)_

\---

There were signs of her presence long before he ever reached the cottage.

Little bits of white fabric. Footprints in the grass and the silt by the riverbank. Edible herbs and plants dug up from the ground. To those who knew nothing of hunting or tracking, the forest seemed undisturbed, nothing but sunshine and small animals going about doing their daily routines. To Turkafinwë, the presence of another elf wandering these woods was as obvious as day was from night.

The question to be had, of course, was whether she still made her abode in the house of his little brother or whether she had already moved on to a new location. He had not been lying when he had told Curufinwë with no small amount of derision that Írissë was not one to linger, that he doubted she would stay cooped up in a tiny house alone for five days straight with nothing to do and no one to speak to, waiting for someone to come and take her back home by force. It was not her nature to be still and patient. For all that she loved to wear the color white, she loved nothing more than finding as many ways as possible to take all that white fabric and cover it in stains and tears.

Picking another bit of white fabric out of a bramble, he held it up near his nose. There was no denying her scent, for he knew it better than his own. Had breathed it from her skin as they made love in the dark. Had tasted it on his tongue as he plunged it deep inside her heat.

Just a little ways further would be the house. Without hesitation, he let his horse loose to head back home without him and went forth on foot, cautious of anyone else who might be lingering. And a good thing that he was, too, for he was not the only one scoping out the cottage when he arrived in the late morning. A familiar figure was standing on the doorstep, knocking and shouting for Írissë to open the door or to come out and talk.

Lindalórë.

Not a surprise. No one else knew that Írissë had been here. Not yet, anyway.

The woman at the step huffed, leaned in close to the door. She must have seen something, for her movements momentarily stilled. Reaching out, she plucked at something stuck in one of the lanterns hung unlit on either side of the small stairway leading up to the door. Pulling back, she examined it in the light.

The key. _Írissë is long gone._

Quiet as a shadow, he backed away. Not fast enough that his sister-in-law’s curses did not reach his ears. It seemed that Lindalórë realized she was too late as well.

No matter, though. Turkafinwë did not need to rely on knowledge of a location to find his cousin. She could be anywhere by now, and no soul knew the exact location where, probably not even she herself. The only way to find her would be to track her movements, for he had little doubt that she had taken off into the wilds on her own. It was so very like her that it left a bubble of warmth growing in his belly. Fondness, he might have called it, had he believed himself capable of such things.

Slowly, he returned back to the last place he had seen traces of her passing. Footsteps from boots indenting the musty underbrush and the mulchy soil made themselves clear to his eyes, and he began to follow them deeper into the woods, erasing them as he went.

Another scrap of white fabric, this one so small most would have missed it even accounting for the keen eyesight of the Eldar. He picked it up and rubbed its softness between his fingertips. It reminded him of her soft skin, alabaster pale but so much warmer than any piece of lifeless stone. Would that he could brush his fingers across her again.

That thought stopped him in his tracks, and he stood still amongst the quiet bustle of the forest, blinking through the little shafts of sunlight falling between the boughs of trees.

_Why am I even doing this?_

He had wondered it several times since setting out. Had wondered why he cared that Írissë was not found, for she would surely be fine on her own as ever she had been before. Had wondered at the way fury had sliced so cruelly through his blood when her name had been insulted and her honor maligned all those nights ago. Had wondered why he itched beneath his skin to see her again even now, days later, for they had shared only a night of passion and nothing more than that.

He did not even know if she wanted to see him at all. If his luck was as poor as the average Fëanárion’s, she would probably try to stick him with a knife for his troubles when he found her, and then yell and curse at him for following her around for good measure.

For some reason, the idea of it made his stomach twist.

 _This is pathetic,_ he grumbled, if only in the back of his mind.

Why did he even care what she wanted? He never cared what anyone wanted, not even his own kin! In fact, he most often made a point to _not_ care.

_This is what I want. I want to see her._

He wanted to feel her hands upon him again, in his hair and on his skin. Her heat wrapped around him, tight and warm. Her lips upon his throat and her nails upon his back. He wanted to hear her voice, her laughter as bells rolling over his tangled webs of thoughts, clearing it all away with her pure tones. He wanted to lie together in the aftermath, glowing and tranquil, and feel the peace of her presence.

And then they would start the wild dance all over again. Spinning faster and faster until they collapsed together in a tangle of limbs and battle of tongues.

When it was all over, he would have her there. And things would feel _right_ again.

Right now, everything in the world felt wrong. Like an itch he could not scratch, like a festering wound he could not tend. The last five days had been a ridiculous spiral of unwanted thoughts that could be quelled by no amount of interruptions or distractions. Even teasing Morifinwë nearly to tears had done nothing to calm his mind.

Yet, even a momentary breath of her scent, a mere breathless memory of the feeling of her skin, left him feeling calmed and alert.

Carefully, he tucked the scrap away into his coat.

He could think about this later. Contemplate his motivations another time. Every second wasted, she could be getting further away, so he had no time to waste. Catching up to her was much more important than trying to untangle the mess of his own mind.

There would be plenty of time to sort out his thoughts after he had her naked by his side in the grass.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:
> 
> háno (Q) = brother (formal)  
> Eldar (Q, p) = high-elves  
> Aiya (Q) = O (exclamation)


	29. The Wheeling Stars in Motion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Progress. Some plotting begins to unfold, and we revisit a certain Vanyarin woman with a liking for flowers...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: allusions to/thinking about sex, off screen sex, talking about sex (basically, newlyweds being newly wed), scheming, lovesickness, religious undertones
> 
> Maedhros = Maitimo = Nelyafinwë = Nelyo  
> Maglor = Makalaurë = Kanafinwë = Káno  
> Celegorm = Tyelkormo = Turkafinwë = Turko  
> Caranthir = Carnistir = Morifinwë = Moryo  
> Curufin = Atarinkë = Curufinwë = Curvo  
> Amrod = Ambarussa = Pityafinwë = Pityo  
> Amras = Umbarto = Telufinwë = Telvo  
> Aegnor = Aikanáro = Ambaráto  
> Finrod = Artafindë = Findaráto  
> Finarfin = Arafinwë

_Isilya, 45 Lairë (27 June)_

\---

They had a visitor in the morning.

She recognized the golden-haired man on the porch step, though she knew him not well. It was not Findaráto this time, but one of his younger brothers. Immediately, she was reminded of Makalaurë, for he wore the same eternally sad eyes, though in a shade of blue rather than silver, as did the singer in his most heartbreaking moods. Sorting through the names of her cousins in the back of her mind, she determined which he might be. “Cousin Ambaráto, what brings you all the way up here on this fine morning?”

“Please, cousin, feel free to call me Aikanáro. Everyone does.”

 _Would that it were more fitting,_ she could not help but think and wonder if “fell fire” had ever accurately described this man, who seemed burned out by grief, dark in the eyes and quiet in his mannerisms. Not much did she know of her Noldorin cousins or their time spent in Exile, but she knew better than to outright ask and risk stumbling over unwarranted unpleasantness as oft she had before.

“Aikanáro, then,” she acquiesced instead. “Come inside, cousin, no matter your quest here in the mountains. I would not send you off without refreshments. Some water or tea, and I just made biscuits as well.”

Hesitantly, he followed her inside, glancing about as if expecting one of his male cousins to jump out brandishing a sword at any moment. “Is no one else here?”

“Be glad most of them are off on their own right now,” she answered, laughing as she circled into the kitchen and continued meal preparations. “Some of them have been positively insufferable these past few days. Why, until he just up and ran off on one of his hunting trips without any warning, Tyelkormo was being twice as mean as usual!”

Aikanáro’s eyes flashed brightly. “Run off?”

“He never showed up for meals,” she explained. “It happens sometimes, I am afraid. Last time, he was gone for four days.”

They were interrupted by one of the brothers entering through the backdoor. Makalaurë, silver eyes bright for once albeit hazy, almost danced into the kitchen on swift feet, papers in hand and voice humming soothingly. That same melody again departed his lips, though it grew more and more complex, sweeter with his regard and softer with his longing, each day that he continued to spend time thinking of the beautiful teacher with a voice more glorious than any songbird. And he was smiling just a little, which, after his formerly depressive moods, made Istelindë’s heart lighter.

Without a word, he circled around the table, picked up a fresh biscuit from the tray in the windowsill, pressed a kiss to Istelindë’s cheek, and continued on through the door and into the main room. Oddly enough, he was so distracted that he did not even see his cousin standing just to the side of the doorway as he passed in a flutter of dark hair and whispered words.

Stunned, Aikanáro leaned over to stare out through the doorway as Makalaurë opened the front door and let himself out without any further acknowledgment.

“What was that?” he asked.

“I told you, they have all been acting like lovesick boys for the whole week,” she said with a sigh that belied her pretend annoyance with their states. “Surely you must have seen him with the lovely Vardamírë at the Midsummer Festival, heard them sing. Unfortunately, I missed it. However, I am quite certain he has been sitting out in the gardens composing ballads to her beauty and voice for the past five days.”

“They did make quite a handsome couple,” her cousin admitted, though behind his bright eyes lingered the shadow of pain and, perhaps, just a hint of jealousy. “In any case, I came not here for gathering news of my cousins, no matter how entertaining it might be to see them dancing about like lovesick fools. I have something for you.”

“For me?” she asked, eyebrows rising.

“Atar wanted this letter delivered to you. Naturally, the messengers will only travel between cities and not up and down mountains to deliver letters, however, so he decided to send me instead. _Apparently,_ Findaráto was too _busy_ to play messenger today.”

These words were accompanied by an annoyed huff. Aikanáro pulled a thick envelope out of his cloak and held it out. Istelindë immediately recognized the handwriting as her Uncle Arafinwë’s and felt a grin cross her face as she measured the weight of the paper between her fingertips. Hopefully, there would be good news awaiting within.

Obviously, her cousin spotted the look of glee in her eyes. “I did not know that you held my father’s correspondence in such high esteem, cousin Istelindë.”

“He and I had a few things we were discussing before we parted ways the day after Midsummer. I am rather hoping he has sent on some good news,” she admitted with something a coy smile, filled with little secrets.

Her cousin sent her a searching look, his eyes narrowed slightly. “You are surprisingly like to him, dear cousin, what with all that scheming. Two peas in a pod.”

“If the moniker fits,” she said in lieu of denying her matchmaking schemes. And it just tickled her fancy, for this whole week had been most wonderous and most strange, and she would dearly like to be making some progress.

“Well,” he said, “I was not planning to be stuck here all afternoon. If it would please you, cousin, I should be on my way back.”

“Biscuits first,” she insisted, pulling the tray from the windowsill and plopping it down on the table. “Sit down and eat, then you may go, cousin Aikanáro.”

“Pushy,” he commented, but obediently sat and tore into a biscuit, the satisfied curl of his lips belying his attempts at annoyance. It was not unfamiliar, for her husband’s brothers had attempted to hide their fondness for her baking and cooking from her for about a week before they all turned into begging mongrels. “It is no wonder that you have all my Fëanárion cousins so tamed and well-behaved. You even remind me a bit of Aunt Nerdanel.”

It was not the first time she had heard that, nor would it likely be the last. “Sometimes, they need a little bit of pushing around. And, so, too, do the rest of you. Eat!”

The sound of the front door opening had them both looking towards the doorway, Aikanáro with half a biscuit shoved into his mouth. Clearing his throat, he covered his lips with his hand (to retain some dignity, she supposed) just before her husband strolled in sans his boots with sweat-streaks in his russet curls. Happily, she received his kisses.

“I heard from Kanafinwë that we had a guest,” he explained, for he normally did not let himself inside during this time of day.

Istelindë almost laughed. “I did not realize that Kanafinwë had even noticed our cousin’s presence, so distracted did he seem! It is really very sweet.”

She knew that Nelyafinwë found it just as endearing, though he hid it for the sake of appearances in front of his cousin. She supposed he did not want to come across as being so soft-hearted and caring towards his younger brothers as he actually was. Men and obsession with upholding their silly, aloof reputations! Especially the men of the Noldor, she had found. The House of Finwë chief amongst them. Still, knowing him as she did, she could see the affection in his eyes despite his otherwise impassive face. “Well, what does Uncle Arafinwë want now? There is no other reason you would be here, and certainly not of your own accord.”

Aikanáro managed to swallow down his biscuit thickly. “Atar sent me with a letter.”

“A letter?” He looked to Istelindë. “Whatever for?”

She loved how her smirk made her husband squirm slightly. “Oh, he and I were chatting the morning after the Festival. He was telling me all sorts of interesting things about that lovely young lady who was giving brother Telufinwë hugs before her dance—apparently, her name is Amaurëa, and she is an incredibly talented and celebrated dancer—and how Makalaurë was using his voice to charm the local instructor in charge of teaching music to elflings of the nobility. Unfortunately, being all the way up here, I can hardly go about searching for more information all on my own, so I asked Uncle Arafinwë to keep me updated on things in Tirion… for planning purposes, naturally. Nothing sinister.”

Indeed, how she desperately wanted to find a way to get Telufinwë to interact with his pretty dancer friend once again! It would be quite useful to know when Amaurëa would be out and about doing performances.

_“If I know Telufinwë as well as I think I do,” Maitimo had said to her as they lazed about in bed one morning, “He will not be going out of his way to meet up with any women of his own accord. I might be willing to foist the bad luck of my family name upon some poor woman, but he would not.”_

_“Think you so?” Istelindë sighed softly in disappointment. “Indeed, I would so like to see him at least with a new friend. He could use some time away from Pityafinwë.”_

_“I can agree with that,” her husband muttered. “We coddle him quite incessantly, and none more so than Pityo. Telvo is the baby of the family.”_

_“He is barely a handful of minutes younger than Pityafinwë,” she said laughingly._

_“Unfortunately for him, that few minutes are all that matters,” Maitimo teased in return, looking up at her from beneath his wild, untamed curls and cinnamon eyelashes. “Think you that you can change his mind? I warn you, Telvo is more stubborn than all the rest of us combined.”_

_“I have my ways,” she warned, rolling over to perch herself over her mate on her hands and knees. “Do you doubt me, faithful Prince?”_

_His cheek flushed. “You have always managed to leave me pleasantly surprised, dearest Princess.”_

Thinking about that conversation, especially the aftermath, had her cheeks slightly pink. She was quite enjoying the benefits of having a husband in truth. It took a few moments to shake off the lingering sparks of heat that lit themselves in the pit of her belly.

Instead, she refocused her attention on her guest (rather than her husband, because admiring Maitimo right now would only make it worse). “How were the biscuits?”

Seeing as Aikanáro had guiltily gone through approximately eight of them in a short period of time, they must have been tasty. The golden-haired man wiped at his mouth with his sleeve, and she bit back a light scolding, too used to trying to teach her poor brothers-in-law proper table manners. “Very nice, cousin. But, really, I should get going.” He glanced almost nervously at Maitimo, who was looking directly at Istelindë rather than paying their guest any mind. “I would not want to intrude and make myself a nuisance.”

Glancing towards her husband as well, she felt her throat tighten and her thighs clench. It was _that_ expression. The “we are (almost) alone in the house in the middle of the day and I would very much like to make inappropriate use of the kitchen table” expression. It was no wonder that poor Aikanáro suddenly looked very uncomfortable.

“It was nice having you,” she reassured, trying to keep the huskiness out of her voice.

“Yes, well…” Clumsily, he stood. Even through the awkwardness, she could see that he was much less wary than when he had arrived. No longer expecting Maitimo to jump up and attack at a moment’s notice. Just eager to get himself out of the way of the newly married couple’s private time. “I will just let myself out then.”

Had she not been so distracted, she might have been more pleased to see the small bit of improvement. As it was, she was thinking far too much about Maitimo and his callused fingers on her naked skin to care overmuch about Aikanáro’s opinion of her new family.

It did nothing to help that, before poor Aikanáro was even fully out the door, Maitimo was wrapping his arms around her waist and pulling her close, twining them together in a lover’s embrace. With a last half-horrified and half-fond glance, their shared cousin departed with haste, the door snapping shut in his wake. However, rather than ravishing her then and there, Istelindë’s husband leaned forward to bury his face between her breasts with a few soft snorts of laughter, broad shoulders quivering.

“Were you just trying to embarrass your poor cousin?” she asked, more amused than disapproving of the playfulness.

His hand swiped up over her right breast teasingly. “Not _only_ to embarrass him.”

“Just to get rid of him faster.” She wrapped her arms about him in return, stroking through his soft, sun-warmed hair. “And what were you hoping to happen once he was gone? The food can hardly see to itself.”

“No one will die if lunch is an hour late,” he insisted.

She just laughed.

\---

Istelindë was humming a merry tune when he came upon her in the yard, hanging up the wash to dry. This sight was normal, nothing unprecedented, and Morifinwë would have walked straight past her with nothing more than a “Good afternoon, nésa!” were it not for spotting a particular shade of light green fabric in her basket.

He watched as, finished with one of Nelyafinwë’s shirts, she then reached into the basket, pulling out the gown that Eruanna had been wearing on the night of the Festival. The one that Morifinwë had spilled wine on. Only, as he watched her clip it to the clothesline, he could see that there were no more burgundy spots splattered all across the skirts. It was as pristine and untouched now as it had been before Morifinwë’s blunder, or so it seemed, and he caught himself staring at it a moment too long, imagining how it had curved along the slender waistline of the object of his affections, how it made her waist look so tiny that he wondered if he might wrap his hands completely around her and still be able to touch his thumbs in the front and his fingertips in the back.

She had been so very lovely. He let out a sigh thinking it, wondering what she might be doing now, in Valmar. Maybe wandering the rose gardens, maybe singing litanies to Varda. Most assuredly not think of him as much as he was thinking of her.

“Oh, brother Morifinwë!” As she stepped out from behind the dress, Istelindë’s eyes fell upon him. “I see you recognize this gown. It is much improved, is it not?”

Silently, frog in his throat, he nodded.

“You know,” she continued, “I asked Uncle Arafinwë to let me know where Lady Eruanna’s family makes their residence in Valmar. This dress has to get home to its mistress somehow! I am afraid I have little use for such a lovely thing and would probably ruin it besides wearing it up here in the mountains.”

They both knew that was hardly true. Istelindë wore plenty of flowy, graceful gowns on normal days full of cooking and chores without ever so much as defiling them with grease spots or dirt. She always managed to look every inch the Princess she was, even when she twirled around the kitchen with a wooden spoon in hand, fearsomely threatening her in-laws for their bad table manners.

“What do you plan to do with it, then?” he asked quietly.

“Hm,” she murmured thoughtfully, smiling sunnily up at him in a way that made him wonder what exactly it was that she was thinking. Because there was a strange glimmer in her eyes that reminded him all too much of scheming Curufinwë or sadistic Turkafinwë, and he half-suspected that he was about to become the butt of another joke. “Do you think you could help me out with a little something, brother Morifinwë?”

“Of course.” He might be ornery and ill-tempered, and now also suspicious of her motivations, but he was most fond of his sister-in-law, and he would like to be helpful. Maybe, if it was taxing enough, he would be able to spend an entire afternoon busy enough that his mind did not wander back to…

“Since you already are familiar with her,” Istelindë then said, “I was rather hoping that _you_ could deliver this back to Lady Eruanna, along with a letter I have prepared. It would please me greatly, and it would give you a chance to get away for a few days as well. I know, even though Tyelkormo had decided to go off on one of his hunting trips, that he has been rather… how to put it… obnoxious for the past few days.”

His first instinct was to immediately say “yes” and stumble over his feet thanking Istelindë for putting him out of his misery. As usual, it was his sense of honor—misguided and slight thought it might be—that held his tongue.

Swallowing sharply, he pondered whether or not this was a good idea.

Thoughts of Eruanna had been driving him to distraction for days. More so now than ever, he was aware of the fact that he should leave her be, untainted by his presence or his regard, for she was made for better things than a Kinslayer. Yet, no matter how much the knowledge grated against his desires, he could not deny that he _wanted_ to see her again. Just as he had _wanted_ to talk with her and dance with her the night of the Festival, despite knowing he should turn her away rather than draw them closer.

He should say “no”. He should tell Istelindë he would not do that—to himself or to Lady Eruanna. He should, he should, he _should…_

_But…_

_But the way she smiled at him, so brightly, as though he were not some tainted monster, a shade of a person trapped beneath the banner of his father’s cursed name…_

_But the way she said his amilessë and told him that it was sweet, the way she had accepted his shyness without ridicule…_

_But the way she…_

“I can see in your eyes that you want to see her again,” Istelindë said, her voice softening, growing gentle with sisterly affection. “There is no shame in that, brother Morifinwë. She was very kind to you, and she enjoyed your company in return. I could tell!”

There _was_ shame in it. But he did not think he had the self-control to resist.

“You wish for me only to return this to her and to play messenger?” he asked.

“No one said you could not speak to her while carrying out this quest. Spend a day or two in Valmar, take a break from your brothers, escort your lady friend on a few walks through the infamous gardens…” She gave him a little wink. “What do you think, brother Morifinwë? Are you prepared for such a task?”

He could do naught but swallow down the sudden, swift tide of nervousness trying desperately to crawl up the back of his throat and choke him into silence. Was he prepared for such a thing? It sounded so much like courting that the accompanying nerves made his heart feel as though it were about to burst.

Yet, he could not deny how it also filled him with the bubbling brightness of excitement. An entirely foreign emotion if ever there was one.

It was not as though he knew nothing of courting—the proper sort, not whatever bastardization all his brothers seemed to be utilizing in wooing their women—but he had never had the opportunity to try it. When he was young, before the wars and the Kinslayings, he had never met a woman who he _wanted_ to visit, to bring flowers and gifts, to take on walks in the gardens. Before the Darkening, he had been too tongue-tied to so much as _speak_ to a female, let alone call upon one.

Now, he should not even consider it. If for no other reason than his family name. She could never want him, and he did not deserve her, and…

He bit the inside of his lip until it bled.

_Did not Turkafinwë call me a coward just the other day for this very attitude? That, if I give up without even trying, I can never hope to achieve victory?_

Of all the things he hated, admitting that Turkafinwë was _right_ was amongst those that galled him the most. His older brother needed not a boost to his already impossibly large ego. In this instance, though—this singular interaction—somehow, his older brother’s words were now not bringing his spirits crashing down.

Somehow, Turkafinwë’s advice was giving him unsolicited _hope._

This could end a thousand ways, most of them resulting in heartbreak. Maybe he would arrive bearing Istelindë’s missive and gift, and Eruanna would not even deign see him. Maybe she would turn him away now that they were beneath the watchful, judgmental eyes of her people. Maybe something else, unfathomable to his imagination, would go horribly wrong, and he would crawl back up this mountain feeling even more heartsick and weary than he was now, struggling day-by-day through wistfulness and daydreams.

 _Or, maybe, something will go_ right. _How could you possibly know without trying?_

That sounded like something Nelyafinwë would have said. Or maybe Nerdanel. Encouragement floating on the edge of a half-forgotten memory from childhood.

He still stood by his earlier thoughts. That this was a terrible idea and liable to go very, very wrong. He might as well stab himself through the heart right now and twist the blade for good measure, just to be sure of the agony that he would experience over the course of the next weeks and months of unrequited favor.

But he was going to do it. _Damn it._

As if she was reading his mind from the look on his face—and she probably was, knowing her—Istelindë gave him her broadest smile yet and kissed his rosy cheeks. “Worry not about your welcome, brother Morifinwë. Lady Eruanna will be most pleased for the visit.”

His cheeks burned even hotter. “Fine, fine, woman! Just… give me the dress whenever it is finished drying. And tell Nelyo I shall be gone for a few days.”

“Perfect!” She gave him another kiss on the cheek and went back to hanging laundry.

Leaving him standing there, staring at the green dress hanging on the line and wondering what he had just agreed to and where his good sense had gone. This had not been part of his afternoon plans of brooding, moping, daydreaming and brooding some more. Everything about this new and daring scheme made his palms sweat, his face flame and his heart stutter, and it was not even happening yet!

And, at the same time…

He was smiling. Barely there, for the first time in almost a week.

\---

That evening, she sent her little brother off.

At her back, she heard Maitimo approach. With only the warning of his feet padding upon the wood of the porch, she felt his arms come around her and pull her back against his towering warmth. Hot breath washed over the side of her face, accompanied by the feeling of his nuzzling kisses, lazy and affectionate. Together, they spent long minutes watching at the sunlight faded entirely to black, as the stars began to creep out from beneath the overwhelming light of Anar to glimmer in the darkness.

“I see you have progressed from plotting to initiation,” he finally whispered against the delicate point of her ear. “Poor Moryo looked like he is going off to war, not to see a woman.”

“Do not pretend to feel sorry for him when we both know you and your brothers enjoy tormenting him for his soft heart,” she scolded quietly, smacking the back of her hand against the unyielding hardness of his bicep. And then soothing away the grumpy words by pressing her lips against his sweetly. “Are you not even the slightest bit worried for him?”

Laughing into her hair, he shook his head. “Meldanya, he has been miserable for days, agonizing over a woman. I would rather it gets sorted, one way or another, than watch him amble about aimlessly for months trying to forget. All that will do is set him back again, and I would rather not have him moping about for the next decade. Moryo has always been of a bit more delicate a constitution than the rest of us, always letting his heart get in the way of his duty. It is one of his more frustrating and endearing qualities, and the reason I think that this whole courting business may not turn out so terribly after all.”

“Really?” she asked, looking up to meet his blazing silver eyes.

Gently, he pulled her down into the yard, away from the house, and cradled her in his arms beneath the stars. “Moryo is a romantic at heart. Always has been. If he falls for Eruanna and she does not turn him away, he will fight for her. He just needs to know her, to know if he has her affection in return, and he will never know if he stays here and hides.”

“I suppose you are right,” she admitted, only half caught up in thoughts of red-cheeked Carnistir heading off to war—not a war of spears and shields, but a war against the straight-laced Vanyarin sensibilities of his woman’s parents—while the rest of her relaxed into her husband’s warmth gratefully. Sometimes, the fourth brother seemed so incredibly fragile, for all that he was second in height only to her husband and could send grown men running with his scowls. “Do you really think he has a chance?”

His sigh was quiet against her hair, stirring the tiny silver flyaway strands against her cheek. “He is a Fëanárion, stubborn and proud. Once he has a goal, he will work towards it. Most of your matchmaking work will be done when he stops working against you.”

“I just want him to be happy,” she whispered, letting her eyes flutter shut, lashes brushing her cheeks, as she breathed in the scents of the night, the purity of the mountain air, and the scent of her mate wrapped all around her as a blanket of warmth against the chill of the wind and the distant regard of the stars.

“Just wait,” he reassured her. “Moryo will come back with his jaw set, and you will see the stubbornness in his gaze. And he will be asking all sorts of ridiculous things about courting and flowers and poetry.”

“I look forward to it.” And she did.

“Nothing to do now but wait,” he murmured into the nightsong. “What say you to sparing our brothers more of our noisiness tonight? We can stay out here, find a clearing, make love beneath the stars. We have never joined outside before.”

“Disturbing everyone with our loudness would not be a problem if we built another cabin so that we could have the main house all to ourselves,” she pointed out with a raised brow, “And does not the love-play in the gardens at Midsummer count?”

“Is that a ‘no’ I hear from my lady?” he asked playfully.

“I did not say that…” Her hands crept up over his shoulders, stroked back the heavy curtain of his hair to brush at the heated skin of the nape of his neck. Beneath her strokes, he shivered. “Just try not to keep me up too late, vennonya. I have plans for tomorrow morning.”

“Plans?” He was already tugging her further away from the house, his mouth eager upon the skin of her throat and his hand seeking out the catches on the back of her dress.

They managed to slip out of view of the house, at least, before he had her partially unclothed. “Make yourself scarce tomorrow morning. I am planning to ask Telufinwë to accompany me into Tirion in your stead. There are some happenings going on in the main square tomorrow which I would like to attend.”

She would have continued further with discussing her plan, except that Maitimo chose that moment to lean all the way down and wrap his lips around one of her nipples, hot warmth and suction suffusing the tight bud in lieu of the cool night air. With a soft tug and pop, his mouth freed her, leaving the peak swollen and tender as his fingers followed, circling the damp skin until she moaned softly.

“I suppose I could be persuaded to help, vessenya,” he said softly, his lips brushing the swell of her breast just above the nipple he had feasted upon. “You and your planning.”

“Someone has to look out for all of you,” she gasped out, breath stolen as her husband proceeded to lay her out in the grass.

“You are far too good for the lot of us,” he answered with a half-smile. To her relief, the self-deprecating doubt that had been haunting their relations before Midsummer was all but erased, leaving behind mostly a teasing quality to his voice rather than a hesitant, heavy one. Instead of filling her with worry, the words had her tummy buzzing.

“I suppose you will have to do something to repay me.” Without subtlety, she was reaching for his clothes, trying to uncover his naked skin. “I can think of a few things.”

“Can you?” His laughter rolled through her, left her quivering. “Tell me, vessenya?”

Finally, she had his tunic off, and she very much appreciated the starlight-encrusted view of her husband’s bare torso, no matter the number of scars and imperfections lining his skin. “To start with, you could rid yourself of the rest of your clothes.”

“And then?” he asked, already working on his leggings.

“And then you should lay down in the grass and let me lick and kiss every inch of you,” she suggested, moving on to peeling off her own gown, relishing in the way the night air brushed over her skin in soft waves. Almost as much as she relished the way her husband’s eyes went dark and half-hooded with want at her sight, his cock jumping slightly beneath fabric to make it altogether clear that he was very much enjoying the view.

“You want not for me to return the favor? I thought this was supposed to be repayment. Should I not be doing the work?” he ground out, finally untangling his legs from the fabric, casting it aside so that they both sat in the grass naked.

“Maybe later.” She had other plans. Indeed, on her hands and knees she crawled forward, happily straddling her husband and pushing him onto his back.

_Maybe after I make you beg for more._

\---

_Aldúya, 46 Lairë (28 June)_

\---

She tried to forget all about it.

The days passed slowly, like time was caught in a viscous river. Her routine was normal—see to her studies, help her sisters, attend court, repeat, repeat—but it all felt slightly out of balance. Like something had changed and, now, she was having difficulty adjusting to the way it had been before. Her head was in the clouds so often it was a wonder she got anything done at all since the Festival.

Humming, she buried her hands in the cool dampness of the soil, raked her fingers through it until they felt surrounded. Today was one of her free afternoons, spent in the greenhouses. It was so very different from all the time spent beneath the night sky, simple and calming and soothing in ways that the stars never could be. Not for her.

Even then, though, she found herself distracted. With dirt under her nails and rubbed into the lines of her palms, she reached out to stroke at soft green leaves. Today, she was tended the plants that had not yet bloomed beneath the sunlight and the humidity, even heavier and stickier inside the glass domes than it was outside mid-summer. Eruanna, however, had never minded the sweat or the smell, deep and rich. They were not the airy perfumes of ceremony, not the cloying sweetness nor the chill of wind on her face nor the feeling of falling into the nothingness of the heavens. Instead, warm and safe, it was all about touching the earth and feeling cradled.

Today, that scent reminded her of how it felt to have someone listen—really _listen_ —without any expectations or condescending. Today, the feel of the muggy heat reminded her of warmth seeping through her clothes, the touch of a hand gently upon her own. Today, the endless greenery reminded her of eyes, large and glowing bright, gentler than she would ever have imagined a man’s eyes could be.

Yes, today she was distracted. Carefully, she continued to stroke over leaves, tracing their delicate veins. In her mind, she wondered if her touches felt good upon the plant’s fronds, wondered how it would feel if someone stroked her palms so tenderly.

“My lady?”

Gasping quietly, she was yanked back into reality. Peering up, she squinted against the sunshine breaking through the glass ceiling and shattering through the leaves overhead, leaving them vibrantly glowing. Just barely, she could make out the face of the keeper of the greenhouses, Lady Tuilorië, standing over her in a loose tunic and trousers, apron in place and hands just as dirt-stained as Eruanna’s.

“Yes?” she acknowledged, wiping her hands on her own apron. “What is it?”

“You have been very distracted. I was wondering if you were feeling quite well. You have not moved from the corner back here for an hour and a half.” Tuilorië gave her a wide smile, kneeling next to her. “Usually, you prefer the flowers.”

Eruanna felt her cheeks fill out with color. She hardly wanted to admit—to the lady of the greenhouse or to anyone else—that she had come here because the color of the ferns in the sunlight had reminded her starkly of the shade of Carnistir’s eyes. What a terribly girlish thing to do, to say! Long since had she passed the age of a young apprentice more concerned with handsome men than her own studies!

However, she underestimated the intuition of her mentor. The golden-haired woman let out a soft laugh, the sort of sound that would make songbirds weep for jealousy, and Eruanna could almost swear that the nearby plants and flowers arched towards their mistress in longing to hear more, seeking her touch and her love as they sought water and sunlight. Even other Eldar were not immune to that pull, for Eruanna found herself relaxing, leaning closer. The disciple of Vána seemed to fill up the whole room with her sweetness, inviting and warm.

If there was anyone Eruanna would consider her confident, it would be this woman. Someone who would listen to her words without judgment. Someone who would give her advice that she needed to hear, rather than something filled with bias and vitriol, but also not something saccharine and filled with lies.

Not that she needed to say anything. “You have met a man,” Tuilorië concluded.

Ah, but her face was now rivaling Carnistir’s for the vividness of color beneath her skin! “I… might have done.”

“And you are not going to tell me about him?” her female companion asked, sitting cross-legged on the ground between the ferns and the citrus trees, not at all minding that she was going to have a dirt-stained rear end. “He must be something special for you to be so distracted! You have never so much as daydreamed about any of your handsome suitors at court.”

“The men at court are all boring and patronizing!” she bit out before she could stop herself. Thankfully, Tuilorië had no issue with hearing the truth and just smirked in amusement.

“So, you did not meet him at court then?”

Eruanna licked at her suddenly dry lips. “Well, I did not say that. I met him at the Midsummer Festival. My father attended the festivities in Tirion this year. He was hoping to gain some regard with King Arafinwë.”

Tuilorië’s eyebrows rose. “Is he of the Noldor then?”

Slowly, Eruanna nodded.

“There must be more to it than that for you to be so enamored after a single meeting,” the older female inferred. “He must be special for you to have grown so attached so quickly.”

“I… It is hard to explain.” _Where to begin? Where to begin?_ “I met him because I was daydreaming and I ran into him. Literally ran into him. Caused him to spill his wine everywhere, all over his boots and all over the front of my dress. It was hideously embarrassing!” Even now, her cheeks felt like they would melt down her face like candle wax should they grow any warmer.

“And then…” She almost sighed thinking about it. “And then he picked me up—as though I weigh nothing at all, naught but a feather, without so much as trembling or straining—and carried me away from the mess because he was worried that I would get my feet damp or step in broken glass and cut myself.”

Even thinking about it still had her feeling a little hot. Hotter than she should be even for wearing a loose gown in the greenhouse heat.

“A dashing rescue, then,” Tuilorië said with one of those smiles, parental and soft, as though looking upon an endearing puppy. “Is that why you cannot get him out of your head? It is not often that a woman has the chance to be treated with such valor.”

“A little, perhaps,” Eruanna agreed. “But if it had only been that I could maybe forget all about him and move on. It was just that, afterwards, he was so unbearably _sweet.”_

How to describe it?

“His sister-in-law agreed to help me find another dress to wear, kindly so. Then, when we came back, he was so very shy and nervous, offering apologies for picking me up without my permission and shifting from foot to foot like a boy speaking to a lady for the first time. For all that he was very tall and looked somewhat frightening, his face turns the most endearing shade of red when he is embarrassed, and he has freckles smattered all over his cheeks, almost as many as there are stars in the night sky. I asked him to favor me with a dance because he so impressed me, and he allowed me to pull him around all night like a doll. He looked into my eyes when he spoke, addressed me directly, _listened_ when I spoke to him and stated my opinions, and paid attention to my words as though they had worth, even when we were discussing things that are not normally the foray of a woman. And he had the sweetest little smile and this lovely rolling chuckle, as well, though it took so much work to wring them out of him that you would have thought smiling and laughing to be painful! And…”

She trailed off, realizing that she had said more than intended. Indeed, throughout her description, Tuilorië’s grin had only widened, blue eyes growing brighter and glimmering with excitement. “He sounds lovely, Lady Eruanna. If he was as enchanted with you as you are with him, surely he will come to visit you here?”

At that, a cold and bitter wind of disappointment sliced through the sunshine and wildflower-meadows of her heart-space, destroying the daydream that glowed rosy and soft around the edges behind her half-hooded eyes. For all that she knew he most definitely returned her regard, and for all that his gaze had rested upon her—all bashfully lowered lashes and shy little grins and besotted verdant eyes—as though she were the most beautiful woman in the whole room, she also knew who he was, knew his infamous House. Even without the stain of his past misdeeds (and she had such trouble imagining him even capable of such a sin as Kinslaying, for he seemed so gentle in spirit, so fiercely protective rather than aggressive and cruel), she doubted her father would have consented to a suit from a man of the Noldor.

With something so ugly following him about like a black cloud of sickness as did the name Fëanárion…

It must have shown on her face, like a shadow breaking over a green field filled with sunlight, leaving a marked dimness behind. Gray and cold and bringing the heart down as if by a leaden weight. Her smile, so wide at the remembrance of all the things about him that stuck with her in stark memory even now, faded away.

“There is not a chance that Atar would let him near me,” she admitted, shoulders slumping slightly with her sudden bought of melancholy. “He is not the sort that would be considered an appropriate consort for a devotee of Varda Elentári.”

“Is he not of the nobility?” Gently, her mentor laid a consolatory hand upon her shoulder, stroking back a tail of golden curls and rubbing against her stiff, curled shoulder blades.

“It is not that.” _Gracious me, he is far from being lesser than nobility! He was born the son of a Crown Prince!_ “His family does not have the sort of reputation with which my father would willingly seek association. Or even tolerate association.”

Amongst the Noldor, that really meant only one thing. “A former Exile?”

Wincing slightly, Eruanna nodded. It was not exactly a lie—Carnistir _was_ an Exile, if an infamous one—but it was not the whole truth of the matter either. Still, it was enough to ease any suspicion for the moment. Many of the Vanyar held those who dared not heed the words and bidding of the Valar in contempt, even those few who had gone into Exile without ever having spilled the blood of kin. There were a few welcome amongst the peaceful streets, gardens and markets of Valmar, but those such as Prince Findaráto had the benefit of relation to the King and his favor besides.

“That would certainly explain the impressive musculature.” Tuilorië sent her a wink, and Eruanna wondered that she was not a lost cause, for she was breathless at the reminder. It was not decent for a woman to be thinking about such things as the marriage bed long before she was even engaged (let alone married) but Eruanna had heard enough to know that there were benefits to a strong and fit mate. Even then, there was something so instinctually… pleasing… about a man who could lift her with such ease.

With interest, the other woman leaned in close. “Was he a warrior?”

“Yes,” she admitted, “But you would never have thought it with the way he acts. He seems so harmless, and he was so kind to me, a clumsy daydreaming girl who ran into him without warning and made a mess of his clothes and his evening.”

“It sounds to me like he did not mind,” her companion pointed out. “So, you believe your father would not approve?”

“I _know_ he will not approve,” Eruanna asserted. “On the Festival night there was an incident, a disagreement between some of the _unexpected_ guests of King Arafinwë, and I was feeling a bit peaky afterwards. He took me back to my father the moment I asked, but it was very clear that Atar was displeased with me for making friends in unwanted places.”

“Now you _have_ to explain this ‘incident’,” Tuilorië insisted. “What happened?”

Swallowing sharply, Eruanna recounted it. The crazy Telerin nobleman spouting off rude and inappropriate accusations against the House of Finwë for all to hear. Those blue eyes only got wider when she explained the presence of the Fëanárioni and their new sister-in-law as special guests of King Arafinwë and how, for a long minute, Eruanna had stared into the silver eyes of Turkafinwë Fëanárion and had seen death staring back, ready to devour up her and everyone else in a shower of white flame.

“I honestly thought he was going to strike the man down right there in the middle of the throne room,” she whispered.

Tuilorië shuddered as the shadow of dark deeds passed across their spirits.

“If you had not already admitted to being struck down by heartsickness for a handsome man, I would have thought _that_ would be quite enough to leave a woman dazed and occupied for days,” the older female murmured, rubbing her arms against the sudden chill that had momentarily taken them even in the hot afternoon sunlight. “Your Noldorin suitor had a chance to play knight for you a second time.”

“All he did was escort me back to Atar, nothing too ‘knightly’ about that,” Eruanna insisted, though it had felt awfully rescue-like at the time. The way Carnistir had stepped between her and danger without even hesitating. The way he had asked her what she wanted, if she wanted him to stay with her until she felt safe. The way he had spirited them away during the distraction to salvage her any further verbal abuse from the slighted Telerin nobleman.

“You say that, but your eyes say otherwise with how they go dreamy and faraway, and your lips say otherwise in their secret little smile.” Of course, someone so much older and with so much more experience would catch her for what she was—a cow-eyed young maiden sighing over a man.

_How embarrassing…_

Helpless, she giggled into the cup of her hands. In front of anyone else, perhaps, she would be worried about admitting to such things. But Tuilorië had been there for her through the most difficult times in her life and continued to be there whenever she needed support.

“I do not think anything will come of it,” she finally admitted, “But I still cannot help but imagine it, you know?”

“That is normal,” the other woman reassured.

 _Not according to my family._ She did not say that part, for both of them already knew how the House of Meneldëa regarded the importance of their study, ceremony and supplication to the Valar—and Manwë and Varda chief amongst them—over all else. They were not a House that allowed their men and women to pursue craft or love over duty. Next to the sacred pursuit of worship, what was a mere infatuation with a man but a silly distraction?

It made her feel both guilty and giddy.

Before either of them could say anything else, another of the gardeners appeared. “My Lady Eruanna,” the other female said with a quiet smile and mischievous eyes, “There is a man here for you. He said that they sent him on from the main house.”

Ah, how her heart fluttered as she conjured up an image of who it might be (as she wondered if it was _him_ come to see her, because would that not have been lovely?) even though she knew it was likely just a messenger. It was not uncommon for her to receive small gifts and missives from her suitors, their overtures of love dulled by their eagerness to use the excuse of visiting her or sending her presents to arrange for private words with her father instead. If she received _one more note_ about the shade of her eyes that ended in asking for a private audience with her family she was going to go mad! It was like these men thought her too dimwitted to realize that they were interested in her suit more because of the status marriage to an ordained servant of Varda of the House of Meneldëa would bring than anything to do with love! She had stopped falling for such tricks centuries ago!

Still, it was rude to keep a messenger waiting. They should not have to suffer for the pretentious nuisances that were the noblemen they served.

Wiping her hands on her apron, she stood and ignored the way the dirt stained the skirts of the old day-gown and how her curls stuck to her cheeks and neck from sweat and the damp heat of the greenhouse. “Show me to him, please.”

Tuilorië followed her out to the door, a towering white thing inlaid with delicate glass designs that scattered abstract patterns of rainbows all across the tiled floors. At least she hoped the had not left someone standing on the steps outside! But no, she could see a figure through the frosted glass. She stepped into the foyer looking more like a grimy gardener than a lady of her true status, halfway through tying her damp hair back at the nape of her neck, prepared to greet a courier or messenger with a kind smile despite the dirt smeared over one cheek.

Only to look up and meet the greenest eyes she had ever seen. For the second time. Taking all the air straight from her lungs in a rush of shock.

_Oh Valar! By Lady Varda and sweet Vána!_

There he was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:
> 
> Atar (Q) = Father  
> nésa (Q) = sister  
> amilessë (Q) = mother-name  
> Anar (Q) = the Sun  
> meldanya (Q) = my dear/my beloved  
> vennonya (Q) = my husband  
> vessenya (Q) = my wife  
> Fëanárioni (Q, p) = Sons of Fëanáro  
> Meneldëa (Q) = heavenly/of the Heavens


	30. Of Promises Made (Not) To Be Broken

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And we get second contact between shy Carnistir and the lovely Eruanna.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: hopelessly in love flirting, flowers, trauma from past emotional abuse, religious undertones, random OFC POV
> 
> Maedhros = Maitimo = Nelyafinwë = Nelyo  
> Maglor = Makalaurë = Kanafinwë = Káno  
> Celegorm = Tyelkormo = Turkafinwë = Turko  
> Caranthir = Carnistir = Morifinwë = Moryo  
> Curufin = Atarinkë = Curufinwë = Curvo  
> Amrod = Ambarussa = Pityafinwë = Pityo  
> Amras = Umbarto = Telufinwë = Telvo

_Aldúya, 46 Lairë (28 June)_

\---

There she was.

His last days had been spent thinking of little else but her. Yet, somehow, nothing his imagination conjured could prepare him for her reality. Not the way her hair gleamed in the afternoon sunlight, shining bright and golden, braided through with little scattered droplets of rainbows. Not the way she glided, her gown swishing about her slender legs, damp and outlining her form beneath where it clung and stuck in the greenhouse humidity. Not the way she smiled, the way her eyes lit up like the daytime sky, when she recognized his face.

Without hesitation, she came forth and left him reeling. For all that his feet were planted firmly upon the earth, she could have knocked him over with a mere brush at that moment, so overwhelmed did he feel! Instead, she stood on tiptoe and pressed a kiss to his cheek, left him with the prickling heat crawling beneath his skin and a helpless grin curving across his lips.

“Carnistir!” she gasped out. “I would not have expected you to come calling! Oh, I would give you a hug, but I am rather covered in dirt right now!”

The frustration in her voice mixed with the words (Sweet Eru, she wanted to give _him_ a _hug?)_ had his words stalled in the back of his throat, glued to his clumsy tongue. “I… It hardly matters if you dirty my clothes, Eruanna. They see much worse than a little dirt most days.”

It was quite true. He was not dressed to his status today, for he was not one of his frumpy cousins to wear their best velvet cloaks and white tunics while riding about. That was just asking for some permanent stains and some unfixable tears to ruin expensive cloth. Today, he was dressed more to fit the image cultivated in Aman of barbarian Kinslayers living out in the wild, mostly light cloth sewn simply, boots that were scuffed and mud-stained, and nothing to speak at all of jewels or finery. No one looking at him would think that he was the son of a Prince. Today, he was just a hunter and a warrior… and, also, a messenger.

“Oh… Well then…” He had not really thought his words through. Not at all. Because, once she had decided that there was no worry for his clothing, she embraced him tightly around the waist. Her face was buried up against his shoulder, and he winced to think that he smelled like horse and travel dust and sweat.

When there was nothing in the way of disgust, though, he felt the tension in his muscles relax. Carefully, with the hand not occupied with a package, he traced across her back, over her shoulder blades, and had her wrapped in a half-embrace. Beneath her cheek, his heart raced.

“What are you doing here?” she asked when she finally pulled away.

For long moments, he was too stunned to think of what to say. Her color was high today, flushed from exertion and heat, her soft and unblemished skin gleaming slightly from sweat, some still beaded at her temples. It looked far too much like the sort of heightened color he had seen on his brother and Istelindë after they had snuck off for some fun in the backyard or off in the forest or hidden up in the lofts—all over the place, recently.

Resolutely, he ignored the throb of heat in his gut at the thought what sorts of things might make Eruanna look this way. There was a brief moment where he wondered what it would be like to use his tongue to catch the bead of sweat trailing down her cheek, and that did nothing to help. Now was really, _really_ not the right time for that. _Really._

“Truthfully, Istelindë asked me to come as a favor. She had some things to return to you,” he admitted, holding up the package, “But I rather liked the idea of visiting. It would have been less of a hassle to just send a courier, but I thought… if you were not adverse… that we might…”

Eru! _Eru!_ What was he supposed to be saying again? Asking her to go with him somewhere? His brain was scrambled to the four winds at the moment.

Tongue-tied as he was, she still seemed to understand, and her face glowed. “I could show you around if you want! You never said if you had been to Valmar before.”

 _Thank the Valar she is more coherent than I!_ If it had been left up to him, this whole meeting would have immediately spiraled down into disastrous territory. Unresisting, he allowed her to loop one of her arms through one of his, tugging him deeper into the greenhouse rather than pushing him away. It gave him that traitorous feeling of hope, that giddy feeling rising up in his belly that felt too much like a glass too much of alcohol mixed with the high of coming out of battle alive and (mostly) in one piece.

“It has been a very long time.” The last time he had been in Valmar, he had been _very_ young. He was not quite certain the twins had even been conceived yet. Curufinwë might even have been a babe in arms. “My father… He was not particularly fond of the Vanyar.”

_Not particularly fond is a bit of an understatement._

But Eruanna did not know much about Fëanáro, not enough to know anything about his blistering hatred for the Vanyar and their painfully restrictive, provincial ways, nor their penchant for stating harsh truths showered in unnecessary fluff and flowery language. Honestly, Morifinwë could not say that he was much fonder of the Vanyar as a whole than his father had been, but that may have had more to do with Indis and the way she had tried to turn Finwë’s head away from the children spawned from his first marriage, blatantly (and sometimes cruelly) favoring her own children and their children over Fëanáro’s line.

Indis was nothing at all like Eruanna, though. He knew that much. Breathed it in and felt drunk on the sweetness.

“Well, you are here already. Let me show you around the greenhouses,” she insisted. “There are still flowers in need of watering. After that, though, we could go and find a café, have a late afternoon snack.”

He would do pretty much anything she wanted. Flowers were far from his area of expertise—in fact, he knew nothing at all about them beyond the fact that they were lovely, colorful and tended to smell nice—but he would have followed her around listening to her talk all day no matter what the content. Besides, she seemed so _excited_ about it that he did not think he could bear to disappoint her even if he was not particularly looking forward to the heat and dampness inside the greenhouse.

Well, there were worse things. It could certainly not outdo standing in front of the forge fire for hours on end, sweating like a pig while his father stood over his shoulder glaring at his failures and he struggled not to burst into tears. At least here all he needed to do was listen.

Given that he was having trouble looking away from her as she dragged him through the doors and into the shady inner sanctum filled with fruit trees, palms and multitudes of exotic flowers, he doubted that he was going to have trouble paying attention. At least, not to the way her lips moved. He was much more interested in watching her talk about the first flower they approached—a graceful-looking purple and yellow thing with five spiraling petals and a cloying scent—than in thinking about his overbearing father and his tyrannical running of Morifinwë’s childhood home. It did not even matter that he forgot the name of the flower almost as soon as she spoke it, for her fingers were tracing across the petals as she was explaining some complexities of soil drainage, watering routines and the amount of phosphate in the dirt and how it affected when and how much the plant bloomed.

For a long while, he tripped his way through the overgrown paths after her as she danced barefoot through the greenery, overwhelmed by the vivid scents, the sounds of songbirds and the excess of butterflies and bumblebees, but more so taken with her sweet voice and her vibrant blue eyes. He had probably heard more names of flowers in the last two hours than he had ever known existed. He was hot, sweatier than he had been after spending a long morning and midday on the journey to Valmar, and was more than happy to sit down in the dirt next to Eruanna and sip at fresh, cool water taken straight from their clear-as-crystal indoor spring. It was like stepping into a strange dream where everything in the world was soft and beautiful, fuzzy around the edges and slow-moving, as if the air had turned viscous.

 _It is the humidity,_ his mind insisted dizzily as Eruanna sat down beside him with her own cup of water and delicately sipped.

Now that there were a few moments of silence, he continued to take her in. Today, her garb was so simple, her hair tied back in a single tail except for the wisps that stuck to her cheeks, begging his fingers to brush them back. There was no lip-stain, no paint around her eyes, no jewels set at her throat or ruby combs in her hair nor intricate flower-braids.

“I am so sorry, I have kept you holed up in the heat talking your ear off about flowers of all things! Hardly a masculine pursuit,” she apologized, reaching out to brush back his hair as well, the loose strands that had escaped his simple braid and hung limply in his face.

“I care little for whether it is considered a womanly pursuit or a manly pursuit, Eruanna,” he found himself saying. “It pleases me enough that you love it. If you want to talk about flowers, I would not object.”

“Maybe we have had enough of flowers for the day, though it is sweet of you to say that.” She leaned in close, and with every inch she drew nearer he felt his cheeks getting redder.

Impulsively, he caught her hand. Maybe it was from watching too much of Nelyafinwë coaxing and romancing his wife, but Morifinwë’s first thought was to kiss her wrist and assure her that she was _not_ being silly and that he _really_ did not mind if she wanted to wax poetic on flowers until the sun sank below the horizon. He settled for brushing his lips across her knuckles, however.

It was safer, considering that her golden-haired friend, the other gardener, was hiding about ten feet away behind a fruit tree heavy with pomegranates. He probably should not do anything that would not meet the approval of the average chaperone. The Vanyar, from the little that he knew, were even stricter about such things than the Noldorin elite.

“Well, if you have no more tales of flowers to regale me with, what would you have us spend the rest of the afternoon doing?” he asked with a curl to his lips.

“If you do not mind being seen in public with me looking like a common gardener, perhaps some food would be a good idea? I am a bit hungry after so much walking. Would that I could bring you back here after sunset and moonrise, for the night-blooming flowers are still asleep, but I doubt that anyone would approve of a lady and lord wandering the greenhouses alone at such a late hour.”

If he had been as daring and dauntless as Curufinwë, he probably would have suggested they sneak back in anyway. But Morifinwë was not his dashing younger brother, nor any of his courageous (and sometimes slightly insane) older brothers. Of all the Fëanárioni, he was perhaps the least likely to seek out mischief, the least likely to break the rules.

Even being here at all was pushing his limits. On the way here, he had certainly received some strange and somewhat disapproving looks, for he was very clearly not of Vanyarin blood. It was only because of his good luck in that he was not recognizable enough to be outright identified as a member of the House of Fëanáro that he had not been thrown from the city. Certainly, the looks he had gotten from the house servants when he had asked for Lady Eruanna had been strange and somewhat horrified, wondering that a scruffy man was calling after a woman of their esteemed household. It was only because he was _pretending_ to be a messenger that they had told him where to find her at all.

Well, if he was going to continue along with this insane plan to court a high-standing woman of the Vanyar, her family was going to figure him out. And sooner rather than later. There was no real need to hide it. Waiting would make their resistance no easier to swallow than it would be at the beginning.

He was going to have to make the most of this first day or two before his identity became common knowledge amongst the nobility and the common folk. That was when the staring would begin in truth.

Until then…

“Maybe we can consider nighttime rendezvouses for another time. For now, some food sounds excellent,” he agreed with a small grin.

Her cheeks filled out with color. “Let us go then. I have until dark before I absolutely should be back home.”

As though he would let her wander off on her own now.

Pushing himself to his feet, he reached down to help her as well, stricken by the golden glow refracting through the windows and lighting up her hair, strands of molten gold more beautiful than anything he had ever seen for all the thousands of times he had worked with the metal beneath his clumsy hands at the forge. Here, it was not surrounded by fell fire, red light and vicious star-eyes, but alighted with the green of growing things and the multicolored shades of a thousand flowers.

“You take my breath away,” he whispered without meaning to.

“Do not say such things!” She laid a soft smack against his arm, looking away shyly. For all that, though, her eyes seemed unable to stay away, flashing beneath her pale eyelashes to meet his gaze. “I am wearing rags and covered in sweat! Were it not for how sweet the greenhouse always smells, I am certain I would be quite ripe. So my sisters always say when I return to the house after a long day of working with the flowers and the fruit trees.”

“My lady, Eruanna, I have gone to war. You have to do better than a little bit of sweat and dirt to offend my nose.”

He would rather not explain to her that, in those days, dirt and layers of sweat were normal and acceptable. Nothing at all compared to the stink of orcs, spilled entrails and the overwhelming stench of blood. Even sweaty after a long day of work, Eruanna still smelled a thousand times better, like the earth with an undertone of sweetness.

“Well, I suppose I should be relieved.” She grasped his hand and led him through the labyrinth of flora, back towards the door now spitting a watercolor of sunset shades across the foyer as dusk began to fall upon their heads. “There is this lovely little bakery on the corner just at the end of this street. They are quite used to me showing up looking like a common working girl, so they should not be surprised to see me lacking clean clothes and styled hair. You do not mind, do you, that it is not something more substantial?”

“It is not a problem,” he insisted. “I can eat later at the inn.”

The doors were opened, spilling them out onto the front steps. Morifinwë took a deep breath, relishing in the coolness outside now that the sun was not blazing down onto his shoulders directly from above. Still, it was rather a loss to lose the mixture of natural scents of flowers, herbs and the musk of the earth.

His stomach rumbled as it instead picked up the scent of freshly-baked bread. Maybe not such a terrible trade-off after all.

At the sound, Eruanna giggled. “Come on, this way.”

Nearly tripping over his own boots, he made to follow her, hand-in-hand the whole way. And, for once, it was easy to ignore the stares.

He had no eyes for anyone but her.

\---

Tuilorië had been around for a _long time._

That was, in fact, perhaps putting her age lightly. As long as the greenhouses had been standing in the heart of Valmar, she had been here with them. Their caretaker and mistress. From long years beneath the tutelage of Vána and the Ever-young’s many servants, she had learned all she knew and had taken that knowledge with her to create this place that she regarded as her home. Millions upon millions of flowers had bloomed here, and just as many trees had bourn fruit beneath her hands, and she had had more apprentices of her trade than she could count. Each and every one she loved as dearly as she loved her green and growing things, for they were as close to children as she had ever had.

Eruanna was amongst their number. For all that the girl had been born into a family whose trade and worship were in the reading of the sky and the stars, their young daughter had a heart for flora, for touching the earth with her bare hands and feet, for taking delight in nurturing and growing. Tuilorië could not deny that she thought of the girl as something of a daughter.

So, naturally, she took interest in all her daughter’s doings, within and without the city. One day, soon, Eruanna would have to take vows of service to Varda and would leave this place forever. Until then, the devotee of Vána would watch over her.

Thus, it was that she felt it her solemn duty to make a judgment on this most recent suitor who came calling on one of her girls. Not a poetic and proper Vanyarin man, but one of the Noldor. A deep-elf and, if Eruanna had been truthful, a former Exile. Hardened folk who had seen too much of the world, who could be dangerous if rumors were to be believed. All the Vanyar, herself included, were wary of those who had gone to Exile in the Hither Lands, of their potential for violence and other dark deeds of mind and spirit.

So, she looked upon this dark stranger.

Her first glimpse of him gave the impression of bad temper.

There was no doubt that he was Noldorin—as Noldorin as a man could get, built like he had been bred for crafting that required breadth and strength, face all hard angles and sharp lines, with pitch-dark hair and a hint of redheaded blood in the freckles dappling his cheeks, lending just a bit of softness to his features—and Tuilorië could see the pure physical appeal. For all that he was frowning, he was still an incredibly handsome man. Still tall and strong and just as beautiful in face and form as any vanya.

His eyes were green. So green that it was hard to look away for their vivid brightness. It was a striking color of rich earthy things, and she realized suddenly why it was that, for the past days, Eruanna had been tending the green things rather than seeking out the comfort of the flowers and the fruit-bearing trees.

And then, upon seeing Eruanna, he smiled and seemed to lose thousands of years from his eyes. And all Tuilorië could see was the smitten, boyish softness underneath all that hardened exterior. My, but it had been a _long_ time since she had seen a man look so enamored! All shy-eyed and red-cheeked, stuttering over his words as he stared like Eruanna fresh from an afternoon in the greenhouse was the prettiest thing he had ever laid eyes upon, like a boy who had never courted before and had no idea what he was doing.

Who knew, maybe he had never done. The Exiles had gone to war, and one did not marry during times of strife.

The ill-tempered fiend had vanished, a mirage in the hot sun that dissolved as soon as one drew too close. He did not give a single protest as Eruanna dragged him away, babbling all sorts of things about flowers that he likely neither knew nor cared about but seemed happy enough to hear just because it made her happy. Too many times had she seen a man interrupt his girl, tell her he “was not interested in flowers” before asking politely to go elsewhere.

Yet, he did nothing to stop her. The man might as well have been twice the size of the object of his affection, strong enough to lift her easily (according to Eruanna’s stories) and yet seemed completely powerless against the force of a few smiles and sugar-coated laughter. Not a single complaint about being talked at, about being pulled through the veritable jungle inside the greenhouse, about being too hot or uncomfortable though his hair was beginning to stick to his face and neck from the damp heat. Nothing either was said about Eruanna’s state of dress, about her simple hairstyle or her dirt-stained gown.

Well, Tuilorië supposed, as she watched them from a safe distance, that he did not really _look_ like nobility. Eruanna claimed that he was, but he certainly had not dressed the part.

Furthermore, not a single untoward gesture. How many times had some man thought he could just whisk a girl away to the back corner of the greenhouses to try and kiss her senseless or tug at her gown! But, clearly, this one was the old-fashioned type, all courtly gestures and hand-kissing. By the end of his visit, she could not help but find the couple to be enchanting, and she was significantly more open towards the idea of this strange noldo courting one of her girls.

Watching them slip away, heading down the street with their hands entwined, she could only hope that others would see the same potential. That Eruanna’s strict family would see what she was seeing—that this stranger was being so impossibly gentle and sweet to their girl, a gesture that was rarer now in men than Tuilorië liked to admit—and not break their daughter’s heart by callously denying the suit even a chance of blossoming into more.

And the older woman could not help but sigh. Would that she could get a man to treat her that way, she might have children of her own.

Alas… She trailed her fingers across the plumeria blooms as she went back inside. She had plenty of children already. Thousands and thousands of them. And she did not just mean the trees and flowers that yearned for her touch in the gardens.

That was enough for her, but…

She did not think it would be enough for Eruanna.

\---

By the time the sun was setting in truth, Eruanna wished she did not have to return back home. More than content would she be to stay here, at the little bakery on the corner, talking to her suitor for hours on end while they generously split croissants and muffins between them.

“So, was that awful man speaking the truth about your brother and cousin then? You know… at the Festival?” she was asking, though her mind was distracted by the way he had dark stains from blueberries on his lips and tongue, with wondering if he would taste like blueberries as well if she leaned over and—

“Probably,” he admitted. “Turkafinwë has never been one for following rules. And neither has Írissë, for that matter. They got into all sorts of trouble as children.”

“They have known each other for a long while then?” 

“Oh, yes.” He gave a put-upon sigh, and she as distracted again by his lips, the way they curved gently. “They were unbearable! For some reason, Turko took a shine to Curufinwë, but he absolutely despised having me around. Something about hating that he had to tote me around on all his adventures. I am still his favorite to pick on, I think, most days, and it was a coin’s toss whether Írissë would assist him or pull him away.”

It was so… normal. In a fascinating sort of way. Just like Eruanna had favored siblings, just like she got along better with some than with others, he, too, seemed to have favorites. When he talked about his older brother that way, long-suffering and painfully fond but also filled with annoyance, he seemed like just another ordinary man. It was shocking to think that the infamous Fëanárioni were, in many ways, just like any other family with the same childhood problems, like bullying older siblings and overbearing parents.

Granted, she had not dared to broach the topic of Fëanáro. It seemed like it would be dangerous to poke and prod at what, she suspected, was still an open and festering wound. Asking about his brothers was much safer.

And, besides that, she just enjoyed hearing him talk. Once he got past the light stuttering and the obvious bashfulness, he had such a soothing voice. Dreamily, she watched his lips move, then looked up and met his eyes, not hearing a single word that was coming out of his mouth while she admired the sharp lines of his features in the red glow of the sunset spilling in through the window.

Until he paused. “It is getting rather late. Should I escort you home?”

Ah, how many times she had heard that very question! In most cases, she insisted that it was not necessary, for she was often desperate to be out of the company of whatever dull man her father thought would make the perfect husband for her on any given week. This time, though, she rather wanted the extra few minutes that the walk home would afford.

“You are right,” she agreed. “My parents will worry if I stay out too much longer.”

Sweetly, he pulled out her chair and offered her a hand. It made her heart flutter to feel how his fingers curled around hers, warm and powerful, rough to her touch. With ease, he pulled her to her feet, letting their twined hands swing in the small space between their bodies.

Really, she should not do something so forward as hand-holding in public either. But her brain was not functioning particularly rationally. The very thought of pulling away seemed like a monumental mistake, for it would pull her away from his heat, from the safety of his height and the wideness of his shoulders. Standing like this, next to him, she was overwhelmed by how much taller he was all over again.

“Home then?” A dark brow rose.

“Home,” she agreed breathlessly.

Comfortable silence fell between the pair as they left the bakery and wandered down the streets. The sun was setting, giving Valmar a pearly, golden glow, broken with streaks of reds and pinks, flashes of light whenever Anar reflected sharply off the tall, arching windows of the townhouses and manors as they moved into the more residential areas of the city.

It was even stranger to see a dark-haired man in these parts of town, and many stopped to stare as they wandered by, both dressed more like common folk than royalty or nobility. Shyly, she tucked herself closer, wondering why all the eyes suddenly bothered her so, because she often got stares on her way home after a long day of work, looking more like a gardener than a lady. But then, many of them knew who she was, recognition flashing through their gazes, swift-followed by disapproval and suspicion as they settled on her companion. Releasing a huff, she wrapped her arm firmly through his own and set her jaw.

“People are staring,” she commented.

“They always do,” he answered, apparently unconcerned. “It will be even worse once they realize who I am. Right now, I am just a strange Noldorin visitor courting a Vanyarin woman, a rare enough sight. Once they know my family name, I would not be surprised if they made a strong attempt to bar me from the city altogether.”

At that, her heart felt leaden. “Will you not be back, then?”

Their eyes met, and he offered her a reassuring smile. “Eruanna, if you want me to come back, of course I will. None but Ingwë himself can ban someone from the city entirely. I am used to some disapproval wherever I go.”

Part of her understood. Until meeting him—until speaking to him about his amilessë, hearing about he and his brothers having normal sibling spats, dragging him around talking about flowers, watching him eat pastries and stain his tongue blue—she would have been every bit as harsh and wary towards a Kinslayer as any one of these people. Maybe worse, for she was a servant of the Valar and the One, and he had committed a sin that most found unimaginable to even contemplate, let alone carry out. By all rights, she should never have even spoken to him after he had apologized at the Festival.

But he did not seem like the sort of man who would commit evil acts without any cause or explanation, and certainly not for sport. Nothing about imagining Carnistir as a bloodthirsty madman slaughtering innocent mariners seemed _right._ Honestly, what with how gentle he was in spirit, she could scarcely imagine such a thing.

And she did not want to _ask_ about it. Ask him how he could have taken an innocent’s life in the cold blood. It was not the sort of topic one encountered in polite conversation.

At the end of all her thoughts, though, she merely found herself saddened. Saddened that he was resigned to being hated the moment the people of Valmar knew his name. Saddened that he would have to deal with such hate and fear just in order to come and see her. It was almost tempting to tell him to go and not come back, because what kind of woman would wish that sort of pain on a man she favored. But…

But the idea of him going away hurt as well. This afternoon had been just as lovely as the previous evening they had shared together. More enjoyable than any time she had spent with a man in a long while before or since the Festival. Even now, he was looking to her for her opinion, had given her a _choice_ to ask him to stay or send him off.

And she wanted him to stay.

“If… If you do not mind…” she finally said even as they came to a stop outside her parents’ manor, standing together at the base of the white marble steps leading up to the front door. A large, raised stone patio, ostentatious even by the standards of the rich for its carved columns holding up the golden-shingled overhang, awaited her ascension. “If you do not mind,” she repeated, “I would very much like it if you would come back to see me.”

His soft laughter was a beautiful thing. Gently, he kissed her knuckles. “Very well, my lady. I shall return on the morrow. I assume your father will be in?”

Breathlessly, she blinked up at his face. “My… my father?”

“If one wishes to court a woman, it is the standard to ask her father for permission, even amongst we barbarian Noldor,” he teased, though his cheeks were growing rosy. “I know that his response will likely not be favorable, but it seems not right to continue without being honest with your family.”

“Are… are you sure you should?” Nervously, she wrung her hands. “I do not think he would allow me to see you again if he… if he knows.”

“I did not say that his permission was essential to continue. Just… it would be preferable.” Carnistir licked his lips, wetting them. “My lady, Eruanna, I… I am fond of you, and I want to see you again as long as that is what you want. I may not be as wild and pretentious as my brothers, older or younger, but when a Fëanárion wants something, they do not stop until they get what they desire. And I desire to spend more time at your side. My father’s temperament may have passed me by, but his stubbornness certainly did not. As long as _you_ want me here, _your_ opinion is the one that matters to me. Not your father’s.”

Eruanna swallowed sharply. Never had she done anything to outright defy her parents, especially her father. Not in her studies. Not in her worship. And not in her social life.

To openly consort with a Kinslayer without the permission of her father…

She should not encourage this. It had the potential to ruin her. If her father, when he found out about this, decided she was not to see Carnistir again, she should demurely nod and accept his decision like a good, obedient daughter. She should absolutely not feel the excitement bubbling up in her belly that Carnistir had promised to come to see her no matter what her father said, and she certainly should not feel delight at how _romantic_ it was to have a man so devoted to her that he was willing to face down the wrath of her family—and, potentially, of her people—just because she asked him to do so.

Simultaneously, she was elated and horrified, her fingers trembling as she reached up to brush back his dark hair from his cheek, just brushing against the tip of his ear. “You barely even know me,” she whispered.

Against her cheek, the touch of his fingers burned, tracing over a cheekbone, up to her temple, a thumb tracing over her dark blonde eyebrow. Helplessly, she looked into his eyes and counted the shades of green, listed the different plants whose leaves carried the same beautiful shades. It left her short of breath, her heart throbbing in the back of her throat, in the veins of her wrists, in the pit of her belly. Beneath his intensity, she shivered.

“How would I ever get to know you if I gave up and walked away so easily?” he whispered. “I will go… but only if you order me to stay away.”

“No, I… I do not want you to stay away,” she answered, her voice a soft tone almost covered by the late evening din of the chatting of passerby. “Come back and see me tomorrow, Carnistir. I would love that. I wish it.”

“If that is what you wish…” He lifted her hand to kiss her knuckles again. “I shall see you in the morning, Eruanna.”

He left her at the porch with a package in her arms, staring after him with her breath caught in her throat and her skin tingling where his lips had touched. Her eyes trailed after his form as he slipped out into the darkened streets, the last bit of sunlight only reaching the tops of the roofs and trees now, leaving everywhere below cast in shadow. She lost sight of him as he passed beneath the trees, blending into the night.

Slowly, she moved beneath the white-glowing lanterns up onto the porch, reaching the front door with her feet moving as if with a mind of their own, for her own thoughts were a thousand leagues away and lost in his eyes. Clumsily, she grasped at the door’s handle, her fingers trembling faintly on the cool metal.

Slipping inside, she was met with warmth. Until then, she had not even noticed how cold the night air was in comparison to the powerful heat of the afternoon sun in the greenhouses. Only now that he was out of her reach, no longer radiating warmth beneath her hands and against her side, did she feel the gooseflesh arise on her skin. Her sweat had long since dried, leaving her clammy and shaking not only from the remembrance of his touch on her cheek (of the warmth gathering tightly beneath her navel) but also with chill.

She made it barely a few feet inside before she heard a door open off to the side. One of the parlors shone with the light of a burning hearth. With a sudden dread, she half-expected to see her father peering out at her.

But no. Just one of her older sisters.

“Where have you been?” Ankalimë asked quietly. “You are usually home well before dark, even on days when you waste away in the greenhouses.”

Automatically, Eruanna bit back a sharp retort. Just because her time was not spent learning the old scripture or singing hymns to Varda did not mean it had been _wasted,_ for the care and keeping of growing things was every bit as lovely and important as the beauty and light of the stars. Yet, she had had that argument so many times before—thousands, it seemed, to no avail—that she knew better than to think that anything would come of it now.

It did rather ruin her mood, though. The floating feeling of awe that had suffused her skin and settled as a golden mist over her thoughts was now being driven away by the cold reality of her situation. “You were watching out the window.”

“Indeed,” her sister admitted. “You have a suitor. One Atar knows not about.”

“Come tomorrow, he will,” she swiftly countered. “Carnistir said that he was going to visit and ask for permission to court me. So, there is no need to go and tattle.”

“It matters not whether I tell him, I suppose,” her sister said, voice distant. Not unkind, but neither supportive nor friendly. “Atar would never allow one of his daughters to court a man of the Noldor. For all that I sensed no malice in him when he looks at you, he is still not of our ken, not of the Minyar.”

 _Hang being of the Minyar._ That was what she wanted to say. What did it matter that he was not a pure descendent of the fourteen who awoke with pure golden hair and eyes the color of the twilight sky? Hardly anyone could claim to be even of pure Vanyarin descent, let alone Minyarin, as her own family claimed to be. If she needed to limit herself to choose amongst only those satisfying such restrictive criteria, she doubted she would find a single man in all Valinórë to whom she was not already distantly (or not so distantly) related!

Why did it matter what color his hair was or who his grandparents were or what Vala he chose to honor or not to honor? He was kind and sweet, and he listened to her when she spoke. If she told him her secrets, he would not turn away from her in scorn.

Not like her family. Not like her sisters.

Eruanna bit back her resentment. As she always did.

Ankalimë let out a put-upon sigh. “You are right. Come morning, it will not matter. Atar will take one look at him and send him away. I need not bother to speed the process.” Sweeping past Eruanna, she took to the staircase in a swish of her gown overlaid with a long violet robe. “Have a pleasant night, nésa.”

Stubbornly, Eruanna refused to return the gesture. Not that her sister seemed bothered by her cold silence, not even glancing back over her shoulder as she reached the landing and disappeared into the shadows above.

Slowly, the younger woman deflated, feeling the stiffness of her shoulders ease and the tight expansion of her lungs empty. Much as she hated to admit it, Ankalimë was right. Nothing Carnistir said or did would make him a worthy candidate to marry into this family. Not even had he been of the Noldor but not an Exile, but not a Kinslayer, would it have made any difference. Frustratingly, she knew it was a lost cause. Just as her own distraction with pursuits of the earth and of the spring was a lost cause.

In the end, did it matter?

_But he said he would come back. As long as I desire it, he said he would return, no matter what my father wants._

Who else in all Valmar—Nay, in all Valinórë!—would claim as such? Few were there who were undaunted by the high status and acclaim granted to her family. Amongst the Vanyar, the House of Meneldëa had few equals, the favor of Manwë and of the King. No one would dare to spit upon that.

 _No one but a man who had turned his back on the Valar before,_ she thought to herself, caught between shuddering at the thought of spilled blood in the water and rejoicing secretly for the warmth of affection in her breast. _Could even such a reputation frighten off a Fëanárion?_

If Carnistir was even a fraction so bold and so outrageous and so terrifying as his brothers—as stern-faced Nelyafinwë who married a Princess of Alqualondë, or as fey-eyed Turkafinwë who flaunted his illicit affairs with his own cousin—she doubted it. Fear of consequences or of retribution seemed a trifling thing to the Fëanárioni, and it made her heart pound to think of what true terrors they might have experienced to make the wrath of powerful men seem so meaningless.

Was Eruanna even a sliver so brave as all that? She _feared_ her father and his reaction to her desires, to her fondness for a cursed and tainted man. She _feared_ what would happen should she turn her back on her duty and birthright and strike out on her own path. She was not like Carnistir and his ilk: not fearless, not ready to throw away everything she knew and loved on a gamble, not ready to face the unknown without her family at her back.

Could she ever be? Was it really fair to ask Carnistir to stay at all?

Come tomorrow, she would have no choice but to make a decision. It was inevitable that her father would deny even the chance to court, let alone a suit. The question was… Did she give in without a fight and obey, or…?

Or would she be as willing to fight for a chance with a man she barely knew as he was willing to fight for a chance to know her?

\---

On the outside, Morifinwë looked every inch his normal charming self. That was to say, he looked ready to behead someone with a rusty blade, and people cleared out of his way eagerly, sensing that he was not in the mood for polite socializing and pleasantries. Thankfully, the innkeeper was a plenty intuitive man, and he asked nothing more than for payment for room and board. Had he tried to hassle for more, Morifinwë might very well have snarled at the man like a rabid dog.

Yes, on the outside he was every bit his namesake.

On the inside, he was decidedly panicked.

He had spent an absolutely wonderful afternoon with a beautiful woman who not only tolerated but seemed to genuinely _enjoy_ his presence and attention. And then he had walked her home as was proper, kissed her hand on her father’s doorstep and bade her goodnight.

Not without promising to return.

 _What have I gotten myself into now?_ A bit hysterical, he locked himself into his room and ripped his boots off, tossing them somewhere towards the corner. He then proceeded to pull at the sweat-stiff, ruined braids of his tangled, dark hair, viciously jerking at the knots with his fingers until they came undone.

 _What am I even doing?_ He could not help but think the words again and again, relaying over and over the promise he had given to Eruanna. An oath, some might even call it.

_I am going to go and talk to her father in the morning. And he is probably going to summon the city guards to lop my head off for daring to boldly enter the city, pant after his daughter and then foolishly beg for the privilege of courting her for her hand in marriage. Every ounce of this whole plan, from start to finish, is insane. I should just go home and forget about all of this. Forget all about her._

Feeling every bit as overfull with distress and with nerves as he had the very night he had raised his sword and sworn that thousand-times damned Oath for his father, he hurried to sit down. If he did not take his knees out from under his weight, he thought they might give way. Either that, or he might throw up all over his feet.

_It would be better for both of us if I stayed away._

But Eruanna had not asked him to leave. She had asked him to stay.

Panting sharply through his nose, he wondered if he had not gone quite mad and imagined the whole episode. Was this whole afternoon just some fever-dream and he was lying sun-sick on the side of the road somewhere between Tirion and Valmar?

But then, surely not? He had felt her all around him. Seen her more vividly than any daydream could portray. Smelled her scent of earth and roses on the back of his tongue. Brushed his thumb across the softness of her eyebrow and tangled his fingers in her lustrous golden curls. No imagination, no matter how canny or how creative, could have conjured all of that, surely?

_She asked me to stay. She wishes for me to return._

If he had not already been heartsick for her, he certainly was _now._

Tempting as it was to take the coward’s way out and flee, he instead swallowed down the feeling of sickness and firmly planted the soles of his feet upon the hardwood floor, trying to slow his breaths and still the nervous movement of his hands where they curled in his sleeves and twisted. Slowly, his racing heart calmed in that eerie way he had felt before only on the eve of a battle. Dramatic though it might be, this reminded him all too much of knowing that, on the morrow, he may be marching off to a war from which he would certainly return changed.

Battles had a way of doing that. Of changing a man. Even if he lived, even if he slipped by unscathed, it always left its mark.

But he was not going to run away. For was this not a battle? One that involved none of the swords and spears that felt so (horribly) familiar in his palms, nor the smell of spilled blood and excrement and mud (replaced with the saccharine scent of flowers that left him gagging) nor the potential for death of the body should all fail and fall to ruin, but a battle all the same.

Battles of the spirit could be just as damaging and just as dangerous. Living with Fëanáro had taught him that, painfully and cruelly, from the moment he was old enough to understand the pain that words and actions could inflict upon another.

Breathing in sharply, he exhaled, long and slow. And tried not to think about his father at all. Tried to think about _her_ instead. Failed and tried. And failed and tried again.

_I would not disappoint her so. Not to spare myself shame or embarrassment or misery._

_I do not want to disappoint her like I disappointed him._

_I am not going to stay silent nor give in without a fight._

_I am not going to run away._

On the morrow, he would go. And, if this battle was lost and Eruanna’s father turned him away, as well he might, Morifinwë would do exactly as he had promised. For a single lost battle did not lose the war.

Until she told him to leave with words from her own two lips, with a cold look of rejection in her soft blue eyes, he would keep coming back to her. Again, and again until he got what he wanted—and what _she_ wanted. Because that was what men of the House of Fëanáro did. They stuck to their word and fought to the very end.

And here would his father have made a sarcastic, spiny comment about the fourth son’s lack of spine, about his craven heart and his legs forged of jelly.

_But fuck the memory of Fëanáro calling him a spineless coward._

He would not let his father ruin this for him from the grave. If it was to be ruined, he would ruin it with his own fearless deeds and foolishness.

_And good riddance._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:
> 
> Fëanárioni (Q, p) = Sons of Fëanáro  
> noldo (Q) = elf of the Noldor  
> Anar (Q) = the Sun  
> amilessë (Q) = mother-name  
> Atar (Q) = Father  
> Minyar (Q) = first ones, first clan of the Eldar  
> nésa (Q) = sister


	31. A Tale of Two Twins (In Love)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pityo was hardly being subtle. Naturally, his healer does not stay secret for long.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: meddling and scheming family members, lovesick bull-calves, teasing, sex-related thoughts, dancing, arguing (even though one of them doesn't even speak)
> 
> Maedhros = Maitimo = Nelyafinwë = Nelyo  
> Maglor = Makalaurë = Kanafinwë = Káno  
> Celegorm = Tyelkormo = Turkafinwë = Turko  
> Caranthir = Carnistir = Morifinwë = Moryo  
> Curufin = Atarinkë = Curufinwë = Curvo  
> Amrod = Ambarussa = Pityafinwë = Pityo  
> Amras = Umbarto = Telufinwë = Telvo

_Aldúya, 46 Lairë (28 June)_

\---

This day was not turning out quite as expected.

For one thing, Istelindë had planned to be escorted into town by _one_ little brother. Purposefully had she chosen to bring Telufinwë with her, for she had plans that day that involved the youngest after receiving desirable news from their Uncle Arafinwë on happenings in the city this day. Perhaps it had been short-sighted of her, but she had not expected the rest of her little brothers to be so eager to escape their mountain stronghold for a day, for they had all been so negative and so resistant to visiting Tirion for Midsummer.

Yet, she had Telufnwë sitting up front at her side, guiding the two horses silently, and three more brothers piled into the cart in the back.

\---

_It had been not a half-hour since her husband had set out to “look busy” this morning. Istelindë was in the midst of the process of feeding a veritable army of men, her remaining four brothers gulping down food (albeit with mildly acceptable table manners) almost as fast as it was placed before them. Where they put it all, she could scarcely imagine!_

_Finally, sitting down to nibble at her own bacon and toast, she broached the subject._

_“I am planning to go into town today, but Maitimo is too busy to accompany me,” she announced cheerfully, turning to face Telufinwe, who froze beneath her sudden attention. “Brother Telufinwë, would you be willing to escort me this morning in his stead?”_

_The table, until then set in a melodious harmony of clinking silverware against plates and Makalaurë’s distracted hums, fell silent._

_Frozen in the midst of chewing his eggs, Telufinwë stared back in confusion._

Why ask me? _His expression was one of obvious questioning, and his brothers echoed his skepticism._ Why chose the only brother who does not speak to accompany you?

_“Well?” she asked._

_Slowly, he nodded._

_“If Telvo is going, I shall come along as well,” Pityafinwë then said, setting his fork down on the table with a loud clack._

_It was on the tip of Istelindë’s tongue to deny his “request”, for she wanted Telufinwë to have time to interact with his girl face-to-face without his older twin getting in the way by being overprotective and speaking in his stead. Yet, Telufinwë caught her gaze, giving a small shake of his head before glancing down at his older twin’s restless hands, fingers (the ones that were not bound) pulling and twisting at the unraveling wrapping around his left wrist. What that was quite supposed to mean, Istelindë could not say, but it was clear that the youngest brother seemed to want to drag his twin along as well for some unknown purpose. Intrigued, Istelindë agreed quietly._

_“I suppose you can come along, too, if you wish,” she acquiesced._

_“Then I shall come along as well,” Curufinwë added. “I have gone too long without seeing my wife. I have finished a gift for her last night, and I would like to deliver it to her in person, as is proper.”_

_Well, he_ had _been locked up in the forge for days. It really should not surprise her too much that he had been working on something special._

_“Will you and Maitimo be fine here on your own, brother Makalaurë?” she asked._

_Only to see the second brother biting at his lower lip, upper teeth just barely visible, stark white against the growing redness of the gnawed skin. “If it is no problem for you, sister Istelindë, I would like to attend as well. I have some business in Tirion that I have been putting off, and I should like to see to it sooner rather than later.”_

Business? _Narrowing her eyes, she studied his face. The way his eyes—eyes which she had known to often be dark with sorrow—turning bright with half-hidden wonder. Against the tabletop, his fingers danced as if upon the invisible strings of a harp, the pads tapping a graceful little rhythm against the wood._ Business with Lady Vardamírë?

_Well, she would hardly hold him back from that. “I suppose we shall all go then as soon as I have finished my breakfast.”_

_A chorus of voices sounded in agreement._

\---

Now, Makalaurë settled himself into the back corner of the cart with a small harp in his lap, his voice carrying clear and golden across the sunny meadows, summoning forth a breeze and sending the wildflowers dancing in graceful waves. Next to him as a contemplative but quiet Curufinwë, a small package sitting in his lap, stroking the edges of the box with his fingertips. Finally, there was Pityafinwë, whose fingers had not stopped playing with his bandages since their journey had begun.

It was only after they entered the forest surrounding the city, the view of lovely golden Tirion from above vanishing beneath the shadows of the trees, that she found the heart to interrupt Makalaurë’s soft singing. “What business have you today, brother Makalaurë? Should we take you somewhere in particular? I was hoping to watch a performance being held today in the central plaza of the city, but we need not head there immediately.”

“There is no need to make special arrangements for me!” he insisted, raising a hand as if to sweep her concerns away beneath the swish of his waving fingers. “I am visiting the School of Music. Most of you would find it painfully boring, I am afraid.”

Curufinwë cast his older brother with a sharp look. “What business have you there? You used to hate that blasted place. Said it was full of overblown egos and tasteless—”

“I was young and opinionated once,” Makalaurë interrupted, and his face colored faintly. “Besides, things may have changed since the days before the Darkening. There is no way to be certain unless I explore the possibility for myself, is there? I was thinking of taking up teaching my art, after all, and that would be the place to do it.”

Mostly, the words rang with truth, but Istelindë knew that Curufinwë was just as suspicious as she about the second brother’s motives.

Of course, Curufinwë had no way of knowing exactly _who_ had caused Makalaurë to suddenly recover his love for music. After going so long without so much as humming a melody under his breath, all of a sudden, Makalaurë wanted to _teach?_ It was beyond suspect if one did not have all the necessary gossip in their arsenal.

Lucky her, she had a fairly good idea of why Makalaurë _really_ wanted to visit, why he was _really_ thinking of spending so much time as the School.

“I suppose you have not had a chance to speak to Lady Vardamírë since the night of the Festival, then?” she asked cheekily, shooting him a smile over her shoulder.

At the same time as Makalaurë, wide-eyed and red-cheeked, blurted out “How did you know about her?”, Curufinwë barked out a harsh “What?” and turned to stare at his older brother as though he had grown a second head. Blazing silver eyes, already narrowed, glowed with sudden realization, and a razorblade smirk curved the fifth brother’s mouth.

Suddenly eager to be looking anywhere but towards his younger siblings, Makalaurë cleared his throat. “I mean, no. I have not. What with how the end of the night turned out, I left in rather a rush, and it seemed rude to bother her the next day.”

“I should have guessed,” Curufinwë then said, looking his normal self for perhaps the first time in days, in his element finally having a weak spot to exploit. It was almost a relief after a week of his quiet contemplation. “What else could bring forth such a lighthearted mood in one so dire as Kanafinwë Fëanárion but the renewed feeling of the excitement of new love? I suppose she is a singer as well, then? Her voice must be a monumental and astonishing thing to capture the attention of one such as yourself with no equal among the Eruhíni.”

“I have equals,” Makalaurë argued in return, looking no less flustered.

“Not many,” Curufinwë countered with a scoff, the hard edges of his face melting into a look that probably would have made most people’s skin crawl with instinctive terror. Indeed, Istelindë had once found it to be quite alarming, had once found reasons to be out of the room whenever she saw it, but she knew that it was rare for the fifth brother to have truly malicious intent, most especially towards one of his own.

He liked to play with his brothers. Fondly, if sometimes cruelly.

“Tell us more about this woman of yours,” Curufinwë then ordered. “I grow bored with hearing the same melody again and again. It has been the same thing for days, like you are practicing to impress Varda Elentári herself rather than some nameless Noldorin woman! Tell us of the woman you sing for instead.”

“That is hardly any of your business!” poor Makalaurë insisted, face still the color of a ripe tomato.

“Come on,” he urged. “Is she pretty? Was it only her voice that you found enchanting, or the whole package? Eyes? Breasts? Have you not any other details to share?”

If that was meant to make Makalaurë more likely to speak, it was a failure. Especially at the mention of breasts. Makalaurë had always struck Istelindë as more of the sort to be old-fashioned about women, and to be steadfastly polite and close-lipped about personal matters. Hardly could she imagine the second brother willingly discussing whether or not he favored the bosom of a woman with his younger brothers in broad daylight on the road in front of his observing sister-in-law. Indeed, the sweet-voiced brother choked on his words, sputtering unattractively in response to the questioning.

Of course, Curufinwë knew that, laughing at the mortified expression on his older brother’s face.

“Spoilsport,” the fifth brother complained, still smiling broadly. “What about you, Pityo? Why are you coming along, then? Little Telvo _can_ be out of your sight for more than a few minutes without falling to pieces, you know.”

“I need to get my injuries checked,” he mumbled, looking out at the trees as though there were something to see between their darkened columns.

A doubtful look came over Curufinwë’s face, of course. “Your wrist is definitely fine by now, and your finger will be fine after another week or two of binding. What is there to have checked then?”

“He ought to let the healers at least have a look!” Of course, Istelindë was certain that her boys had had worse injuries than broken fingers or dislocated wrists, probably had seen to worse injuries themselves without any proper medical training or any access to healers, but she still would feel quite a lot better if Pityafinwë was properly looked at. She knew not the first thing about healing broken fingers or when it was safe to take of the splints and the bindings.

Curufinwë’s look was exasperated—What was it with men, she wondered, and not wanting to get their injuries seen to?—like he could not quite wrap his head around the idea of taking extra precautions. That made it all the odder to realize that Pityafinwë was all too willing to visit the healers, and without even the slightest bit of prompting.

A brush against her hand caught her attention. Looking over at Telufinwë, she watched his eyes narrow. Glancing sharply back at his older twin, he then sent her a meaningful look.

It was on the tip of her tongue to ask what he was trying to say, but she knew he would not give her any answer. In any case, there was something about Pityafinwë’s absentmindedness and willingness to see the healers that he knew something about, something the rest of them had not a clue about.

“Are you feeling quite well, brother Pityafinwë?” she asked instead. “Is your finger bothering you so?”

“N-no, it is… It barely smarts,” he insisted, going almost as red-cheeked as his older brother. “Worry not about it.”

At her side, Telufinwë let out a quiet snort.

And Curufinwë echoed it. “And yet, he wants to go see the healers.”

“None of your business,” Pityafinwë grumbled. “Shove off, Curvo.”

“Seems everyone is in a friendly mood today,” the fifth brother muttered sarcastically. “What about you, little Telvo? Are you going to snap and snarl at me, too?”

Telufinwë’s only answer was a dirty look.

Thankfully, they arrived at the gates before Curufinwë could turn his irate behavior back upon Makalaurë who was only just recovering his normal coloring. Almost as soon as they entered the city, of course, Istelindë could feel the stares fall upon their backs. It was not a common sight (not yet, at least) to see any of the Fëanárioni, let alone so soon after their last visit on Midsummer. From her perch up front, she could see the people stop in the streets, pull away to the sides, eyes wide and bright as they stared and murmured and whispered.

 _Ignore them,_ she thought to herself. She had had a lot of practice back in the Telerin court pretending not to hear all the horrid things said of her behind her back, so a few staring common-folk, almost more curious than they were wary, were barely anything in comparison. The hush lasted barely a few minutes.

“I shall be leaving you here,” Makalaurë eagerly said, already jumping off the back of the cart with his harp under one arm. “I can go on my own from here.”

“I shall go as well,” Curufinwë mimicked. “We can walk together, hm? What say you to that, Káno? You can tell me all the things about your girl that you did not want to share in front of Istelindë.”

Looking not the least bit pleased with that arrangement, Makalaurë scowled and spun on his heel, walking away with swift steps. Giving a last wave and a broad, sharp smile, Curufinwë lightly jogged to catch up, the crowd easily parting to make way for the dark-haired pair of infamous Kinslayers.

“Well, I guess it is just us, boys,” she commented, looking from Pityafinwë to Telufinwë and back again. “Let us find somewhere to leave the cart and we can be on our way.”

With no protests forthcoming, they traveled further into the city.

\---

_What am I doing here?_

For about the thousandth time that morning, Pityafinwë had asked himself that question.

Well, really, he knew the true reason he had thought—for the briefest of insane moments that morning at the breakfast table—that it would be a wise decision to come along with his little brother and sister-in-law to visit Tirion. And it had absolutely nothing to do with babysitting Telufinwë.

And everything to do with a certain buxom healer and the memory of her gentle hands upon his bare skin.

 _That makes it seem so illicit even when I merely think it to myself!_ Not that he would have minded something illicit, but all she had done was tend his hands. It was her job to take a firm but gentle approach to the care and healing of all subjects, no matter their Dispossessed status. Most likely, she would not have glanced his way twice out of anything other than professional concern. After all, he was not the sort any self-respecting healer would take any interest towards, let alone romantic interest, what with his hands awash in blood.

Swallowing against the bitterness, he put that thought away. If he had been stronger, able to resist his own desires, he would not even be here. Instead, he was trailing after Istelindë and Telufinwë like a sulking shadow, wondering when (or if) he would work up the nerve to go off on his own to find the Healing House.

_I have come all the way here already. I ought to complete my own foolishness._

So lost in thought was he that, when Istelindë stopped in the middle of the street, he almost ran directly into her back.

“I almost forgot!” She turned to face him. “You and Telufinwë continue on to the plaza without me. I have something I need to go and fetch. Quite by myself, I should think.”

It was on the tip of his tongue to ask what exactly it was she wanted to get, but then he thought about her and Nelyafinwë and how they had been nearly inseparable (attached to each other by the lips and other places he wanted not to think about) since they had returned from the Festival. Whatever it was, he wondered if he wanted to know anything about it after all. There were some things a man needed not to know about the love life of his older brother and sister-in-law for the sake of his own sanity.

Exchanging a look with his brother, who seemed suspicious but also unwilling to question, he gave a sharp nod. “Of course, sister Istelindë. We shall be waiting.”

“Excellent!” she cried out as she graced them with a blinding smile.

And, just like that, she was off, leaving the pair alone.

 _I have a feeling that I am missing something._ Looking from her retreating back to his brother, he felt a lick of frustration and vexation. Would that he could have left his little brother in Istelindë’s capable hands, but clearly that plan was now off the table. Well, he would have to wait to slip away and find the Healing House, then. It was never a good idea to let Telufinwë wander about alone. The younger twin seemed to attract trouble even now without even trying. And who was there to keep him out of it but Pityafinwë?

“Best get on with it, then, and see what all this fuss is about.” As they drew closer to the plaza, the streets certainly became more crowded, full of couples and families, groups of maidens (and trailing groups of young males) and even merchants drawn away from their businesses. Something must be afoot. Enough so that the infamous pair of redheaded Kinslayers were fading into the background of the excitement, only the occasional passerby stopping to stare and whisper.

There was a raised stage near the gilded fountains at the center of the plaza. It was laden with flowers, spread across the edges of the platform in more shades of pink, red and yellow than Pityafinwë had quite realized existed. The top was shaded with woven trellises covered in flowering vines, many colored blossoms bursting forth and hanging down as vibrant garlands. It really should not have left the Fëanárion feeling a rising unease, but he could not deny that his skin crawled a bit looking up and seeing the gold of the statuettes spitting forth rainbow-streaked springs just beyond. For just a moment, there was a flash of darkness, the red fire of torches and the stink of burning cloth and oil in place of the wild splash of color and delightful scent of flowers, and a momentary vision of white eyes glaring down from above as a familiar (abhorred and beloved) voice shouted as if from the heavens.

He blinked it away, shuddering. Now was not the time to be getting sucked into the past. Of course, these revelers would not remember so vividly who else had given a world-changing performance standing up on the raised edge of those gilded fountains.

In the place of a star-eyed demon, a woman appeared on stage, twirling across the wooden platform with her arms raised, her layered skirts sewn with flowers and glittering jewels, her face lined with bright colors in the shapes of butterfly wings and her eyes draped in a lining of dark kohl. Surprised at the unexpected appearance, the joy of her image overlaid upon and shattering the solemnity of another standing in that very spot, Pityafinwë could not deny that she was beautiful, giving the impression of a Maia of Vána, a being of color and petals and light. As if stricken by her vision, the crowd hushed, entranced by the grace of her movements as she dropped into a deep bow. Her golden eyes moved across the sea of faces, lightened by the way sunlight danced within her irises, flashing until they settled. A hint of shock crossed her face, her lips parting.

For a moment, Pityafinwë thought she was looking at _him._ But no. That was not right. She was looking just past his shoulder, off to the right, where—

Where Telufinwë, just a step behind him, grew stiff with sudden tension.

_What?_

For a long moment, there was stillness. And then she grinned broadly, white teeth beyond the bright pink stain of her full lips. There was recognition in her gaze, and it was undoubtedly resting upon his younger brother.

The sound of a harp floated over their heads, light and airy as a summer breeze, and she the flower petals strewn through the sky on its current. Had his mind not been hyper-focused upon his realization—that she _knew_ his brother and his brother knew _her_ in return—he might have felt a little breathless watching an elven woman turn into an otherworldly being.

As it was, he now knew why Istelindë had sent them here. Because she had _known._

As enchanting as the performance was—for that was what this was, he realized, a scheduled performance that Istelindë had known about in advance and sought out intentionally, had lured Telufinwë to knowing he would encounter a familiar face—Pityafinwë was more mesmerized by the look on his brother’s face when he turned to look at the younger twin. Truly, he had forgotten that Telufinwë had expressions beyond a deadened stare or an exasperated scowl. Not used to seeing emotions beyond fear or grief or painful apathy staring back at him from identical verdant eyes, he now held his breath as he saw something that might have been fascination. Even fondness.

Telufinwë was watching her. Glancing back at the dancer, he could see her eyes flicker. For long moments, as she twisted, spun and turned through the air, her feet flying entangled with the flowing, translucent fabric of her skirts, she would look away. But, always, as she settled back to the earth, feet upon the ground and still in brief moments of rest, her eyes would find their way back, searching the crowd for russet hair until she found them again.

Checking. She was checking to make sure they were still there.

 _No, not_ us. _Just_ him. _She looks to be certain that_ he _is still here._

How they could have encountered one another, Pityafinwë knew not, though strange things often happened to Telufinwë when he went off on his own. That much had not changed, no matter how Telufinwë had evolved to hide away in the shadows, preferring to go unnoticed by most rather than to take center stage as he once had done. Yet, somehow, his silent twin, terrified of small flames, nervous whenever he captured attention, was not so much as slightly unnerved at being the focus of this woman.

The interplay between them was far more entertaining to Pityafinwë than any dance. Were he not seeing it happen right before his eyes, he would not have believed it possible.

But there really, truly was a woman who seemed—Dare he think it?—enamored with his younger brother. And Telufinwë, who had never so much as glanced at a woman twice before, who shied away from all contact and never spoke where anyone could hear, seemed to be drawn to her in return.

 _What on earth happened at that damn Festival while I was concussed?_ First beautiful dark-haired healers with luscious curves and sunny smiles, then coy dancers luring in his little brother in with graceful movements and glowing golden eyes?

“You know her?” he hissed out, just barely loud enough for Telufinwë to hear.

Ah, there it was. The tiny hint of panic as his brother’s head snapped towards him, breaking whatever spell the woman had cast over his mind. A golden net shattered. His little brother’s face was overcome, transfigured from the intense stare of a man possessed to the wide-eyed look of a boy caught sneaking cookies before dinner.

Of course, in a public setting with so many people about, Telvo would not speak. Instead, his brother looked nervously back towards the woman and shrugged.

 _Well, that is not ambiguous_ at all, _is it?_

Still giving his younger brother a suspicious look, he turned back to the dancer. Caught her staring once again from the corner of her eyes.

The next time he glanced back at Telufinwë, his brother had been reeled in again. Until the end of the performance, Pityafinwë spent no time at all watching the woman watch his brother. Instead, he watched his brother himself. Watched the tension drain from his shoulders. Watched a little half-smile form on his lips. Watched the hardness of his eyes go liquid and soft. Watched as the ever-present grayness of a dulled spirit brightened.

Watched as a little sliver of the old Telvo peeked out from behind the clouds.

And then it was over. As suddenly as it began. Noise rang out, voices raised in cheers and applause sounding from all directions, startling him from his reverie and breaking Telufinwë from his. And the brothers were back in the real world, noisy and crowded and far too hot beneath the summer sun.

Dazedly, he could not help but think, _at least I now have someone to hold over his head should he tease me about the healer. He is just as stricken as I!_

For a long moment, he thought that would be the end of it. Now Telufinwë would flee the scene of the crime, slip away like a shade and vanish before the woman could corner him out in the open. What would Telufinwë even have to say to her if she caught them? He had not spoken to a stranger in a millennium!

Except, she was upon them almost as soon as she left the stage, it seemed. Many of the crowd stopped and stared as she darted past, but she had eyes for none but Pityafinwë’s baby brother, bounding right up and throwing herself into the air to wrap her arms around Telufinwë’s neck and cling. Up close she was so slender—built like a bird for all the muscle she must have to perform such complex dance—that he was surprised at how his brother teetered back on his heels beneath her weight.

“You came to see me!” she exclaimed, her hands immediately sliding from Telvo’s shoulders up to cup his cheeks. Without a single wince or double-take for the scar tissue now covered by her palm on one side.

Shockingly, Telufinwë did not even flinch. As her arms came down, his hands braced around her elbows and hers around his upper arms. Not since before the Darkening had Pityafinwë seen his younger brother make so much physical contact with another person. Even now, he still winced back from his twin’s embraces.

“Well,” she continued, not bothered at all by the lack of verbal response. “What did you think? Top students at the school are taking turns today dancing to celebrate the summer flowers. I was assigned to represent lotus flowers this year, so at least I was not stuck wearing all yellow again. They had me as the sunflower last year.”

Indeed, she was dressed in a mixture of pale to dark pink and deep purple-blue, the glittering hems and seams of her skirts all golden and amber, the skirts layered in a way Pityafinwë (far from an expert) supposed could mirror the layering of a lotus bloom.

From the corner of his eye, he saw Telvo swallow and open his mouth. For a long, breathless moment, he truly thought his little brother might speak out loud even with so many people around. There was a flash of pink as his tongue wetted his lips, but the words that tried to follow simply seemed stuck. Shifting nervously, the younger twin closed his mouth again, offering his lady friend a smile instead.

Even that she did not seem to mind. “It is alright, you need not say anything. I know, it was too amazing for words!” Laughing, twirling in place, she grabbed the younger twin’s arm. “I do need to go and change out of this ridiculousness. Promise you will not leave until I come back? We can do and get lunch together!”

Without warning, she kissed his brother’s cheek, right over the ugly scar, and pranced back through the crowd as if it were completely normal and acceptable to be seen hugging and kissing a damn Kinslayer in public.

Now people were staring. Great.

Giving the gawkers his best sneer, Pityafinwë chased their eyes away with the fire in his own. No one wanted to meet a Kinslayer’s gaze. Quickly enough, they all returned to their own conversations and business, or at the very least pretended to.

Leaving Pityafinwë floundering.

“You _do_ know her,” he accused quietly. “You met at that blasted Festival, did you not? After you put me to bed?”

Telufinwë averted his eyes, but the older twin could see the quirk of those lips just fine. Annoyed at being the butt of a private joke, he crossed his arms and gave an encore performance of his best glare. For all the good that did against his own brother, who could read him as though his thoughts were displayed all written out on parchment beneath transparent glass.

Knew him well enough to see when the doubt crept in.

And why should it not? Some strange woman was making advances upon his traumatized younger brother! He knew nothing about her, nothing about how she knew his little brother or how they had met, nothing about her intentions. Mayhap he had been charged (if only in his own mind) with looking after Telufinwë for too long, but he could not help but feel disconcerted at this strange happenstance he had known naught at all about. For all he knew, the dancer could be some woman luring a Kinslayer into a trap! Eru only knew, there were enough people in Valinórë who would like nothing more than to skin every Fëanárioni and hang them by their own entrails to be concerned about strange folk playing friendly for seemingly no reason!

It was irrational and stupid. But he could not help himself. He did not like anyone making gestures—sweet ones or otherwise—towards the most vulnerable member of their family without him knowing something about them and their motivations first. Once upon a time, he had failed in his duty to watch out for the younger twin, and he was not going to do that again.

As if sensing those thoughts, Telufinwë stuck his chin out, raised stubbornly in that expression that Pityafinwë so dearly hated. The one that said his brother was quite firmly planning to do whatever the hell he pleased and hang Pityafinwë’s attempts to maintain some form of order or sanity or control of the situation. That look almost dared him to say something against the woman, almost goaded him into trying to prevent what he could only see as the prelude to his little brother having a broken heart, and he felt the words rising up in the back of his throat as if conjured in response to his own bitter fury.

But they lodged, stuck. Would that he could have said something to convince his brother to leave, but he knew that was a false hope. Telufinwë _wanted_ to stay and interact with this strange woman, _wanted_ to socialize and eat lunch with her in broad daylight. It was bizarre!

“I hope you know what you are doing,” he muttered sullenly. “What do you even know about that girl? Her name?”

That look sharpened, took on a darker edge that Pityafinwë did not like. It reminded him far too much of the expression Telufinwë had worn just before marching across camp to their father’s tent to engage in the ill-fated shouting match that had cost him his life all those years ago. It was a warning and a promise all wrapped up in a black, ominous bow.

“Fine, fine,” he grouched. “Do what you want! Come not crying back to me when things inevitably fall apart!”

Undaunted, Telufinwë offered his own scowl.

In silence, the pair stood through another performance—the apparent dreaded sunflower dance, with a dark-haired girl indeed enshrouded in an eyesore of a shade of yellow—thoroughly pretending each other did not exist. It was only afterwards that the beautiful dancer, now glad in a normal gown of summery sky blue, her face no longer covered in multicolored paints and powders, returned.

It was almost a surprise, actually, for she had looked so different that Pityafinwë had not recognized her at first. Only her eyes gave her away, just seconds before she threaded her arm through his brother’s. “Telufinwë!”

And that sappy smile was back again. Pityafinwë felt disgust curl the corner of his own lips as he watched.

“I know the perfect place for lunch,” she babbled, her personality as sunny as the vicious rays of Anar beating down upon their backs. “I have so much to tell you! There has been gossip spreading about all over the city as of late! You should know…” Suddenly, she paused, glancing back at Pityafinwë trailing after them with hesitant eyes. “Well, three men were found rather savagely beaten the morning after the Festival. No one knows the truth of what happened, but, of course, there have been some whispers…”

Of course, there were whispers. Pityafinwë almost rolled his eyes at the sheer ridiculousness of it. What reason would any of his brothers have for attacking three useless courtiers who could not even defend themselves? More likely, he thought, someone was using the presence of the Fëanárioni in the city to divert blame elsewhere for its sheer convenience.

“They were, you know, _those_ three men,” she added, again glancing over at Pityafinwë, this time nervously. Like she had more to say but did not want to say it before an audience.

Sensing her trepidation, Telufinwë shot him a meaningful look.

_Get lost!_

This time, Pityafinwë _did_ roll his eyes, raising his hands in surrender. “Enjoy your food and gossip,” he grumbled sarcastically as he brushed past the couple. “I have business elsewhere to attend to in any case.”

His younger brother shot him a knowing look. One that had him in a bad mood. Because Telufinwë knew _exactly_ where he was going and, also, likely _why_ as well. Fooling their older brothers was easy, for most still seemed to see the twins as their childish selves, barely more than boys and not at all interested in the fairer sex. None suspected at all what had had Pityafinwë in such a distracted state since the Festival, what with Curufinwë blaming it on lingering symptoms of having his brain knocked around a little too enthusiastically.

Leaving the pair behind was a relief. He did not even care of Telufinwë got himself into trouble. The stubborn brat could get himself out of it for all Pityafinwë cared!

Even so, now that he was slipping away through the crowd, free of the ball and chain of his duty to guard and safekeep his younger (ungrateful) sibling, he felt his irritation taking a new form. One that squeezed tightly around his ribs, like it had taken the form of a snake and decide to crush him until all the air had left his lungs. The feeling of panic. He knew it intimately and knew how to bend and twist his face to keep it from showing.

But it was most definitely there.

 _What is there to panic about?_ Really, he was being _responsible_ by going to see the healers about his wrist and finger. There was nothing the least bit untoward about that! Istelindë had even insisted that it was an excellent idea, so she would not be at all suspicious of his motivations! Why should he be nervous at all?

 _Why indeed,_ his inner monologue mocked. _You, a Kinslayer, are going to moon and pant after a woman who would never look at you twice! Pathetic!_

If he thought it would help, he might have told his own stream of consciousness to shut up. As it was, he knew better than that. There was not a day that went by that Pityafinwë Fëanárion was not plagued with thoughts of doubt and self-hatred, whether in regards to his failure to protect his brothers or, now, his ridiculous infatuation with a woman whose name he had not even asked.

 _I am certainly a hypocrite to try and deny Telufinwë time with his object of affection,_ he despaired internally even as the palace came into view. _How am I any better off? This is a monumentally terrible idea, and I will regret it sorely when it is all said and done._

Yet, his feet still carried him inside.

This time, he did not even bother with the fancy parts of the giant complex, the parts meant for royalty and guests, decadent to the point of prodigality and impracticality. Instead, he took the old servant routes through the downstairs quarters (blithely ignoring the stares he was receiving, for he was too tall now to successfully sneak through the halls unnoticed as he had when he was a child), coming out onto the ground floor just down the hallway from the Healing House. The now-familiar double-doors waited for him there, splattered with the pale cast of sunlight sneaking through the curtains half-pulled over the large windows.

He walked briskly towards them, ignoring how his heartrate sped beneath his ribs, feeling all too much like it was trying to punch its way free of its bones or else expel itself through his mouth. Stupid, because he had no reason to be nervous.

Bracing himself against the eagerness hot beneath his flesh and the nervousness heavily balled in his gut, he announced himself with a soft knock and pushed the doors open.

Taking in the main room, the sunlight crisscrossing over the floor, the whitewashed walls, the pale and crisp sheets on the small one-person cots, the three beds at the end of the long room surrounded by deep blue curtains, he felt a little disappointed that he did not immediately see _her._ Instead, there were four or five gray-garbed females moving about, folding bandages, making tonics and ointments, and doing other mystical things that a warrior such as Pityfinwë knew nothing about.

They all paused to look over at him. Much to his confusion, there was a burst of giggling laughter, many of them covering their mouths to hide their smiles.

_What in Eä…?_

“My Prince,” one of them greeted with a curtsy, her lips twitching against the grin obviously trying its best to come forth. “Would you like for us to fetch Healer Wilwarin? She is taking her noon meal right now.”

 _Wilwarin? Is that her name?_ For a long moment, he wondered if he would ever be able to breathe again. _She is named for the butterfly set in the heavens by Varda._

For all that she was not so brightly-colored as the damsel of his brother’s in her jeweled, petaled skirts, he could not help but think that the name was fitting for how petite the healer ( _his_ healer) was, how she seemed to dance on fleet feet with her distraction, how her fingers fluttered as she searched the cabinets and shelves for whatever she might need.

 _I am being a sentimental fool,_ he could not help but think, his mental voice a pale ghost of its normal sardonic self.

“That… that would be most desirable— I meant to say, that is acceptable. That would be most acceptable, my lady,” he stuttered out, feeling like an absolute halfwit. Especially when the girls burst into a fresh round of giggles.

She offered him another little curtsy and scurried off to another room, her little feet padding across the tiled floors.

Slowly, he crossed the room, setting himself down upon the nearest cot. And thank Eru for that, because his knees were feeling a bit weaker than they ought. If he had stayed standing while he waited, he feared they might tremble. It was all he could do to keep his trepidation from showing on his face.

Nervously, he tugged at the unraveling bandages around his left wrist. At the very least, he could get them rewrapped. Feel her hands on his skin again.

 _Do not be so vulgar,_ he mentally hissed at himself, biting harshly into his lower lip. Taking a deep breath, he steeled himself against whatever stupidity was going to try to leave his mouth the moment he saw _her_ again. Just in time for a familiar gray-clad form to walk with swift steps into the room.

With that glorious curve of her waist. With those big doe eyes glittering with stars. Almost immediately, he felt his lips curve into that same ridiculous sappy grin that had so stricken his younger brother.

“Greetings, Lady Healer,” he said quietly.

“Back to get your head checked?” she asked with just a hint of a smile beneath her professional demeanor. And even that made his heart stir, for all that its terrified throbbing began to slowly relax.

“I think my head recovered just fine,” he countered. “Would you terribly mind taking a look at the rest of my injuries? Sister Istelindë insisted.”

The healer—Wilwarin—raised an eyebrow. “Did she?”

“Well, sort of,” he responded with a bit of boyish charm in his voice and his crooked smile. “Is that too much to ask, Lady Healer?”

“Naturally not.” She approached with those same brisk steps, her heels tapping against the floor, fast and even. “I live to serve, my Prince.”

 _Eru,_ he cursed internally, for those words went straight to his loins like a spark of white-hot fire, even though he knew that she meant it not the way he had interpreted it at all. The internal struggle was strong, but he absolutely did not glance towards her bosom, keeping his gaze firmly fixed upon her eyes.

“Show me your hands, then,” she added.

And what could he do but obey?

\---

Peering through the barest crack in the door, Istelindë held back her squeal of delight. If she had not been spying just outside the Healing House where anyone could hear her, she would have danced for joy!

Indeed, she had known there was something odd going on with Pityafinwë, and Telufinwë had been trying to tell her all along. The significant looks, the glances at his brother’s restless hands, fiddling about with his bandages with that dazed look half of wonder and half of shock like he was seeing something not of the mortal world. The night of the Festival, Pityafinwë had ben tended by a healer for his injuries—this healer, Istelindë now realized, who had captured his attention. No one else had been there to see it.

She admittedly had not suspected it at all when she had followed him away from the plaza, though she had been curious about his motivations. This, however, explained everything quite neatly. Why Pityafinwë had come along this morning, why he had been so willing to get his injuries seen to when most men floundered at the very idea of entering a Healing House, why Telufinwë had wanted his twin to come along. Her sweet little brother had been lovesick over a beautiful woman.

And it looked like he was getting on with it well enough without her interference. What with how he was looking at his healer with that slightly silly smile as she lifted up his left hand and began unwrapping his bandages, she thought he already seemed lovestruck indeed. For the time being, he did not need his older sister butting in where she was not needed.

Quietly, she backed away from the door, pulling it the rest of the way closed.

She had other little brothers to see to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:
> 
> Eruhíni (Q, p) = Children of Eru  
> Fëanárioni (Q, p) = Sons of Fëanáro  
> Anar (Q) = the Sun


	32. Would That Life Were Always Simple

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything does not work out as perfectly as desired, but, perhaps that is for the best...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: bullying, arguing, thoughts about war/death, music porn, sappiness, flirting, honesty, strangers to friends to lovers, family drama
> 
> More of Kanafinwë <3 And, also, Istelindë catches on to her younger bro's misbehavior. Bad Curufinwë! *wags finger* Tsk, tsk!
> 
> *I do not take credit for the lyrics of this lullaby, even if only one line of it shows up. It's just one of my favorites <3
> 
> Maedhros = Maitimo = Nelyafinwë = Nelyo  
> Maglor = Makalaurë = Kanafinwë = Káno  
> Celegorm = Tyelkormo = Turkafinwë = Turko  
> Caranthir = Carnistir = Morifinwë = Moryo  
> Curufin = Atarinkë = Curufinwë = Curvo  
> Amrod = Ambarussa = Pityafinwë = Pityo  
> Amras = Umbarto = Telufinwë = Telvo  
> Celebrimbor = Telperinquar  
> Fingolfin = Nolofinwë  
> Aredhel = Írissë  
> Turgon = Turukáno

_Aldúya, 46 Lairë (28 June)_

\---

Sometimes, Kanafinwë wished he had been born with more of his father’s temper and less of his mother’s patience. If he had, perhaps he would long since have slapped, kicked or verbally sliced into his little brother such that Curufinwë saw fit to _leave him alone_ instead of following him about Tirion, clinging like a particularly stubborn bloodsucking leech.

But no. He was the diplomatic, patient, ever-smiling brother who worked hard to make sure he did not leave the unfortunate results of any unpleasant social interactions lying around to propagate in his wake. It was against the very grain of his spirit to make a scene in public like a particularly melodramatic actor flying into histrionics over a little bit of inappropriate questioning. Curufinwë would certainly have enjoyed the pageantry, the whispering and the attention, would have enjoyed seeing Kanafinwë fall apart and show his true colors as a Fëanárion to the world. But the second brother preferred his incognito state of existence where all believed he was the least in temper and the gentlest in spirit.

Anyone who thought that obviously had never truly met Morifinwë. For all the fourth brother’s dark looks and biting words, he had their mother’s softness under the thin outer crust of roughness. Like a prickly fruit with a sweet, gooey center.

Kanafinwë, on the other hand, looked sweet and gooey from the outside. Anyone who actually bit, though, would find that his taste was quite bitter and his core quite hard.

Maintaining that façade was growing more taxing by the moment, however. Curufinwë trotted up beside him. “So, are you going to say _anything_ about this girl?”

“When have I ever asked you about your wife’s breasts?” he replied, trying to keep the rosy color off his cheeks. “I do not want to see her for her face or for her _other assets._ I said that I would visit, and I keep my word.”

“You would never have made the promise at all if you did not want to see her.” _And damn him for being so intuitive and so correct!_ “Was it really just her voice?”

Finally, Kanafinwë cracked. Maybe, if he said a few words about her, Curufinwë would leave him be and go off to find Lindalórë instead. He was beginning to think that his little brother was using this heckling as an excuse to avoid confronting his own wife—or, more likely, his wife’s family. If he took the fun out of the teasing, surely Curufinwë would go off to find a new victim to tease and torment like a cat playing with a wounded mouse?

“She is pretty enough to look at, half-Telerin I had guessed by her coloring. But she has dark eyes like one of the Noldor. Her work is in the teaching of music and song to the children of the nobility. I only met her because a few of her charges had wondered off into the gardens—which were, of course, full of couples getting up to all manner of inappropriate games—and saw fit to lure them back into the palace to their minder.” He paused there, thinking of her, purposefully striking the resulting smile from his lips. “She has a way with little ones.”

“So, you are not just sweet on her because of her voice,” Curufinwë concluded, sounding unbearably smug. “She is also _nice._ And likes children. I did not realize that you found such things attractive. You certainly had no preference for young ones back when Telperinquar was still toddling.”

It was sometimes easy to forget that this demon was actually a father who had somehow managed to raise a child to adulthood without killing or corrupting it. Kanafinwë knew that his brother had only grown a fondness for the small ones after raising one of his own—he rather suspected that Curufinwë had longed for more than one, but he and his wife had waited for the right time and had been brutally interrupted by the Darkening—and he knew that he was the same. Until he had raised two of his own…

Even when he had pulled Elros and Elrond from that closet, weeping and terrified out of their minds, he had still only sought to rescue them out of pity and his own heartache, knowing that their mother had chosen to keep the Silmaril from the grasp of the Fëanárioni rather than run with or otherwise salvage her own children, not because he felt any attachment or particular aversion to killing young ones. Little more than babies at the time, he had originally found the twins to be a messy nuisance, tracking mud everywhere, demanding attention and food all the time, and throwing tantrums whenever they failed to get their way. One would have thought that, after five younger brothers, he would have liked children a bit more, but…

Well, young Kanafinwë had been consumed by his craft and had wanted no part in the raising of his brothers. In that sense, he had always been very much like his father.

Eventually, though, things had changed. Parenthood had a way of rearranging a man’s priorities if he got too close, if he allowed himself to be invested. And Kanafinwë had been invested indeed, raising those boys as if they were his own flesh and blood. Raising them to survive the harshness of the Hither Lands once they were taken away by necessity or war or death or some other fiend.

Was it so strange that, now, Kanafinwë perhaps wished he could have one or two little ones of his own? Was it so strange that he found a woman who could handle children with such ease—with a fond smile on her face and a soft, maternal tone in her voice—to be attractive? They could not _all_ be drawn to snarky women like Curufinwë after all!

“Things change,” he said simply. “Besides, she _does_ have a magnificent voice. I have not heard its like before, for the Valar and the Maiar so rarely dare to raise their voices in the presence of the Eruhíni. Certainly, I have _heard_ no equal with my own ears, though there is rumor that Tinúviel could out-sing the nightingales.”

Curufinwë, predictably, scoffed. “Pretty might her voice have been, but we are well rid of her. I would have Turkafinwë pant after Írissë’s skirts until the End of Days before I would want him to reprise his infatuation with that selfish chit. In any case, I suppose one day, when you have wooed and seduced this woman of yours, we might get to hear the pair of you sing together after the evening meal in the firelight. The hearth has been a place of silence for too long.”

“Think you not that that is a bit premature!” he exclaimed, for all that the image forming in his head was an attractive one. Him curled up on the loveseat with Vardamírë leaning her silvery head against his shoulder—like he had seen Nelyafinwë and Istelindë do the few times he dared brave the heartache and sit with his family in the evenings rather than retreating to the gardens—while they murmured soft, wordless melodies together like a pair of songbirds. It was a lovely vision, glittering and pure, of a couple happily in love. And it was also a daydream, one that would most likely never come to pass. “We have spoken all of once together! What with how the night of the Festival ended, it seems a bit optimistic to think that she will want anything to do with me or with our family!”

“One never accomplishes anything if they try not,” Curufinwë pointed out. “At least you are no longer looking longingly after Istelindë every time she walks past. As much as Nelyo loves us, he would not have stood for that overlong, not now that they are married in truth.”

 _He just had to bring that back up, did he not?_ More than ever, Kanafinwë wished he could punch his little brother on the nose, tell him to go away, and expect for Curufinwë to listen in any way, shape or form. A lost cause, that was, and he knew it well. Still, perhaps if he just failed to rise to the bait…

Biting his lip against his denials of his infatuation for his sister-in-law (that they both knew were false), he instead turned onto the street which housed the School of Music. Nice it would be to have something to wash away the last vestiges of that sweet moonlit daydream he had allowed to fester for far too long. Even if it was a mere dalliance—and he found that he hoped it would be more than that, but also dared not hope for too much—it would help him move past the latest stumble over heartbreak. It helped that, while there were passing similarities in appearance, he had not found Vardamírë to be nearly as forward as Istelindë could be. Indeed, her personality seemed softer and sweeter, like sugar upon the tongue, like the feeling of mist on the skin, rather than a blaze of sunlight cutting through the darkness.

In retrospect, perhaps he had simply been caught up in his sister-in-law’s resplendence, had looked at her kindness and wished for there to be more meaning behind those gestures than had ever been intended, blinded to what was there by what he wanted to see. Now, he was almost too embarrassed to even be in the same room as his older brother and sister-in-law, and not because he had stumbled upon them more than once in intimate embraces.

Nelyafinwë alone was not so bad. His older brother did not even begrudge him the competition, would have yielded had it been Istelindë’s wish.

It was just the _pity_ in her eyes…

It had grown easier over the past few days with this new distraction. Still...

Like he always did, he sighed his melancholy away. “There it is.” He jerked his chin towards the magnificently large manors, all interconnected, all whitewashed and roofed in golden light. As they drew nearer, so, too, came the sounds of many voices, of many instruments, of many melodies coming together and falling apart in harmonious discord. They danced before his eyes like a thousand rays of color, and he could have plucked a single one from that gathered lake of dancing light and whispered it to the stars if so he chose. Instead, he let them go, passing on by on their way to the heavens.

“I suppose it is,” Curufinwë begrudgingly agreed, showing that barest hint of nervousness again at being sent on his way. “I suppose I shall just have to wait to hear more about your lady later tonight, if you can bear to loosen your tongue enough to speak of such things.”

“She is not _my_ lady,” Kanafinwë insisted yet again. “She is barely an acquaintance. Make not more of it than there is.”

“Playing it safe, then,” his little brother mocked. “Very well then. Just take care that you do not play it _too_ safe. The phrase ‘once bitten, twice shy’ comes to mind.”

“Just go and talk to your damn wife, Curvo.” Little was he in the mood to continue being mocked by his younger sibling for his newfound caution. No one would be ready to dive headfirst into unrealistic romantic expectations so soon after being rejected in favor of their own older brother. “Think you that I know not why you linger, brat? I had thought you were past fearing your wife’s wrath the morning after the Festival.”

Naturally, Curufinwë was less pleased when Kanafinwë tried to fight back with his own verbal spears. “You have little room to talk.”

“Begone with you,” the older shooed, pointing down the street towards the affluent parts of the city. “If Lindalórë sent you not from her sight the moment she saw you at the Festival, she is hardly going to do so now. Quit loitering about making a nuisance of yourself.”

“So, I really have managed to annoy the unflappable Káno. Try to at least be friendlier to your pretty girl, hanno.” But the younger brother still went with a half-hearted wave of his fingers, setting off through the crowd who, of course, instinctively parted around him as though he carried with him the very shadow of Morgoth himself. Not far off, considering how terrible his glare could be when he was annoyed, and nothing annoyed the fifth brother more than being called out as a coward.

 _I may have to remember this for later and see if it works again._ It would be nice to finally have a way to win arguments against his vicious younger sibling without getting himself verbally and emotionally gutted in the process.

Now, for his own mission.

Without his younger brother trailing after him like a particularly unwanted pet, Kanafinwë had nothing driving him forward except his own will. And it was practically a historical fact that the second son of Fëanáro was not one with a will forged from steel or adamant. Standing on the steps of the School, preparing to open the door, he even then felt his heart begin to fail.

 _You promised her,_ he reminded himself just a moment before pulling his hand away from the handle. _At the very least, you should visit. If it ends terribly, you need not come back to see her again. This is hardly a lasting commitment._

He could do this. Probably.

Quietly, he entered the building.

The inside was as he remembered, vaguely, as if from a long-forgotten dream. Looking up at the ceiling, he saw the dome of a million colors, the tessellation melting down from a diamond-encrusted center to encompass all the walls, set with every color and luster of stone, run through with gold and silver metal. Even now, with all he had seen in the world, it took his breath away, for it was as close to a depiction of the Ainulindalë as any Eruhína had been capable of imagining, with the Flame Imperishable set at its center like a blinding star. Against the floor, a swirling mass of silver and golden tiles, his boots tapped, echoing his presence up into the depiction of the Timeless Halls. It joined the seemingly thousands of echoes already dancing through the air, the sound of viols, flutes, harps and voices melding together in a shockingly resonant tone. As it had been built to hold.

At the center of the room, he paused, breath held.

“Stunning, is it not?”

Broken from reverie, he turned to stare at the newcomer whose voice was barely audible over the noise. Or, perhaps, the noise had grown in his mind and was, in truth, as muted as it now seemed when he stood once again in the corporeal world. The stranger was no one that he recognized. The male was dark-haired and blue-eyed, and one could see that he was no youngster by his eyes, but neither was he old in the years of the Eldar. “Excuse me?”

“The ceiling,” the man clarified. “It is certainly a magnificent thing to behold for the first time. It is supposed to be—”

“The Ainulindalë,” Kanafinwë interrupted. “Yes, I know. I have been here before when I was very young, but… not for a very long time. It truly is awe-inspiring, even now. Such artwork is rare even here, in Valinórë, and it does not exist in a place as sparse and dangerous as the Hither Lands.”

Those blue eyes shuttered slightly. “Ah, much has changed here since the Darkening, but the foyer has stayed the same since it was built.”

“Has it?” Finally, Kanafinwë peeled his eyes away from the vibrant kaleidoscope overhead. “Tell me, meldo, can you direct me to find a particular person? I am truly here looking for someone, not to see the spectacle of the foyer, though it is a pleasant surprise.”

His new companion did not seem to suspect his true identity—the man probably would have been more than just slightly hesitant if he had but was instead ever so slightly slow in his response for his contemplation of his newest guest—and nodded, moving through the foyer and into a small lobby that was, while polished, significantly less jaw-dropping.

“Tell me who you seek,” the man requested.

“Lady Vardamírë,” he answered, keeping his voice steady and his small harp tucked under his arm, halfway covered by his cloak.

“Ah.” It was clear that the man was theorizing who he might be—Kanafinwë’s current suspicion was that the man thought he might be a parent, a man of the nobility—even as he pulled out a small map of the building. “She makes her classroom in the east wing of the school, devoted more towards the vocal pursuits. Here, let me show you.”

Circling around the desk, Kanafinwë silently memorized the image before his gaze. The layout had not changed so much as he had feared. Even as the man explained how he should go about getting to the small room connected to a choir hall, he felt his mind wandering, trying to connect the winding paths inscribed on the paper with his faded memories.

Slowly, it came back. A remembrance of being very, very young, clinging to his father’s boots and trotting to keep up with the adult’s longer strides. It escaped him even now what they had been doing here—his father had never been much of one for musical pursuits that he could recall, for all that Fëanáro had had a glorious voice and the dexterity of hand to master any instrument—but he _did_ recall hearing the voices raised in song, pure tones pulling him away from his father’s side towards the cracked door of the hall.

It was the first time he could remember feeling the energy tingle in the air as it vibrated beneath the power of a voice. His whole body had shivered.

 _“Yonya, come here, bother the singers not.”_ That voice still echoed in his head, softer than he could elsewise ever remember hearing it since. Like a ghost, he felt a large hand on his shoulder, pulling him close to the fiery spirit. _“Try not to wander off, pitya.”_

_“But Atya, the voices are so pretty…”_

_There was a shadow of a smile. “Come along.”_

Quickly, he shook the memory away. Truth be told, he was not even certain that it was real and not simply an idealistic dream he had conjured in the night and never managed to forget.

“I think I can manage from here,” he said quickly, eager now to get away from scrutiny while his thoughts were so scattered. “My thanks for your assistance, meldo.”

They exchanged nods, and Kanafinwë set off into the east wing of the building.

Indeed, the deeper he went, the more voices he could hear. Some were very obviously the skilled practitioners, for their words conjured quiet, hazy visions if one stood still too long and lingered. And then there were the students in the art, sometimes more diffident for their inexperience and sometimes more enthusiastic than skilled. They gave him the impression of wavering light, and he had found it always bothered him. At least until a time when he had sat in the grass listening to Elrond play at his harp and stumble over the words to some ancient hymn to the vast skies, until he felt that hovering, uncertain tone solidify and sharpen into something amazing beneath his tutelage. Until then, perhaps, he had not understood at all the appeal of those masters who spent their long days sitting with young students correcting posture, breathing patterns and hand techniques inexhaustibly.

Now, he found the mixture soothing. New souls were learning.

And what souls were newer than the children of the Eldar? Even from halfway down the hall, he could hear their singing. Off key, interrupted by high-pitched giggling, slightly chaotic for all that their tune was simple and the melody easy to follow. Such was the way of young ones to be distracted, like his little brothers had been whenever he had tried to teach them as children (giving him much frustration) and like the twins had been when they curled into his lap and were more interested in being sung to than learning the art.

It needed not to be rushed, he had long since discovered. In time, those who would become proficient in the art would flourish and others would find their own callings elsewhere.

The door was partially open. Inside was a room clearly designed for the little ones in pastel colors, murals painted upon the walls with clumsy but eager hands in vibrant colors. Like ducklings, the little ones circled their teacher, all eyes upon her.

And, of course, his eyes were upon her as well.

These past few days he had spent in the gardens thinking of her. Of the shades of her hair cast silver in the moonlight—here, they looked pale blond with a faint cast of white from the glowing white rocks set about the room—and of the dark shade of her eyes, which still made him think of the almost-blackness of the moonless sky speckled with stars. When he had been with her, she had been nervous and fidgeting or breathless with awe, but now she was smiling in a carefree way, singing along with the little ones and leading them playfully along.

It carried a tone of that purity and innocence that Kanafinwë had long since lost, that his brothers had long since lost. Even Elros and Elrond had not carried such a lightheartedness, for they had experienced terrible things very young in life. All at once, he longed to both reach out and feel it brush against his spirit, but also to pull away, for his darkness and that light ought to be like oil and water. Immiscible.

_Is this really such a good idea?_

But, before he could even contemplate pulling away, the singing was ended. Vardamírë was laughing, sitting on the floor with her charges all around her, all clamoring for her attention with raised voices like the striking of a hundred bells. “Well done!” she was crying out, almost singing, above the cacophony. “We still need a little practice, I think, before the recital, but you are doing most excellent! I am very proud of all of you!”

Easily, she gathered them all up. “Now, we all know what time it is, do we not?”

A series of groans and complaints echoed around the room. If he had not had an entire series of younger brothers, he might not have understood what was happening. As it was, afternoon napping was universal for the little ones—mostly, he suspected, to slow them down for an hour or two and allow their caretakers to rest—and, like all other elflings he had encountered, the little ones thought it was the bane of all existence.

The young Kanafinwë had taken full advantage of his voice to lull his younger siblings into almost instantaneous sleep. One of the better parts of having an overwhelmingly powerful voice. Less than a minute into any lullaby and he could have all his siblings snoozing peacefully when they would otherwise insist upon running amok.

These little ones were certainly better behaved than his own brothers. Obediently, they assembled their little cots on the floor and huddled beneath small blankets. Vardamírë, tucking in the last of them, began to hum under her breath in her pure soprano, still prettier than any songbird. The words slipped from her lips, and he found that he had memory of them, long lost somewhere he had hesitated to visit.

_“Lay down your head, and I’ll sing you a lullaby…”*_

The squirming and whispering of the children began to fade into the sounds of soft breathing. Brightly glowing eyes began to darken with reverie. And, for his part, Kanafinwë wondered why it was that the melody rumbled through his chest, humming through his diaphragm and lungs, forcing its way out until his voice danced like a shadow beneath the resplendence of hers, wordless and quiet but no less golden than it ever was. For a long moment, he wondered if Vardamírë had failed to notice.

But then her eyes met his through the open door, widening in surprise. There was just the smallest hitch in her voice, but he raised a brow and offered her a half-smile, did his best to soothe her surprise. Carefully, her voice regained its confidence, smoothing over the small hiccup that had startled a few elflings half-awake.

And then, slowly, they faded off into silence. On light feet, she wove between her sleeping charges and slipped out the doorway.

“My Prince,” she whispered, “I was not expecting… I mean…”

“Forgive the surprise.” Before he could think better of it, he had her hand in his own, her skin cool against the smooth, burning marks embedded into his flesh, and brushed a kiss over her knuckles. “I see I caught you at an opportune moment.”

“Well, I cannot wander too far,” she answered. “Really, my Prince, you need not have come to see me. I am hardly of any import, and—”

“Makalaurë, remember?” he reminded her, gently interrupting. “It was no trouble. Sister Istelindë decided she had business in Tirion today, and several of us accompanied her, more to escape boredom than anything else. Besides, it has been so long since I was here, I thought I would visit and see what had changed.”

Vardamírë was biting at her lower lip. “Makalaurë, then…”

“Besides that,” he added, seeing that she was at a loss for what to say, that she was shy now that she was under his scrutiny, leaving him at a loss for how to calm her. Istelindë, after all, had been courageous enough that, even in the face of Turkafinwë and Curufinwë, she had still forced down her fear and moved forward with admirable aplomb, so much like Nerdanel had been that it was stark. Not so with this woman, who curled in a little bit beneath his gaze. “I also wanted to apologize for the night of the Festival. Our conversation ended very abruptly, and I was very rude to leave you as such.”

“You should not worry about it so,” she insisted, her eyes flying back up to meet his. “Really, I understand. Your brother was… very angry… about what was said. He looked…”

She shivered. He could hardly begrudge her for that. Turkafinwë had that effect on most people, even those who were closest.

“You had that look about you, too,” she said softly.

Sharply, Kanafinwë swallowed. “It would be folly for me to lie and say that I do not feel anger to the same extent as my siblings. Turkafinwë is also difficult to anger. But, then, what that man said, it was rather personal. Istelindë is… She is one of our own. I would not see her slandered undeservingly. She is…”

He trailed off, hating the direction this conversation had gone, hating the realization that sparked in the woman’s eyes as she watched him struggle to explain away his reaction to hearing the name of the object of his desires attacked so cruelly and unjustly. Was he really so obvious that, whenever Istelindë’s name arose in conversation, one could tell that he still looked at her sometimes and felt dazed? That he heard her speak sometimes and wished she used such a tender and loving tone to whisper his name? For all that he was enchanted with Vardamírë and her voice—for all that, even now, small and nervous, he found her lovely and wanted to soothe her trembling spirit—the ghost of Istelindë was still there. Lessened now, his heart slowly mending from the disappointment, but still there.

_You did not even really love her. Be not so melodramatic!_

Clearing his throat, he broke eye contact.

“You are hardly the only person to experience a bit of heartbreak.” For some reason, the momentary weakness showing through did more to soothe his companion than any amount of crooning with his voice. Why, he could not begin to imagine, but she relaxed minutely and seemed more welcoming to conversation. “She chose your brother instead?”

Kanafinwë, feeling awkwardly wrong-footed, nodded sharply. “They fit together very well, Nelyafinwë and Istelindë. Truth be told, she barely noticed me as more than a sibling to care for, and I was just being silly. Just daydreaming.”

“Most of us have been there before.” There was a note of commiseration in her voice. “Is that why you are here then, to court another lady and forget the first?”

“No, absolutely not!” he burst out, feeling color flood his face. “It is not— I would never do something like that! I would not expect you to—”

_Lovely. I have made an absolute mess of this conversation already._

At her raised brow, he let out a sigh and ceased to babble. “Maybe a little bit,” he admitted, “But I would hardly have bothered if I did not see something in you that sparked my interest. I do not frivolously dally. My intent was simply to come to know you better, perhaps to hear you sing again and sing for you in return. Moreover, it would be nice to have a companion who knows my art and shares my passion. None of my brothers had the interest.”

“I might not be willing to dive headfirst into a courtship,” she answered, and he felt no small amount of disappointment at that, “But I am not opposed to friendship first. If… if you are sincere about wishing to spend more time with me, Makalaurë.”

Again, he nodded sharply. “It would be my pleasure, as long as it does not cause problems for you in the process.” The last thing he wanted was for her to be shunned in her own home because she was friends with… well…

“You are practically legendary here,” she pointed out, mirth entering her soft voice. “Most here would trade gold and gifts to hear your voice. Not everyone will be kind about the association, but one should not expect to make all happy either. And my family… I have not seen them for more than brief visits since I was a young girl. They would not be pleased, but I am long since grown, and my life has been devoted to the School. My talent was identified quite early, and it was an honor for me to come here, to begin very young to hone my skill.”

Indeed, Kanafinwë was familiar with the process. Once, when he was young, it had been offered for him as well, that he might come here and live amongst musicians, learn from masters how to sharpen and adorn his talent to perfection away from outside distraction. The practice was less common in other trades, but the learning and composing of music was something different entirely. So closely entwined was it with the material world and the spiritual world, knitting them together and holding them as one, that the art was considered more of a religious devotion than a craft. Sometimes he wondered how his life might have been different if he had come here as a child, if he had had little exposure to his parents or his brothers. Sometimes, he wondered if he would have taken part in any of his family’s ill-fated rampage at all had he been so removed from their sphere of influence.

It was painful to think about for too long. One of those regrets he could not shake. Things he could not change needed not to be lingered upon for, if he dared, they raked like razor-sharp claws across the soul. Usually, he banished the fantasies of what his life might have been like before they could grow too vivid, before they could outstrip anything his reality had to offer.

Though, he supposed it had not truly been his choice. His father had outright refused to allow it. No Fëanárion was going to be a common bard.

Even now, he pushed those thoughts aside. What was done was done. Now was a different time than the Years of the Trees in the time of his youth when his father and family had so much sway and power over his choices. For one, his father was long dead, and his steadfast and harsh opinions were dead along with him. His House—his brothers—still held his undying loyalty and always would, but they could not control his life. Not even Nelyafinwë could order him to cease if he decided he would like to build something here. Not that he truly believed that his older brother would try to stop him from pursuing connections beyond their isolated home in the mountains—he rather thought Nelyo might encourage it. 

“It sounds like you could help me out finding my way around this place, then,” he commented, relaxing now that they had moved away from the more dangerous topic of his unrequited affections for his brother’s wife. “I did also come here to inquire about teaching. Age and experience have given me rather a different outlook on the idea than I had when I was young and caught up with my own works.”

“Teaching?” Her eyes lit up with interest. “I never would have imagined that it was something a prince would be interested in. It just seems so lowly and common compared to…” Her voice trailed off awkwardly.

“It does not seem so glamorous as all the fuss of politics at court, does it? Certainly, my father would have thought just that and scoffed to think one of his children wanted to do something so undignified as a profession or even as a hobby.” He could already picture the look on Fëanáro’s face, the sneer that would put even Curufinwë’s most vicious expressions to shame. “However, my family has little place in the world of politics anymore.”

“Well, if you would truly like to discuss it with the Headmaster, I can take you to him after the elfings have gone home for the day,” she offered.

They both peered back into the room at Vardamírë’s (thankfully) still sleeping charges.

“Shall I return later, then?” As much as he did not really want to wander off on his own for another few hours, he also wanted little part in dealing with such a large brood of children. Keeping track of only two had been bad enough. Besides that, he was fairly certain that the parents (or the servants of said parents in some cases) would be more likely to recognize him by face than the poor man in the lobby, and he doubted very much that any of the nobility would be comfortable with him anywhere near their beloved little ones. Understandably.

“Stay until nap time is over at least, since you _did_ come here to get to know me.” Her smile was not so bright and uncensored as when she had grinned and laughed and chatted with her young charges, but he could appreciate that she was trying. It certainly was an improvement over her nervous frowning of earlier.

“I can certainly do that,” he answered, catching her hand and kissing her knuckles again. “At your service, my lady. What do you want to know?”

She gave a tiny giggle. “Tell me, then, have you taught before? Little ones or are you seeking for older students? I already know that you play the harp as well, though you are known for your voice, but would you be teaching both?”

He found himself honestly pleased to discuss the subject, explaining with a helpless smile that he had, indeed, taught before and whom. It did not even hurt so much as it once might have to bring up the fosterlings. Mostly, though, he talked very little of their actual learning (both had been proficient at the end of their education and stay with the Fëanárioni, though only Elrond had truly had a taste for making music rather than listening to it sung about the fire in the evening as had Elros) and spent more time expounding upon their childhood hijinks. It was shocking to remember how much trouble two elflings could manage to get up to even in somewhere so dull and dreary as a war camp.

It was rather soothing, actually, for she had stories to share in return and spoke so fondly of her young charges. Slowly, he could see her true smile making a reappearance, and his own burgeoning good mood was bolstered.

Inching nearer as they exchanged their tales, he drew them side-by-side, leaning against the wall, almost near enough to touch, happily conversing. Certainly, near enough to take in her face as the lines of worry smoothed away, as her lips relaxed and bloomed to fullness, as her eyes flashed towards him and away beneath the veil of her lashes. It was so much nicer than trying to be overtly romantic and leaving her nervous, unused to great courtly gestures. Besides, while he was more than capable of being charming when the call came, he would much rather get lost in a theory conversation or complaints of childhood mischief than painfully flirt, and a companion with whom to take that solace was priceless. 

Slowly, she relaxed beneath the casual interaction and leaned into his presence, a hand braced on his upper arm as they fell deeper into their shared interests, rather than shying away. Temptation to reach out and touch in return was strong, but he resisted, took strength instead in the rhythmic rise and fall of her voice and in the way her fingers tapped a soundless beat upon his bicep. He was honestly more than a little disappointed to see it end.

_I am lost already. Curufinwë would name me a fool were he here. And he would be right!_

That knowledge did nothing to quell the sappy smile on his lips.

“It is time for the little ones to get up,” she said, smiling in return as she slipped away. “They will be up til all hours if they sleep too much longer.”

“Of course,” he responded, bowing his head ever so slightly.

“Two hours,” she added. “The little ones will be fetched about that time. Til then, I am certain you can find something to do, for a musician never runs short of inspiration or of fellow talent in a place like this.”

“I shall manage,” he assured her, and he was pleased to see that she accepted the kiss on her knuckles with only a single shallow inhalation to mark her nervousness.

Pulling away, she disappeared inside, her pretty voice chiming to awaken her charges.

And Kanafinwë drew away before he was spotted and dragged forth by excited little ones, for he knew he would never escape should they capture and detain him within their classroom. Now, for making himself scarce for a few hours. That seemed perfectly manageable given that he did not get himself lost.

And, so, he wondered off in a random direction. It would be nice to find a performance hall to spend an hour or two just listening. Certainly, it was nicer than dealing with his brothers for the rest of the day.

_Aiya, what am I getting myself into?_

He was not even quite sure anymore.

\---

Istelindë was in a good mood.

It seemed that all her younger brothers had managed to find women for themselves, and she had not been required to do almost any work at all except give them the opportunity to come to the city and spend some time with the objects of their affections. Now that she had left Pityafinwë in the care of the Healing House (and one lovely healer in particular, she could not help but think with a soft chortle), she was quite on her own to finish her shopping.

Her good mood lasted about until she ran into Lady Anairë.

Not much had she interacted with her husband’s aunt by marriage, nor with Prince Nolofinwë, who had been far too focused on tracking down his daughter after the Festival to give much attention to Nelyafinwë or his bride. But she still recognized the woman, wearing a flowing day-dress and looking rather more tired than was normal judging by the dark shade of the skin beneath her eyes. The woman nearly walked straight past her without so much as a nod, getting all of five or so steps before realizing that she had bypassed a familiar face.

As Anairë spun around, the pair stared at one another. “Good morning, Lady Anairë,” Istelindë managed to force out hesitantly, not quite certain of her welcome but offering a light curtsy anyway.

For a few long moments, the woman seemed not to know what to say. And then: “Did you know?”

_What?_

“Did I… know what?”

“Did you know where Írissë had gone?” Anairë looked caught somewhere between violence and bursting into tears, holding onto her composure only because they were currently speaking to each other in low voices in a public setting, standing off to the side of the writhing river of people moving through the marketplace of Tirion.

“What do you mean, did I know? Of course not! I would not have kept it secret from you if I had any idea!” 

And she would not have. While she could see some vague similarities between her own situation and that of Írissë, she had been facing down an unwanted marriage to a man she barely knew and a life at court being mocked behind her back and ostracized to her face, at having any children she might have treated poorly as an extension of her shame. She certainly sympathized with Írissë somewhat—it was never easy being born into a position like theirs, which came with its own set of rules and restrictions and much less glamor and glory than the common folk thought—but the woman was hardly facing down such a life-changing event as all that. Not yet, in any case, though Istelindë was certain that the rumor mill had not at all forgotten that she had been spotted unchaperoned with her male cousin.

Somehow, she had the feeling that Írissë running away had little to do with being ashamed of being caught having relations with Tyelkormo and more to do with the disapproval of her parents. Understandable disapproval. Istelindë wondered if her husband’s cousin quite knew what it was like to be publicly shunned and mocked and shamed everywhere she went. It was not a pretty existence.

So, no, she was not lying when she said she would have assisted if she could, if only because Lady Anairë did not deserve to worry. “What makes you think I knew?”

“Yesterday, Lady Lindalórë came forward and admitted that she had known all along, but that Írissë had fled from her hiding place already and was gone.” Anairë released a half-stifled sniffle, lips pursed against any inappropriate displays of emotion in the public eye. “She claimed to have told no one but her husband, Curufinwë, so I thought…”

_She thinks we all knew and said nothing._

“He never said a word!” Istelindë did not really know what to think about that. She knew that her little brother through marriage could be an ornery creature, vicious and cruel when it suited his fancies, but she had ever been spared his worst moods and whimsies. At the realization that he may have (probably had) deliberately kept this secret not only to appease his wife but also because he wanted to punish the House of Nolofinwë, she was forced to recall their first meeting, his suspicious and reptilian gaze resting on her until she quivered with nerves.

 _Maitimo is going to be furious when he finds out._ They had both assumed that, while Curufinwë was certainly unkind in the doing, he had been honest about knowing nothing of Írissë’s whereabouts. _We were talking about it just the day before Tyelkormo left…_

And then she realized exactly why Tyelkormo had taken off and not returned.

“I thought perhaps she might be with you, up in the mountains,” Anairë admitted, voice wavering just a bit. “She seemed rather enamored with Turkafinwë. I thought, perhaps, she had gone to find him, or that he had come to fetch her…”

Istelindë shook her head solemnly. “Turkafinwë took off several days ago and has not returned since. But I think I may now know why.”

“You think Turkafinwë went looking for her?”

Anairë looked torn between hopeful and distressed at the idea. Istelindë nibbled on her lower lip. “It is… possible. He had been acting a bit odd this past week, picking on his brothers more than usual. I thought he might be worried about cousin Írissë, but Maitimo was not convinced. Apparently, it would be rather out of character for him to be worried about anyone, or so his brothers think.”

“But not you?”

“I do not know him that well.” She did not want to assume—Tyelkormo often went off on his own without rhyme or reason, so it could be a coincidence—but… “But yes, that had been my first thought.”

Now, Anairë just went back to seeming tired. “I should get back, let Nolofinwë know…”

“Would you like me to accompany you?” Istelindë asked. For all that she did not know her aunt by marriage well, it had been her intent to begin mending the rift between her husband’s family and Nolofinwë’s. Now that Curufinwë had gone and ruined any progress they had managed to scrape together, though, she wondered if she would be welcome.

“That may not be a good idea. Nolofinwë is in a state, and Turukáno is hardly any better.” The older woman let out a world-weary sigh. “If you learn anything more, hear anything, or if Írissë does show up with Turkafinwë, will you…?”

“Certainly, I shall send a missive should I learn anything new. I will ask Maitimo and the others if they can go looking as well, though I doubt that Turkafinwë could be found if he does not want to be found. It might be worth a try.” 

More like she might lock Curufinwë out of the house until he went and found his older brother as punishment. If she could work up the nerve to yell at him, in any case. Scolding him for sassing her over saying Grace was one thing but going head to head with him in a real argument was something else entirely.

Mood very much ruined, she and Anairë parted ways. Little desire did she have now to enjoy her outing, and she was most certainly not looking forward to the journey home. But there really _were_ things still to be bought while she was here in the city.

When Maitimo had told her that his family was ridden with strife, two Houses battling each other bitterly over mishaps and misfortunes of the past, she had imagined the harsh words, fist fights and silent breakfasts full of cold shoulders, certainly. But never had she imagined something this serious, that one of her new brothers was conniving and heartless enough to put his extended family through such worry for a grudge.

_Maitimo did warn me. They are not innocent, and they are not kind, not to those they have reason to despise. They only appear innocuous to those who have no reason to incite their fury or their cruelty._

It did not make her adore them any less. But it did leave her wary.

Would that life had been so simple as it seemed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:
> 
> Fëanárioni (Q, p) = Sons of Fëanáro  
> Eruhína (Q, s) = Child of Eru  
> Eruhíni (Q, p) = Children of Eru  
> hanno (Q) = brother (informal)  
> meldo (Q) = friend  
> yonya (Q) = my son (shortened yondonya)  
> Atya (Q) = Papa/Daddy  
> pitya (Q) = little (one)  
> Eldar (Q, p) = high-elves  
> Aiya (Q) = exclamation, like O!


	33. In Search of Afternoon Bliss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Basically just Curufinwë and Telufinwë trying to make their girls happy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: courting, sneaking around, crying, family drama, mentions of past murder/betrayal, thinking about sex, self-depreciation, nightmares, PTSD
> 
> Maedhros = Maitimo = Nelyafinwë = Nelyo  
> Maglor = Makalaurë = Kanafinwë = Káno  
> Celegorm = Tyelkormo = Turkafinwë = Turko  
> Caranthir = Carnistir = Morifinwë = Moryo  
> Curufin = Atarinkë = Curufinwë = Curvo  
> Amrod = Ambarussa = Pityafinwë = Pityo  
> Amras = Umbarto = Telufinwë = Telvo  
> Aredhel = Írissë  
> Fingolfin = Nolofinwë  
> Fingon = Findekáno  
> Egalmoth = Aikambalotsë  
> Turgon = Turukáno  
> Glorfindel = Laurefindil  
> Ecthelion = Ehtelion

_Aldúya, 46 Lairë (28 June)_

\---

Now that Kanafinwë had chased him off, Curufinwë supposed he really did not have any reason left to delay the visit to his beloved wife.

His older brother had more or less named him coward, and, while he could certainly call Kanafinwë somewhat spineless on a typical day, his older brother was far from unobservant or stupid. Even though he had little reason to fear, even though he was certain Lindalórë was not going turn him away, even though her parents had no true power to bar him from her, Curufinwë still felt hesitation. That he was going to do something foolish. That he was going to ruin his second chance. That he was going to drive her away.

It had manifested as a particular vicious mood that Kanafinwë had valiantly weathered right up until his older sibling had a legitimate reason to banish him to his own devices.

What was there to do except move forward?

So, he went to see his wife at the house of her parents, package in hand feeling heavier than it had any right to be. Eru, but he remembered long past days doing just this, coming knocking, gift in hand like a proper suitor, feeling like he could conquer the whole world every time he saw Lindalórë smile eagerly as she opened the door to let him in no matter how much her father frowned or her mother sighed in exasperation. Once, he really _had_ been that arrogant, that self-assured, a shadow of the apparent invulnerability Fëanáro had always portrayed. Nothing could stop him or halt him or turn him away.

Now, he just felt fragile. Like all the smirking and posturing was just a mask made from the thinnest of glass. Like he would shatter under the lightest breeze.

Not that that was going to stop him from doing exactly what he wanted. The Fëanárioni, like their father, did not show vulnerability often. Not at all, if they could manage. Such was how they had been raised, for their father certainly was not shy nor merciful in exploiting the weaknesses of his children to terrible effect. One did not appear weak before the eyes of such a man unless they wanted to invite ill fortune upon themselves.

And Curufinwë, like his brothers, simply had never shaken that mindset. Better to appear unruffled than to allow a weak spot to show.

Therefore, he rang the bell and waited. The hearing of an elf was such that he could hear the sound of footsteps within, padding gently across the floor just inside. Their owner peered out and saw his outline through the stained glass of the door. Unfortunately, whoever it was had no intention of allowing him inside, for they walked away without even opening the door and doing him the courtesy of handing out a dismissal. Probably, he guessed, Lindalórë’s mother.

Lovely.

Well, it was not as though he had not faced such challenges before. If they were not going to simply let him inside, he would find another way to get his wife’s attention. More than once he had climbed the back balcony in the garden as a ridiculous youth in love.

Their fence was still as easy to vault as he remembered. Not a challenge at all compared to some sheer rock faces he had been forced to scale with enemies on his heels. The gardens had changed surprisingly little for all that it had been so long since the last time he had been here. Same preference for irises and primroses, though some of the colors had changed, less of the purest white blooms and more dark, bold colors than he recalled. Circling around the house, he saw the raised patio, opening into a parlor inside through large glass doors covered in designs and inlaid with crystals that gleamed blindingly in the sunlight of the early afternoon. Further, beyond that, there were the balconies two floors up overlooking the sprawling yard, dotted now with clumps of trees that had been replaced dozens of times to prevent them from growing too large but always with the same series of maples and birches. There was still a small pond—he wondered blandly as he glanced towards its sun-shining surface if it still had those ridiculous gold fish in it—and there was still a willow hanging over the water, ends of the whip-like branches trailing against the clear surface, brushing against the water lilies.

The second balcony over was hers, at least, if she used the same set of rooms that had been hers as a girl. No one was out, but the glass door was open, curtains swishing in the faint breeze, pale pink and ridged in lace.

_Hopefully, I am not going to have to resort to throwing rocks like a stripling in a ridiculous romance novella._

“Lórë!” he called out, hesitant to raise his voice too much and attract unwanted attention. “Lórë! Are you there?”

At first, he thought he really _was_ going to have to resort to rocks. He called again.

And then her silhouette appeared through the curtains. Her hair was unbound and unbraided, long and dark spilling down over her shoulder. Her gown was loose and flowing, overlaid with a dark blue robe that she pulled closed as she peered hesitantly out through the curtains. Only once she had stepped into the sunlight could he see that her eyes were red-rimmed, that she was looking tired.

“Lindalórë?” he called again. “Are you alright? Should I…?”

“Curufinwë?” she peered down at him. “Did Amillë not let you in then? I heard the bell ring a few minutes ago.”

“No, she took one look and walked away.” Glancing around, he felt rather exposed. He was easily visible from the patio should someone step outside, or even should they glance outside from the parlor. Besides that, his wife looked upset, and he did not want to try to comfort her while shouting from two stories below.

The package could wait. Dumping it into one of the garden plants, he moved towards the side of the house, finding all the old handholds. The trellis, the second story windowsills, the jagged spot of brick halfway up to set his foot.

“Curufinwë, you should not!”

But he was already scrambling his way up. Not thirty seconds later, he launched himself up over the railing and stumbled on the landing. Almost immediately, she was huddling up into his arms, tucking her face into his neck. Surprised, he could think only to wrap her up completely, cradling the back of her head in his palm.

_Is she going to cry?_

How many nightmares had he had that were of her crying? Eru, the very thought of it made his stomach roll over and threaten to rise up right out of his mouth. Cold prickled across his skin like a warning frost.

But the tears did not come. “What is it?” he asked quietly. “Lindalórë?”

“I was stupid,” she said, her fingers curling into a fist where they were buried in the fabric of his tunic. “I went to see her, Írissë, and she told me that she was going to willingly return home, but I think she lied to me just to keep me quiet. She asked me for another day of solitude before I sent anyone after her, and I granted her that like a gullible moron. Now that I think about it… She was making more time so that she could get further away before anyone realized she was gone.”

_So, Írissë has not been found. She has pulled another one of her disappearing acts, only much more purposefully this time._

“I went to check on her yesterday when she failed to return home as promised, but she was already long gone,” Lindalórë finished in a whisper. “Her brothers were furious when I told them, and Prince Nolofinwë about threatened to cut down every tree from here to Valmar in search of her.”

“They did nothing to harm you, did they?” For all that Nelyafinwë and Istelindë had encouraged them to “play nice” with their extended family, Curufinwë did not trust Nolofinwë or his sons. Not in the least. Not around his family. Certainly not around his wife. Much as he would like to think that they would not have done anything to physically hurt her while he was not there to watch over and protect her…

Well, the Nolofinwioni were as much Kinslayers as their Fëanárion cousins, born of the same blood and bred in the same adversity. They were capable of murder without question, and therefore capable of much else beyond that.

But she shook her head, and he felt the sudden heat in his blood, the hairs standing on the nape of his neck, cool and calm again.

“No, no… They were angry, but they did not… _would not…”_ She let out a sigh, falling limp against his side, giving him almost her full weight to uphold. “It was my fault—that she took off, I mean to say. I suggest something ridiculous, and then she runs off in search of Turkafinwë like a lunatic! There is no question that, had I said nothing, this would not have happened!”

“Something ridiculous?” Curufinwë pulled back to look at his wife’s face, brushing her dark hair back, tucking it behind her ear.

“Her father has been almost _begging_ her to get married for years and years, ever since she took her first lover after her rebirth. It made him anxious, because, of course, Írissë has never been shy nor subtle in her doings, and it was risky to play such games at court. Until now, there had only been unconfirmed whispers, never confirmed by her or any of her few beaus, but, now that she has been so publicly outed having an affair with your brother, and since she seems to like him more than any of the _other_ available candidates her father keeps shoving at her at every event or party, I thought that, perhaps…”

It was ludicrous. Curufinwë almost laughed to imagine it, to think that _that_ had been his wife’s spectacular idea. Yet, what else could she mean by those words?

“You suggested that she marries Turkafinwë?”

She gave him an arch look, a little bit of her steely backbone beginning to show through. “It is not _that_ ridiculous!”

“It _is_ that ridiculous,” he answered, halfway between laughter and scoffing. “What were you thinking? Turkafinwë? Marry someone? Making those kinds of promises and commitments, it goes against his basic principles, his core tenets, his natural behavior. He despises restrictions, and I honestly cannot see him restricting himself to a single woman by swearing marriage vows.”

“Írissë is the same. So why not put them together? What agreements they come to about have affairs or whatnot is their business, but there will be much less of this scandal nonsense if Írissë finally marries _someone._ Even if he is a Fëanárion, which is going to cause all sorts of _talk_ in the elite circles.”

 _Talk._ He _did_ scoff this time. Eru, he hated politics and politicians. Always so concerned with being _nice_ and being _polite_ and not _offending_ anyone. His own father had been one to flout all those conventions—Who was going to tell the Crown Prince off but the King, who loved his firstborn too much to reign in his oldest child’s less admirable habits?—and Curufinwë was of a very similar temperament. He found all that whispering and rumoring and going behind backs to be exhausting and pointless.

“Are we still the epitome of all evil, then? Are you sure Írissë is not going to be exchanging one type of scorn and disdain for another?”

“Do not be daft.” His wife crossed her arms, her lips curling up on one side. “If she marries Turkafinwë, he will be her husband legally. If he is willing to let her wander off into the forest on adventures and flee from court to live in the middle of nowhere or at the top of a mountain, she will be free of this place, which is what she really wants.”

Curufinwë had to acknowledge that Turkafinwë was unlikely to restrict Írissë in her comings and goings, for he, himself, hated being fenced in, literally or figuratively. Still… “He will never agree to marry her.”

“Írissë is stubborn,” Lindalórë argued. “If anyone can change his mind, it would be her.”

That was true. Still, he had trouble imagining it. For all that Turkafinwë seemed to have been worried for their cousin—though who was to say that that worry was not simply a figment of his imagination, bolstered on by Istelindë’s own concerns and convincing, and that Turkafinwë had not taken off to find Írissë only out of a desire to have another roll in the hay with her and be no more emotionally involved than that?—it seemed unlikely that this plan could unfold. His brother would never go out of his way to marry, not even for a woman of whom he was fond, not when it would cause him nothing but further problems. Turkafinwë did not do sentiment. He did not do _anything_ unless he saw personal benefit to it.

But, that small amount of concern was more than his brother had shown for anyone else. Perhaps, there was a small chance…?

“Well,” he finally said, not willing to get his wife’s hopes up too much in that regard nor dash them with his cynicism or bolster them with speculation, “She will have to find him first. I told Turkafinwë a few days ago, and he took off the next morning, so…”

“Told him?” Lindalórë blinked up at him, no small amount of betrayal in her eyes. “You told him where Írissë was hiding?”

“He was acting oddly. We theorized that he might be concerned about her. That should be to your tastes, considering you would have them marry, is that not so?” She gave him a bland look of annoyance. Of course, there was sometimes no pleasing a woman. “So, I told him where she had been staying, and he ran off in the middle of the night. It was very like him, nothing out of the ordinary except for the timing.”

His wife finally let out a sigh. But only after holding him under her glare or a long minute, letting him sweat and fidget. “Maybe it is for the best. Maybe he will find her.”

“Do not count on him ferrying her back to civilization, though,” Curufinwë cautioned. “Turkafinwë once vanished for six months straight. There is every chance that, should he find her, they will purposefully stay lost so as to do whatever they wish without outside input or protest. Neither of them is particularly easy to track, either. My brother knows how to cover his tracks well. We may very well hear no news of them for months if Turkafinwë finds her before her brothers and father do.”

Lindalórë groaned with quiet frustration, her forehead falling to rest against his collarbone. “What a ridiculous mess.”

Curufinwë did not particularly care one way or another how stressed out Nolofinwë or his family were about their missing member. After all, they had not been all that caring or understanding towards _his_ family in their time of need, and Fëanárioni did not forget such slights, let alone forgive. Part of him was even hoping that his uncle and cousins were suffering, that they were squirming in their beds lying awake at night, worrying their thoughts into mindless, endless circles, for had he not be there once? Had he not been the one standing on the sidelines, watching Nelyafinwë crawl his way back out of mutilation and depression while Nolofinwë and Findekáno stood by doing _nothing?_ Had he not been the one listening with horror—stricken with dread at Pityafinwë’s despair after Telufinwë’s violent and horrific death—to his cousins disdain the attempts of his little brother to take Nolofinwë’s side against Fëanáro. His brother who had tried to prevent the abandonment of their sworn brothers and _died_ for it! Maybe it was childish to still carry such an overpowering grudge when they were all returned to their “paradise” of a home and the war, pain and suffering were (supposedly) finished, but Curufinwë was loyal first and foremost to his family and cared for little else if it was not to his own advancement. He was neither inclined nor motivated to start kissing up to his uncle or cousins now, for they had done nothing to deserve anything more than his disdain and disgust in return. No guilt did he feel in keeping quiet.

Obviously, his wife felt a little more guilt about the matter, and he sought to lighten her mood, for he had not come here to see her cry and mope in her rooms. “Come, let us sneak out. I know I said we would be tame while doing this courting business, but your parents do not want me in the house anyway. Some sunshine will help you feel better.”

“I cannot go out wearing this.” She plucked halfheartedly at the dress, which he realized now was a rather sheer gown. Her modesty was protected only by the heaviness of her bold, deep blue covering, parted all the way down her front.

“I would rather only I got to see this much of you,” he said cheekily, slipping a hand under her robe and stroking down the long curve of her side from her breast down to her hipbone. Right now, with her standing at the correct angle from the sun peeking in through her balcony door, he could see straight through the fabric, could have reached out to pluck at the darkened disks of her nipples or teased the dark triangle between her thighs. “Maybe something less titillating for a public outing. The goal is to have fun, not for me to ravish you before we ever escape your parents’ house.”

She rolled her eyes, pushing his hand away. But the small smile (just a hint of gratefulness hidden beneath the teasing of her bright eyes) she gave him negated the rejection entirely. Made it clear that, when she let her robe fall from her shoulders and gave him a good view of her entire silhouette through the translucent white fabric of her gown, she was doing it quite on purpose.

And then, of course, she shamelessly tugged even that right off over her head. It took plenty of thinking of disgusting and horrible things to stifle the heat that almost instantly churned to life in his gut and made a valiant effort to get him erect faster than he had managed on his own for a long while.

 _Not why I am here,_ he reminded himself steadfastly, keeping his hands firmly to himself as Lindalórë crossed the room and dug about in her wardrobe, giving him a perfect view of her hourglass shape from behind and of her bottom presented (just at fucking height, damn her) when she bent over to pull something out of the back. Instead, he tried to focus on the brightly-colored cloth she wrenched free of her ocean of gowns, all low-necked, vibrant cobalt blue and richly embroidered, and slipped over her head. Not one he had seen before.

As her husband, it was his duty to find everything to look absolutely fetching on his own wife, but he did think this one rather complimented her coloring. It showed just the tiniest spot of her cleavage and rested wide, cinched with little jeweled broaches just above her shoulders, giving him access to the graceful lines of her collarbones (for later). Otherwise sleeveless, cinched at the waist but free-flowing everywhere else. “Can you climb in that?”

Her look was withering. “Exists there a dress that is easy to climb in? Most are a pain to even wear walking up and down the stairs.”

Snorting out a quiet laugh, he went back out onto the balcony and easily threw himself over the railing, seamlessly grasping onto the neighboring windowsill. From there it was just a matter of backtracking his way down.

She was going to have a bit more of a time of it, as usual. In their youth it had been a fun little challenge, but she seemed to glare at the small purchases and handholds more with a look of annoyance now than she had once. “You had best catch me if I take a tumble, Curufinwë, or I might just decide not to see you for the next month.”

“Naturally, what else are husbands for?” he replied subserviently, though his smile was fond as he watched her struggle her way over the railing and across the windowsills.

“I can think of a handful of other things one might be useful for that I have been forced to take care of on my own as of late,” she called down, getting her revenge in the form of reminding him of what he definitely wanted and was not allowed to have. As he stood watching attentively, she swung herself down onto the trellis and spent a few moments untangling the folds of her gown from the vining flowers. “Hold still, Curufinwë.”

“Hold still?” He looked up at her, temporarily blinded by the sunlight shining from almost directly behind her face.

“Yes, hold still.” And then she jumped on him. With a collective shout, they went to the ground with him landing on his back and her knocking all the air right out of his lungs.

“Good cushion,” she crooned, patting his chest as he lay winded, caught between laughter and wheezing. “Now, did I or did I not see you carrying something with you when you arrived here, vennonya?”

Still a little breathless, he pointed over towards the bushes.

Eagerly, she pulled out the package, fiddling with the silk wrapped around it until the small box underneath was revealed. He did not need to be able to see to know what was inside. A small nest of lily of the valley, and a jeweled bracelet in their midst, all diamond flowers set in small curls of emerald vines. He could smell the sweetness of the flowers even sitting so far away. They were uncommon garden plants but bloomed in droves in the mountains.

“I had no idea that you were so sentimental,” she commented, pulling out the bracelet and holding it in her palm, twisting and turning it to watch it glimmer. As she ought. He had put quite a bit of time into scouring his family’s rather ridiculous collection of stones gathered for the purpose of making jewelry, picking the best he could find for her. They could have been even higher quality had he ridden all the way out to Formenos to sample the hoard of Fëanáro, but time had been of the essence. Thus, it had even required a bit of marketplace sourcing on his way home from their last meeting to procure enough gems that met even his minimum standard for near-perfection.

And, well, there were the flowers… She pulled them out, gathered in the cup of her palm, and began to weave the small belled blossoms into her hair as though they were diamonds. He felt his cheeks flush at the look of fondness and amusement she gave him.

“They remind me of you. Of us,” he said quickly, reluctant to admit that he still knew anything about the language of flowers from their first time courting.

“They are poisonous, Curufinwë,” she said, giggling, “Though they do smell very sweet.”

“I meant the ‘return of happiness’ part,” he countered, not feeling particularly motivated to move from where he sat in the grass watching as she made herself a braided net of the small white blooms, her bracelet wrapped around her slender wrist glittering like a crown of stars in the sunlight.

“You are much more romantic than people ever give you credit for, and much softer of heart as well,” she said, scooching near and carrying the scent of the flowers with her. They could not quite compare to her natural fragrance, but he appreciated seeing them upon her nonetheless, appreciated that she had accepted the gift and the meaning behind it. He had known she would, rationally, but part of him was still…

Well, he would try not to let those worries drag him down for now.

Instead, they spent a few minutes just sitting in the grass together, just out of view of the patio. He pressed kisses to her fingertips, watching how her smile brightened. And then to her palm and wrist, loving the catch of her breath. And then to her neck and beneath her ear, reveling in her quiet laughter.

Finally, he caught her lips. “Let us sneak out, then, before we are caught kissing in the gardens like a silly young couple freshly in love.”

“We might as well be a silly couple freshly in love, though we do not exactly qualify for the young bit, do we?” 

“We can still act as the young folk do,” he suggested. “How about it? Shall we head into town, see what all the fuss is going on at the plaza? I am still not quite certain why Istelindë was so eager to come into town today and to bring Telvo of all people.”

“Well, it is something,” she agreed. “Let us go.”

She let him pull her upright, and they continued to exchange chaste little kisses as they wove their way through the trellis-encircled walkways and flowerbeds. It was only then that Curufinwë saw a male silhouette through the glass doors, watching quietly and doing nothing to interfere. Aikambalotsë, surprisingly, just watched, raising a single hand in greeting. The look on his face was sharper than usual, but he did not grow grimmer at the sight of his sister and her husband playfully dancing about each other in the garden. In fact, Curufinwë half-thought those blisteringly cold emerald eyes might even have softened at seeing Lindalórë smiling.

Turning his mind away from his brother-in-law, Curufinwë tugged at his Lindalórë’s long, flower-laden hair as they circled around the house and disappeared from view of the parlor. Giving his wife a leg-up, he watched her blue skirts whisper over the top of the locked gate and then followed her over. Laughing and holding hands, they stumbled out onto the cobbled street and headed towards town.

“Where to first? Lunch? The marketplace? Somewhere else?”

“Lunch first,” she demanded. “And then you can take me to see what all the fuss is about today, alright?”

“As you wish.”

He kissed her knuckles and offered her a grin.

\---

They were sneaking out. Just like before.

Really, he should have been more annoyed at that. Curufinwë Fëanárion was not the sort any man wanted for his younger sister, and Aikambalotsë was no exception to the general philosophy of avoiding that cursed and fiery-tempered family. Then or now. Would that Lindalórë had found someone during her husband’s absence, that she had moved on and been remarried, and life would have been so much simpler and so much better for this family. She would have been freed of her imprisonment in this house and happier for it and might have had a family and a real home with a man who could care for her and give her all the luxuries Aikambalotsë thought she deserved. Instead, here they were, back at the beginning.

But, as Curufinwë had said, it was his sister’s choice. Aikambalotsë stood steadfastly in objection during their first courting when they were young fools prancing about, ruining his sister’s reputation at every turn with unchaperoned outings and adventures. Now, he did not have the heart to make her hate him any more than she already did.

And, as he watched them playfully circle around each other, heard his baby sister’s laughter through the barely-open glass doors and watched her smile and twirl with white flowers in her long, dark hair, he thought that it did his heart good to see her happy. So long had it been since he had seen her so free, smiling so openly and joyously, as she was when she was with her husband. For many long years, they had seen nothing except her sly smirks and her shadowed eyes, her tightly braided hair and her emotionless face as she sat through dinners and parties like a well-behaved, pampered little princess.

Truly, he felt his heart rise into his throat. She was _laughing_ again. And on a day like today, which had already been so terribly taxing on them all.

That morning had been…

_The three sons of Nolofinwë had been circling the small yard of the cottage for some thirty minutes while their father searching about the inside, taking in the little signs of occupation and the obvious lack of woman present. When they had exhausted their hope of finding her hidden, they converged upon the outside steps, their faces all set in stone._

_Turukáno was as furious as Aikambalotsë had ever seen him. Long enough had he known the Prince—his former sovereign, the King of Ondolindë—that it was easy to detect the pallor of the lips as they pinched tight, the flex of the muscles in the jaw, and bright coldness of the eyes that he so associated with fury. Rare was it that the man came to shouts, for he preferred to take action if scorn bleeding from his tongue failed to yield results._

_He had seen this very expression only once or twice before. Once, when Aikambalotsë, Laurefindil and Ehtelion had returned to the Hidden City emptyhanded with not so much as a clue to the whereabouts of Lady Írissë, who they were meant to be guarding with their lives. That time, there had been no violence, but the icy tension that settled between the old friends had never quite vanished under the stress of broken trust._

_And, the second time, after Eöl Móredhel had wounded Írissë in full view of the King and the Court of Ondolindë and she had later died of poison._

_That time had ended with the man being thrust over the walls of the city to his death on the rocks below. A pitiless, ruthless method of execution, leaving Turukáno’s hands free of blood but his spirit not so spotless. Brutally, the King had looked on, not so much as flinching at the instinctive scream of the prisoner as he plummeted, nor the loud cracking of breaking bones upon the rocks, nor the sudden and bone-chilling silence. With vindictively satisfied eyes, Turukáno had looked over the edge down at the body._

_It was true that they had once been friends. But desperate and cruel circumstances had a way of teaching one things about their companions they wished they never knew. And what Aikambalotsë had learned was that Turukáno was cold, harsh and empty of compassion towards those he felt had slighted him and his family, not thinking of those who he might hurt with his actions in retribution._

_He had not hesitated at all._

_It had not mattered that Írissë had begged for mercy for her spouse, if not out of love for her husband than out of love for her child. Yet, Turukáno had not even glanced at his poor nephew, whose mother had just passed suddenly in the night, who was now standing stricken and white in the face while watching his father being killed. Orphaned in less than a day, and Turukáno had not seemed to care at all._

_Now, those icy eyes were resting on his baby sister with fury, blaming her for Írissë taking off irresponsibly into the forest like a madwoman. And he did not like that. Not at all. He wanted Lindalórë as far from Turukáno or any other man of the House of Nolofinwë as he could get her, and he wanted it now._

_Then Nolofinwë took a step forward._

_“You could have said something_ days _ago!” Understandably, Prince Nolofinwë was upset, but he lacked the same murderous cant to his expression. Instead, his face was starkly white except for the dark rings beneath his eyes._

_“I promised her I would keep quiet!” Lindalórë burst out, her voice fainter than usual. “How was I meant to know that she had lied straight to my face?”_

_“Lindalórë, nésa, you need not explain yourself to anyone.” Aikambalotsë was happy to put himself between his sister and the House of Nolofinwë, father and sons. “We brought you here, gave you access to the house, now go in search of your woman and leave us be.”_

_“Yes, you and your family,” Turukáno spat out, voice far more venomous than his father had managed. Enough so that he drew the eyes of his father and brothers, widened with surprise. “First you lose my sister, allow her to wander off into the wilderness and be coerced into a marriage with a dark-elf that ends in her unfortunate demise at his hands, and now your sister plays accessory to Írissë’s foolishness and just allows her to run off on her own again, lying to all of us in the process!”_

_“Do not foist my mistakes upon my sister.” There was some guilt for what had happened, certainly. For many years, Aikambalotsë and the others had struggled with Írissë’s unknown fate, had lived with their failure. But he had seen and done much in the Hither Lands, experienced much, and Turukáno was hardly the only one to experience suffering and loss there. Aikambalotsë might not have lost his sister or his wife, but he had died beneath the sword of a follower of the Fëanárioni, and his last moments had been a horrific mixture of panic, agony and terror, watching men, women and children he knew and cared for, his subjects and vassals who looked to him for guidance and protection, being slaughtered all around him, helpless and unarmed. And why had they been there, defenseless refugees, with no home to call their own? Why had they not been somewhere safe with warriors at their backs?_

_Because this man’s arrogance and lack of foresight and pride. And Turukáno knew it, some of that red haze fading from his pale eyes in the wake of his former subject’s stare._

_“You have no place asking anything of my family, for you have made more than one mistake of your own, that have cost many lives,” he added, almost nose to nose with his former regent. “You have the information you wanted. Now, I will be taking my sister well enough away from here. This whole day has been distressing enough without your help.”_

_Grabbing his sister’s arm, he pulled her away down the path, happy to leave Turukáno and his family standing on the damn doorstep of the cottage. Lindalórë was distraught, Aikambalotsë was tense, and the Nolofinwioni were looking anxious to begin the search for their missing sibling. It would be quite better for everyone if contact was ceased now, before tempers grew too hot for everyone’s good and peace of mind._

_It was only when they were halfway down the long, winding path back to the main streets of Tirion that he heard Lindalórë’s sniffle. Well out of sight of the men of the House of Nolofinwë, he deemed it safe to stop, to pull her over towards the side of the path._

_She was teary-eyed. “Do you need to sit down?”_

_“No, I…” Her voice hitched. “I did not mean to cause problems, or to endanger Írissë. Truly, I was only trying to help.”_

_While Aikambalotsë did not think that she had been right in her decision to withhold information from the men of the royal house—no matter how distasteful he personally found Nolofinwë’s behavior the morning after the Festival or how resentful he was towards his former King—he did not think that Lindalórë had intended for any harm to come to Írissë. She had been trying to help a fellow female in distress when no one else would._

_He let her hide herself in his arms for a few minutes to recover her composure. “I am certain you meant no harm. And, as you said, Princess Írissë lied to you about her intentions. You can hardly be blamed for that.”_

_Judging by the stubborn set to her jaw and the misery in her gleaming green eyes, she seemed not at all convinced. Carefully, he closed her in a half-embrace about the shoulders._

_“Come on, let us return home.”_

As soon as she was indoors, she had retired up to her rooms and locked the door. Aikambalotsë had resigned himself to an upset sister for days.

But, maybe not.

Over Lindalórë’s shoulder, while his fingers were trailing playfully through her dark hair and carelessly braiding it down her back, Curufinwë glanced towards the glass doors, catching Aikambalotsë’s profile half-illuminated in the sunlight. Silently, the older brother raised a hand in acknowledgement, receiving a rather roguish grin in return.

His brother-in-law pulled his sister out of sight. And Aikambalotsë just rather hoped she would come back home still smiling.

\---

Telufinwë did not appreciate the staring.

In fact, he did not appreciate much about this whole outing. The very moment Istelindë had first brought it up, he had wondered at her strange motives in choosing his companionship over any other. Of course, Nelyafinwë was (apparently) busy, and Curufinwë was hard to stomach on the best of days. Morifinwë had departed the night before, and Kanafinwë was still recovering from his unfortunate infatuation, so perhaps she was just trying to avoid awkwardness between them as a result. This left the twins as the most viable and logical companions. But why not Pityafinwë, who was not afraid to speak, who would at least be capable of holding a conversation with Istelindë during her outings and her shopping, rather than Telufinwë, who would be little more than a silent shadow?

Now, though, he understood.

Part of him was pleased, but the rest… was torn. And upset.

No woman had ever called to him nor fascinated him the way Amaurëa had, and he could not and would not lie to himself about that. For days, memories of her had been drawn to the forefront of his mind at the littlest things, distracting him and entrancing him. During the day. During the night. Some dreams were pleasant and sensual, the sort of thing that he thought was normal of a man besotted with a woman. But then there were the _other_ dreams. Instead of the echo of fire and death that normally tormented him in the night hours and awoke him at dawn in a cold sweat of terror, the nightmares that haunted him now took a new, disturbing direction. He was having visions of her while he slept—

_Of her golden eyes breaking through the candlelight as beacons, radiant and watchful, finding him and catching him alight beneath his skin. Of the way she gleamed and glittered as she arched gracefully through the air, as she spun upon her toes and bowed her head._

_Of her voice saying his name, her red lips parting in a smile. They were soft where they touched his face and his hands. Soft but burning. She pulled away, danced out of his reach, slipped through his fingers and dipped her toes into shadow._

_And then the smile would disappear, melting off her face like wet paint running down a canvas into a mottled mess._

_Then the fire would illuminate her silhouette through her sheer skirts, bursting hem into flame, burning up her legs in a torrent of red and gold. Then her eyes would leak black with tears and soot, streaking dark down her cheeks. Then she would lift her hands, reach for the flames, trying to put herself out._

_Then she would_ scream—

And he would be awake again. And again, and again. The phantoms of his daydreams mixed all up with the remembrance of what had happened to him on the shores of Losgar, of flame eating its way up his body (her body), of his hands (her hands) being seared as he tried desperately to put it out, mind lost in a panic of burning gold and agony of the likes he could never find words to describe.

The fire ate her. Every time. Consumed her the way it had consumed him and left her utterly ruined as it had left him ruined.

Truthfully, Telufinwë had decided to avoid her. Amaurëa.

For what could these dreams be telling him except that he would put her in danger, that he would bring her naught but pain and suffering? Those flames were _his_ taint, crawling up her skin and turning it to ash. Only a fool would think that there would be no repercussions for favoring a Kinslayer so openly, that there was not already talk for her hugging and kissing him publicly, that there would not be backlash against her for daring to look past his heinous crimes. If it became harsh enough and cruel enough, it could not only destroy her reputation, but also her career as a dancer.

No, it would have been easier and wiser for him to stay far, far away. No matter how much he ached to go back to her, to go and see her, to bring a smile to her face, he was well aware that she was better off away from his influence. Away from his fire.

Once Telufinwë set his mind to that, he had thought it done.

But, of course, Istelindë was set against him in this regard. Though she meant well, though he appreciated her support and her love as an older sister to a younger brother, he did not think that this had been a wise choice. Had she told him her plans, he would have refused to ever leave the mountains and come here.

That was, perhaps, the reason she had said nothing. He wondered if she knew.

Now, though, he was here. From the very moment she had stepped out on stage in all her dancing glory, Amaurëa had captivated him and reeled him in so easily that it was almost pathetic how quickly his stubbornness collapsed. There was no escaping it now, and so he allowed her to pull him away, to wrap him up in her words. And it brought him a counterpoint to his daily agony that she looked into his eyes with such excitement, that she cared not for his lack of verbal response, that she did not once glance upon his brother and think that they were identical except that Pityafinwë was unmarred by the hideous markings of fire.

In fact, she seemed rather nervous at the presence of his (slightly) older brother. Like she was not quite sure of speaking where he could hear.

“You should know,” she began hesitantly, looking at Pityafinwë over his shoulder, “Well, three men were found savagely beaten the morning after the Festival. No one knows the truth of what happened, but, of course, there have been some whispers…”

Naturally, there had been whispers. Telufinwë was almost certain that he and his brothers were suspected. It bothered him little but for the fact that he would rather his brother did not hear enough to put two and two together and discover the youngest Fëanárion’s extracurricular activities. The fewer who knew, the better.

“They were, you know, _those_ three men…” She fidgeted, looking at Pityafinwë again. Because, of course, she would not want to have to explain what they had done to her in front of his brother. Telufinwë shot his twin a dark look.

Pityafinwë rolled his eyes, raising his hands in surrender. “Enjoy your food and gossip,” he snarked, slipping around the pair. “I have business elsewhere to attend to in any case.”

 _Business with a certain curvaceous, dark-haired healer,_ Telufinwë thought with no small amount of amusement, breaking just barely through his shadowed mood. Because his poor older brother was anything but subtle, and he could see as his brother wandered off that Istelindë’s small, pale-haired frame darted out from wherever she had been hiding (probably spying on Telufinwë interacting with Amaurëa like the meddler she was) to follow his brother. Catching his eyes for a moment, she waved and vanished into the crowd.

He turned back to Amaurëa, shaking his head and shrugging his shoulders.

“He seems… Is he always so…?”

 _Unpleasant. No. Just difficult when dealing with unwanted emotional turmoil._ He shook his head with a small snort of laughter, felt his lips part and the words rise up almost to form shapes upon his tongue before they were stifled.

“Well, in any case…” She bit at her bottom lip. “They were _those three men,_ Telufinwë. I wanted to ask if… that is, if _you…?”_

It would have been rather strange if she _had not_ deduced his involvement. Who else but her and her Mentor knew the truth about what had happened in that hallway and who had motive to take action against the perpetrators? And her Mentor would not have known which three men were responsible for the deplorable state of shocked horror that her student had been frozen within when she had stumbled into the main hall that night.

_Is there any point in lying?_

Slowly, he nodded.

And she swallowed. For a moment, he wondered if he had managed to scare her off. His heart stumbled and jumped at the thought, for, though it certainly would have given him the excuse to run and never bother her again if she had been frightened, he had no intention of doing anything more than protecting her and every other woman who might have been thusly victimized. Yet, she did not move away. She looked worried, but not terrified. “I do not know what to say. I… I know that you did it because of what they did to me, but, truly, you should not have done something so… They already suspect your family.”

Raising his hand, he pressed his finger to her lips. “Not… Not here,” he whispered. Out on the street where anyone might be listening was not the place to be discussing such dark subjects.

“Right, let us talk about lighter fare. And get lunch.” Her fingers curled through his own, her unblemished skin flush against the twisted scars that made their home etched into his flesh, and pulled him along.

Yet another opportunity for him to pull away. Shake his head, whisper that he had other business to attend to in Tirion. Her glowing eyes would have gone sad and dark with disappointment, but she would have been better off in the long run if she stayed away. If she thought he did not want to see her.

Except, he _did_ want to see her. Talk to her. Hear her say his name. Rather desperately and rather pathetically at that. When he opened his mouth to speak, nothing came to his mind nor arose to his tongue.

He did not pull away.

Just for today, he would allow it. Just for today, he would breathe in his fill of her ebullience and her beauty, and then he would let her go. Send her away.

Just for today, he would pretend.

“Thank you,” she whispered as she drew close, squeezing his hand. And she seemed so happy to have him there, almost dancing circles around him in her excitement. “Come on, come on! I wonder if you have been there before, the little place just next to the shop on yonder corner? I am not sure if it was around before the Darkening.”

And it felt like a kick in the gut. Because she would certainly not be thanking him later. Would not be so resplendent and so eager and so excited, almost dragging him down the street and bringing forward a helpless smile in response.

He shook his head.

“Oh, you will love it! The normal cuisine is nothing special, but the desert is absolutely _to die for._ Telufinwë, wait until you try it!”

 _Looking forward to it,_ he thought, pushing away all the rest.

Just for today.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:
> 
> Fëanárioni (Q, p) = Sons of Fëanáro  
> Amillë (Q) = Mother  
> Nolofinwioni (Q, p) = Sons of Nolofinwë  
> vennonya (Q) = my husband  
> Móredhel (S) = Dark-elven  
> Ondolindë (Q) = Gondolin  
> nésa (Q) = sister


	34. All the Romance for the Wicked

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All the boys romancing their girls...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: masturbation mentioned, thinking about sex, meddling, injuries, past violence/torture, mentions of death, mental health problems, unhealthy coping mechanisms
> 
> Maedhros = Maitimo = Nelyafinwë = Nelyo  
> Maglor = Makalaurë = Kanafinwë = Káno  
> Celegorm = Tyelkormo = Turkafinwë = Turko  
> Caranthir = Carnistir = Morifinwë = Moryo  
> Curufin = Atarinkë = Curufinwë = Curvo  
> Amrod = Ambarussa = Pityafinwë = Pityo  
> Amras = Umbarto = Telufinwë = Telvo  
> Turgon = Turukáno

_Aldúya, 46 Lairë (28 June)_

\---

He was so beautiful when he was smiling. Glorious and breathtaking and heartbreaking. Had she been the sort for poetry, she might have named herself dazzled, for the weight of his green star-eyes upon her certainly had her heart racing. Like a young girl with her first love.

 _Foolishness,_ she reminded herself, looking away from them and down at his injured hand. _Utter foolishness._

After more than a week of seeing neither hide nor hair of the Fëanárion, Wilwarin had assumed that her purported admirer was gone for good and that she would return back to her normal routine and forget anything had happened. What need would he have for her after she had tended his injuries and sent him on his way, after all?

What need would she have of him once her duty was done, after all?

Attempting to maintain that distance of practicality had stopped her from guiltily thinking about him.

Being a professional did not stop her from noticing handsome men, no matter what the young apprentices thought whenever she scolded them for misbehaving around male patients. Believing in maintaining her demeanor at her workplace did not mean she was immune to daydreaming on her own time at her own home and in her own bed. But never had it been suggested that any of the handsome specimens she had encountered before also found her enchanting in return. After all, she was rather short, had a little bit of pudge in her belly and hips, and she was rarely seen in anything but traditional healer’s garb. Hardly what anyone, even a man of the working class, would consider to be a catch, let alone a well-off man of court. So, while this was hardly the first time she had _noticed_ a handsome man while at work, this _was_ the first time that she felt that tiny (ridiculous, stupid) spark of _hope_ that she might have been noticed in return.

 _Eventually, the attraction will dull._ That was what she told herself after she spent four nights in a row sleepless, tossing and turning under her sheets and feeling too hot for her own too-tight skin. For a while, she resisted the urge to touch her sensitive nipples while imagining his fingers (unharmed and teasing) or to reach between her legs and take care of the dampness that was slicking up her soft inner thighs.

Never had she been shy about seeing to her own biological needs, no matter how it might be frowned upon in certain circles. She was a healer, after all, and understood that her desires were perfectly healthy and natural. However, she did not want to encourage an infatuation. That was the last thing she needed. To fall in love with a man who would never love her back.

On the fifth night, however, she cracked.

As a result, here she was. Almost trembling as she rewrapped his fingers because she had spent the last few nights imagining them doing all sorts of very inappropriate things to various parts of her person. In very vivid detail. 

“It is healing well,” she admitted, barely keeping her voice steady. “I do not foresee any problems so long as it is kept splinted.”

“And the wrist?” He held it out for her with a half-grin, and she felt her cheeks beginning to burn. Carefully, she grasped his hand (just to hold it aloft and nothing more) as she unwound the bandages around the joint.

“Does it hurt still?” she asked quickly, turning it as gently as she could manage.

“Not much. Just a little sometimes when it is jostled.” They were both looking down at the appendage, no longer a swollen knot of redness, and then he looked up at her eye to eye. Close enough that she noticed the burnished color of his eyelashes. Close enough that she could see how wide his pupils were. Close enough that she could count the tiny scars running over one temple and down his cheek, interrupting his left brow in two spots. And then there were his freckles…

Breathlessly, she looked back down at his wrist. “As long as you do not strain it too much, it should be fine. It has been healing well, my Prince.”

“I am a Prince of the Noldor in title only,” he said, voice quietly amused. “I would prefer it if you would call me Ambarussa.”

It was not at all appropriate to call him by anything other than his royal moniker. Certainly not what was very obviously his amilessë. It could refer to nothing if not the vibrant color of his russet curls, currently bound in a tail at the back of his head, spilling over one shoulder and down his back.

“I do not know if I should, my Prince,” she said respectfully, not daring to look up. “That might not be… I mean, that would hardly be appropriate.”

His head tilted to one side. “If you insist, Healer Wilwarin. I shall ask again next time.”

 _How… How does he know my name?_ Never had she given it to him, at least, not that she could remember. And then she registered the rest of his sentence. _Next time?_

“Next time, my Prince?”

“Am I not allowed to visit should I wish it?” he asked, brows rising. “And here, I thought the Healing House was open to all. Or am I mistaken?”

“Of course, anyone is allowed to come here whenever they might wish or need,” she countered, almost instinctively a bit insulted that he might suggest otherwise. This House was here for all, a sanctuary and a place of healing to anyone in need of assistance and peace of mind. But then, when he smiled at her teasingly, she realized she had risen to his bait in defense of her home away from home, her beloved Healing House and felt a bit silly for taking his words so seriously. She looked away from his eyes, which she had just met in all their blazing green glory with a strict frown, like a master confronting an unruly apprentice. Embarrassed, she tried to resist the heating of her face beneath his cheeky stare. “I am not quite certain what a Prince would need or want within the Healing House if his injuries are well on the mend.”

“Are you not?” He pushed himself to his feet, towering over her once more. It made her feel so small and, yet, not at all threatened. More so, she found herself imagining (briefly) how easily he could have picked her up, and how warm he might be wrapped around her from behind. “Until next time, then, Healer Wilwarin. Naturally, I should want to return to be quite certain that everything is on the mend.”

He was looking at her again, staring straight into her eyes as he kissed her knuckles, his hand hot against her skin. By sweet Lady Estë, she was going to have so many new details to add to her nightly fantasies after this. Like how warm his fingers would feel on her chilled, bare flesh as he stroked a hand over her curves… How his scent would envelope her, all earthy and sharp with spice, as she tangled her hands in his hair…

Would it be soft? It looked soft. Would it feel like silk draped over her as they lay together, hot and panting after—

_You should not be thinking such things. Especially not right now._

“O-of course, you should, my Prince. It is best to be attentive when dealing with injuries, and to have an experienced eye make certain they are healed enough for rigorous activity.” _Oh Valar, I am not thinking about whether he is right or left handed when he— I am. Thinking of which hand he uses to pleasure himself. Which hand he might prefer when pleasuring a woman. Eru, I actually am. Aiya, Varda’s sweet stars!_ “I will expect your visit, then, my Prince. You are most welcome here whenever you need healing or quiet.”

It felt far too much like he could see right through her as he released her hand. “I will be certain to take it easy until I return, then, if I can manage.”

_Did he just—?_

And then his eyes glanced over her shoulder. Shockingly, they narrowed and darkened, and she felt a chill run down her spine for how swiftly storm clouds passed over the sunny gleam shining through in his eyes.

Glancing back, she saw that one of the patients was up.

“My Lord, you should still be abed,” she scolded immediately. Though the man’s foot was braced and not likely to be further injured, he was stumbling about clumsily still, probably in search of the facilities and unwilling to ask for assistance. Or, rather, he _had been._ Now, he was rather frozen in place, wide-eyed and staring, face so pale it had gone a rather nasty shade of greenish gray. For a moment, Wilwarin thought he was staring _at her._

But no, he was looking straight over her shoulder. At the Prince. The Fëanárion.

Some people, she understood, feared such beings. Even she felt it, to some degree, when the Prince was not smiling her worries away, soothing her with such a charming cant to his voice, setting her at ease with such a soft look about his verdant eyes. He and his family, they were dangerous men. Men who had fought wars. Men who had slaughtered hundreds or more with their own two hands. Perhaps their victims had not all been kin, but she was a healer, and imagining taking _any_ life for any reason—not even in defense of her own body—was foreign. Her trade was in mending, in salvaging, in healing, not in causing harm or taking lives.

However, the fear in this man’s eyes did not make her think of the vague beast that dwelled within her own heart. It was instead a ravenous thing, a creature of pure panic, of wild terror, of burning, white-hot hatred. Eyes dilated almost to black, hands shaking so hard it was visible, he rocked back and forth on unsteady heels as though he debated between attacking or fleeing.

This was an intensely personal fear.

“I see you have other patients to attend to,” the Prince said at her back, leaning near enough that his breath brushed through her hair, warm and soft, and left her shivering. “I shall leave you to your duties, Lady Wilwarin.”

She spun about, looking up into his face. “Of course, my Prince.”

With another brush of his lips across her knuckles, he passed out of reach. Her last glimpse of his face showed that it had fallen into an impassionate expression, emotions shuttered from her sight. Only his eyes showed anything of his thoughts, flickering away from the still-frozen man to rest upon her face. At the last second, his façade broke, and he offered her a youthful grin that broke the icy tension knotting up her back and left her quivering instead.

And then he was gone. The door clicked shut.

Now, without the distraction, she could hear the girls giggling in the background, watching with their wide and inquisitive eyes, exchanging quiet theories behind their dainty little hands. Leaving Wilwarin to tend to their patient, recovering her brisk manner that, for a few minutes, had dissolved beneath the charm of the man who had been the object of her dizziest daydreams (and her steamiest fantasies) since they had first crossed paths.

“Do you need assistance, my Lord? You are not looking so well,” she said, almost more attempting to distract herself than lend assistance.

As if shocked from a nightmare, he startled at the sound of her voice so near. He had not been tracking her movements with his eyes, for he had still been looking at the door which had closed upon the visage of the Fëanárion. Staring after the Prince like a man who had just seen a ghost. Or a demon in the flesh.

“I… My thanks, Lady Healer,” he mumbled. “I can make my own way.”

“Stubborn men,” she commented, wrapping an arm through one of his. “I shall assist you, and nothing you do can stop me.”

He gave her a look more appropriate for a dying man than one who merely needed assistance to and from the facilities while he was hobbled by a mending ankle. It would have been funny in most situations, but a healer did not make jest of her patient’s needs. At least, not to their faces. She could have a good snicker over the long-suffering need of the male sex to be independent later.

For now, she had a job to do. “Come along, my Lord. And then we shall get you back to bed. You are still quite pale.”

With a sigh, he ceased to resist, though the pallor of his lips and the nervous flicker of his eyes did not cease in spite of his surrender. When she offered to assist him in truth—she had done so for many patients before and found nothing shameful about it—he turned white and swiftly shook his head. Patiently, she waited for him outside the door to the chamberpots.

And, for a few minutes at least, all thoughts of the russet-haired Prince with the beautiful green eyes were driven away.

\---

Pityafinwë was torn.

On the one hand, he could not deny that he had just enjoyed himself immensely. Even though he was now stricken with a situationally inappropriate spark of heat in his loins and a barrage of afterimages of the way _her_ breasts curved into her belly and hips, he could not deny that today’s fascination was chiefly with her eyes. Before, he had not gotten the chance to see them so closely, to know them so intimately.

They were dark. An unremarkable color, one might have said were they a proponent for exotic women or men. Many people had dark eyes, deep shades of grays or browns, rather than the vibrant jeweled tones favored by many. But Pityafinwë had seen enough gems for a lifetime, and he needed not sapphires or emeralds in a woman’s eyes to be pleased and enchanted.

Hers were just the darkest shade of brown, deep and earthy. The kind of color he associated with touching the ground with his fingertips, taking it its coolness and stability beneath his feet, basking in the momentary feeling of safety. Dark enough that he fell into them for a long moment, sucked under when she glanced up and met his gaze, and lay curled up in their warm shadows like a small creature within its burrow.

So dark, he had almost missed how her pupils grew larger when he leaned in close. Only minutely did her professional mask crack, but he saw it. Just barely. In the catch of her breath. In the tremble of her fingertips upon his skin.

She felt it, too. He thought. He hoped.

But then she drew back like a flighty doe, spooked by her own reaction. Not wanting to call him by his amilessë indeed! Even that, though, more made him smile than sulk, for it presented a challenge. Another opportunity to come back and work to change her mind. As many times as it took until she called him by his truest name and not his false title. After all, she _had_ said that all were welcome whenever they so choose without stipulations upon why.

On the other hand, there was the beaten and bruised lordling.

The moment that that man had laid eyes upon Pityafinwë, he had seen a vision of absolute terror, the kind that paralyzed a man in place as though he were stuck to the ground by the soles of his feet. It was not a hazy, abstract sort of fear as most felt for the infamous Fëanárioni. It was something primal and base, like ice through the blood. The kind of fear a man feels when they look upon their demise closing in upon their head with overwhelming force, a black cloud of fate squeezing their throat shut and cutting off their screams.

Most men who had walked to the battlefield had seen that sight. The thousands of enemies in black legions marching across the dusty, barren plains in a never-ending stream. Skirted by dragons belching flames into the sky, bolstered by unholy demons of fire and shadow wielding whips of sparks and molten metal, speckled with beings of darkness, cursed and malformed in the shapes of wolves and bats and spiders.

Few could look upon such a sight and not feel as though they marched to their end. Pityafinwë had done it enough times to know.

It was that kind of terror staring back at him. At _him._

_Telufinwë, what on earth did you do?_

At first, he thought his instincts must have been wrong. Telufinwë would never harm unarmed men except for very good reason. Certainly, he had no design to beat and torture anyone without cause, for he was one with a righteous heart and a steadfastly pointing moral compass. Pityafinwë could not imagine his little brother flying into a murderous or cruel rage and beating a group of men half to death as a result, not like he could picture Nelyafinwë or Turkafinwë or Curufinwë. Even vengeance was not something his younger brother truly believed in, for he was an honorable creature.

Telufinwë would only harm to protect. So, why would he do something so vicious seemingly without cause or warning?

What had happened to incite this reaction? It could not have been anger at personal slight. Hells, Turukáno had called Telufinwë’s sacrifice worthless to his brother’s face and the youngest Fëanárion had not been moved to violence! Had they threatened Telufinwë with an attack, with harm? But even that, he imagined, would not incite much reaction. His little brother would not have taken them seriously. For all that the baby of their brotherhood was silent and traumatized, he could certainly take care of himself against a handful of inexperienced, noodle-limbed courtiers.

Had they threatened someone else?

Was he likely to get answers should the ask Telufinwë directly?

Moreover, what on earth had happened the night of the Festival after he had gone to bed? All he knew was that Telufinwë had _apparently_ met a woman and nothing else. Clearly, his brother had been up to much more than that!

But, he supposed, at the very least he now he knew where that cut on his brother’s palm had come from. Mishandling a blade while attacking a struggling victim.

There was no point in lingering upon such things now, though. Such dark actions were best left to be discussed in privacy, well away from prying eyes and ears. Even his brothers should not hear about something like this, should not be allowed access to such a damning secret. The fewer who knew who committed the brutality upon those men the better.

With a sigh, he exhaled out the anxiety over his brother’s actions and who might learn of them should Telufinwë not be careful enough in covering his tracks, leaning his back against the wall out in the hallway and looking up with distant eyes at the white ceiling. He gently banged the back of his head against the stone as if to drive the thoughts from his head in favor of lighter fare. A small shot of pain wracked his skull from were he still had that damn bruise, almost healed but still tender. Not failing to remind him that he had been foolish and should, in the future, avoid copious amounts of drink. Not in the least bit because he had again failed to keep a proper eye on Telufinwë, and because of _alcohol_ of all things!

_There is nothing to be gained from ruminating on the past that cannot be changed. Besides, if you had avoided drink and kept the peace with Turukáno, you would never have encountered Healer Wilwarin, would you have?_

Just what he wanted to tell his future children (should it ever become so serious, and he was certainly not holding his breath on that), that he had first met their mother while concussed and drunk off his ass. And he still did not know what foolishness might have spewed from his mouth that night while his guard was down.

_Cannot have been too offensive. She still seems to like me just fine._

No, he was most certainly not imagining it. She was attracted to him, as attracted as he was to her in return. And that was a good start.

But attraction was not romance. Thoroughly distracted from the incessant worrying over his younger brother, he spared thoughts now for the romantic side of his neglected heart buried deep underneath all the rest of the bitterness and guilt and resentment, now coming forth and longing for something he had never been allowed. After all, he had been a young man who had never had a chance to be with a woman beyond what little was allowed during times of war. Which was to say, not much at all.

So, they were attracted to one another. Could they share more? Still standing there like a dullard outside the doors of the Healing House, he could not help but think of the traits in her that he prized. She was gorgeous, naturally, all soft and smooth in all the right (tempting) places, but she was also straightforward and brave in her own understated way. Not afraid to face down a Fëanárion alone, offering kindness and caring to even one of his ilk. Not overly shy, but neither overly loud or excitable. He could not quite explain why her manner drew him, what he liked about the way she handled him in person or about her quiet voice with just a touch of sass or her quiet confidence.

He just knew that he _did_ like it. Wanted to experience more of it. And _that_ had nothing to do with the size or shapeliness of her breasts, though they were very fine indeed.

Maybe there could be something more. Maybe.

He should not be holding his breath, but…

But he was not certain he could stop himself. Not now.

\---

For hours, he sat quietly and listened.

No one seemed to notice he was there. Or, if they did, they did not seem to mind the extra audience so long as he was quiet and respectful. Perhaps it was more commonplace than he had realized for outsiders to wander inside the School of Music and get lost in the sound. Even those who had not the talent for _making_ music were more than capable of appreciating its strange sort of magic. Undeniably, it was something that they all had in common, for they and all they knew and all they touched were all born from the Ainulindalë, were they not?

What he sat in upon now was, undoubtedly, a studio class of some sort. Young performers practicing for an audience mostly of their peers and instructors to garner feedback. Once, his rather snooty younger self would have been a bit horrified at the whole spectacle of listening to unpolished work like this, preferring to have his art down to muscle memory and blissful enchantment before ever displaying it to a critical audience. Young Kanafinwë had loved the awestruck looks on the faces of his listeners, had bathed in the compliments and well-wishes from strangers that he could not tug from his own parents’ lips, had enjoyed being appreciated for what he adored, for his passion, rather than disdained. If there was one thing his younger self had insisted up, it was that everything had to be _perfect_ before it could ever grace foreign ears. In those days, he thought he might have sulked in his room for a week at a bad comment.

Probably more of his father showing through. Fëanáro always had been a perfectionist. That his sons were his most imperfect creations must have rankled every bit as much as Fëanáro’s disdain for Kanafinwë’s music had.

This was very nice, though. Not so laid back that it was not serious, but not so serious that it brought the poor students to tears either. Nothing like Fëanáro’s version of lessons. Unsurprisingly, many of these young ones showed great potential and healthily accepted their mentors’ words with smiles and appreciation. Though, that may have had something to do with the tone in which those suggestions of improvement had been shared.

 _Fëanáro nary had a good word to say about anything anyone did. Yet, here these masters of their art are standing respectfully after each performance, handing out compliments as easily as critiques, and not insincere ones at that._ It was something young Kanafinwë could scarcely have imagined existing, a truly amiable relationship between teacher and student.

They were in the middle of a sweet young girl singing an aria when the doors to the small concert hall were jiggled open, a familiar face peering in. Though she was noticed judging by the half-disapproving glances directed her way, no one said anything as Vardamírë entered, eyes swiveling around until she found Kanafinwë lounging at the end of the back row. Quietly, she went to join him, their eyes meeting in the process. He offered her a tiny grin before turning back to the performance.

Only when the girl had finished did her mentor turn around to look at them. “Lady Vardamírë, it is odd to see you at a studio class for older students.”

Immediately, she stood, hands folded together in front of her body. “Forgive the interruption, Mentor Lindaiwë. My friend here wandered off and did not show up after a few hours, so I thought to go in search of him to be certain he did not get lost.” Teasingly, she glanced over at Kanafinwë, who felt his cheeks heating as he stood at her side.

“Indeed, I lost track of time. My thanks for allowing my presence here, Mentor.”

Those gray eyes narrowed as they took him in. “I had honestly not noticed. How long have you been hiding back there?”

“An hour and a half or so,” he answered quietly. “Your students are quite talented.”

“Indeed.” The Mentor pursed his lips, perhaps torn between taking the compliment towards his teaching abilities and wondering who this interloper was to express such opinions so casually. “I know not your face. Are you here as a student or here on business, sir?”

Vardamírë almost choked on her inappropriate laugh, raising a hand to cover her mouth. Playfully, Kanafinwë nudged her with his elbow, his own lips fighting against a grin. “I failed to introduce myself. Forgive me my rudeness. My name is Kanafinwë Fëanárion. Lady Vardamírë is an acquaintance of mine and was generous enough to help me find my way around. After her teaching responsibilities for the day were completed, naturally. So, I wondered around a bit while waiting and found my way in here.”

The mentors—and even some of the older students—were caught in surprise, some going white-faced. “M-my Prince, I meant no disrespect! I—” Mentor Lindaiwë began.

“I am not offended,” he interrupted quickly. “I interrupted your class, after all. Please, excuse us. And I meant what I said. Your students are very promising, Mentor.”

Before anything else could be said, he offered a short bow and let himself out. No one made a move to stop him or Vardamírë as they slipped out into the hallway. As soon as the door clicked shut, her giggles erupted, and he could not help but join her with deep, rolling laughter. “You did that on purpose, Makalaurë!” she exclaimed.

“Maybe,” he agreed when their shared laughter died down to soft chuckles and giggles. “You enjoyed their surprise as much as did I, Miss Mírë.”

“I suppose I did at that,” she agreed, reaching out to curl an arm through one of his. “Let us go and talk to the Headmaster, Mr. Makalaurë. I think even the mentors will be eager to have a piece of your attention should you decide to grace these halls with your presence more often. It is not every day that a musician of your talent wanders casually about.”

“And what about you, my lady? Would you mind if I used a position here as an excuse to come and visit you more often?” He looked over at her as they walked.

“I should be delighted if we could become friends,” she responded with a smile, relaxed more now in his presence than she had been even before. Such, he supposed, was the magic of shared joviality. “After that, we shall see, shan’t we?”

“I suppose we shall,” he agreed, patting the hand curled around his forearm. “So, do you really think they will offer me a position teaching here? My family’s reputation is rather… Well, I am not considered an upstanding citizen, I suppose.”

“You were nothing but kind to me, and to the little ones,” she commented, “So, if you need someone to speak for your character, I will.”

They stopped in front of a rather ornate door, a decorative plague outside announcing the ownership of the office within. The very same Headmaster who had run the School when Kanafinwë was a child still oversaw the School now. “I suppose I should knock then, should I not? You do not have to wait on me.”

“Your heart will not fail at the last minute if I leave you alone?” she teased. Standing on tiptoe, she kissed his cheek. “In you go. I will be out here when you are done. Maybe you can make good on your promise to sing for me when you have finished. Maybe I should invite a few friends along to listen.”

“I should be delighted as well,” he agreed, lifting her hand and pressing a kiss to her knuckles. “I shall see you when I am finished here.”

 _Now or never._ He raised his hand then and knocked on the door.

\---

“Look over there.”

They were sitting at an outside table, shady but welcoming the warm afternoon breeze. The pair of them were rather incongruous, him looking like the average rural man on a visit in the city from the distant countryside, and her looking every inch the wealthy lady she was with her expensive blue gown and the jewels gleaming on her wrist.

Still, Curufinwë was hardly short of funds. This little café was the sort of place that the elite frequented, set out into the middle of the city like a gem from whence all the activity and beauty could be seen, and he, therefore, certainly got a bit of a raised brow from the host. At least until Lindalórë, offering the nosy man one of her more poisonous smiles (and, damn her, the shade of her lips, still slightly swollen from their time in the gardens, rather made him want to kiss them again), had brushed past him like the annoyed Princess she might as well have been. “Come along, Curufinwë, let us find somewhere to sit outside. I am famished, and some lemonade would be lovely as well.”

Only an idiot would not recognize that sort of name-dropping. Curufinwë had offered the pale-faced man a half-smile before obediently trailing after his wife. “Of course, meldanya.”

Now, they were sitting together outside, watching the people walk back and forth, talking and laughing, everyone from the elite on down to the common folk. Across the street, on the corner diagonal to their spot, was a tiny restaurant with large open windows which allowed the sunlight to pour in, illuminating the tables and all the patrons gathered for good food and good conversation. And who should he spot inside but his little brother, red hair gleaming with a golden undertone like a beacon. It was only because the right side of his brother’s face was showing that he could even tell which twin it was, but the red hair certainly was not subtle.

And he was accompanied by a girl. It took a little bit of squinting and head-turning, but he thought she might be—

“It is that girl, the dancer,” his wife said immediately, her gaze following his across the street. “Did you not see them that night at the Festival? She was embracing him just before the dancing began. I do wonder, did they know each other before then?”

“From where would he have known her?” He let out a snort, skeptical. “With a face like his, no one can deny that most women would not glance twice his way, as cruel as that reality might be. And, besides that, he has not been to Tirion since before the Darkening except perhaps once right after rebirth, so they would not have had much of a chance to stumble upon one another. Even if they had met before, he would not have said anything to her.”

“They seem awfully familiar for having only met a week ago,” Lindalórë commented as their waiter brought out lemonades. She sipped on hers and sighed.

Indeed, they did look rather familiar for two people who had purportedly met so recently. The woman was reaching across the table, her hand resting atop one of his brother’s, fingers stroking over the roughness and bumps of his knuckles. She was smiling, speaking animatedly while Telufinwë just watched her. For once, he was wearing something other than a completely blank expression, green eyes almost glowing with interest.

Immediately, Curufinwë decided he did _not_ like it. This. _Her._

Istelindë might be obsessed with getting him and all his brothers happily married, but Curufinwë was a more cautious being, and his concerns were of a different nature. His trust was a scarce commodity indeed, and his singular sister-in-law had needed more than a month to prove to him that she deserved even the smallest inkling of it. Now, here was another woman, chatting with Telufinwë, stroking his hand intimately, and his brother was looking at her like a besotted idiot. And he did not trust her at all. Certainly not with his little brother’s heart.

What woman, after all, would go after a man like Telufinwë? A man who was scarred from his face all the way down to his feet, who was too traumatized to speak? What motive could she have for trying to draw close to someone so vulnerable?

It would be ridiculously easy for even a mildly talented actress to play pretend with his brother’s heart, to lure him in with a bit of false interest when no one else could look at him for more than a moment or two without their stomach turning. His brother had no experience in romance at all—he wondered if Telufinwë would fall as easily as Kanafinwë.

Now she was leaning towards him, tilting her head to the side questioningly. And he was leaning towards her and—and were those his lips _moving?_

_What?_

“He is speaking to her,” Curufinwë murmured, feeling a chill slip down his back.

His wife glanced over at him with a small frown. “And what do you find so strange about that? He is not a little boy anymore, so I am not certain why you are so surprised that he has eyes for a woman or that he would seek her out to talk to her. You were much younger than him when you started to court me.”

“Telufinwë does not speak,” he countered, realizing that Lindalórë had had no contact with his family beyond himself, that she would not have had a chance to do more than see Telufinwë from a distance. No way had she of knowing that the very idea of Telufinwë speaking was shocking, for his youngest brother had once been a vivacious and brilliant personality, very forward and very talkative with his ideas and thoughts. “My brother does not talk anymore after what happened to him at Losgar. No one has heard him speak since he was killed, except for Pityafinwë, of course. Not even the rest of us Fëanárioni. And, even then, it is a rare event, or so it seems from what Pityo has told the rest of us.”

“He looks like he is speaking just fine to her,” Lindalórë said.

It really _did._ And Curufinwë did not like that in the least. It made him _nervous._

“I can see on your face what you are thinking,” his wife scolded, reaching across the table to pinch his arm. “Leave your brother be! He is not a child! If he wants to spend his time talking to a girl, you should let him. Maybe it will do him some good to be away from the rest of you if you all still baby him the way you used to.”

“We do not baby him,” Curufinwë snapped. A lie if ever there was one. They most definitely all had vested interest in looking after their youngest brother. The only one of their number brave enough to try and fight back against their father’s madness.

The one who had died for that bravery. And foolishness.

“Then let him be. It is none of your business.” She pinched him again. “Now, pick something to eat, vennonya. I want an enjoyable lunch full of mindless chatter and an afternoon walk around the city. With you all to myself and your attention all to myself, preferably.”

He let out a sigh, looking away from his brother’s profile in the window sitting across from the nameless dancer. “Very well, vessenya. Lamb? Or are you feeling like something lighter for midday meal?”

Her lips curled up into a fond smile. “Darling, get the most exotic thing on the menu. I know that you do not get a chance to eat much gourmet food nowadays.”

“Not lamb then… How about seafood? Fish?”

She just laughed. “You do not even like fish, Curufinwë.”

“You are right. Octopus, it is.”

\---

“It has been a long while since we met face to face.”

The Headmaster looked enough as he had before to be recognizable, though slightly older in face at the corners of his eyes and mouth, and wiser in the depths of his gaze, than he had once. A man who had learned music on the shores of Cuiviénen, who knew the most ancient of hymns first composed and sung in chorus beneath the stars as they were mirrored in silvery waves upon the shores of the great inland sea beside which the very first elves had awoken. No one quite knew, even now, if he had been one of those to awaken on the shores—many who had were lost in the early days or chose to stay behind in the only home they knew, the home that they loved—or if he had been one of the very first elves born.

Now, looking into his eyes, Kanafinwë felt small, almost insignificant. The last time he had seen this man up close, spoken to him, he had been a knee-high elfling on the very same day he had first come here with his father, who had undoubtedly been an important enough guest to warrant the special attention. Then, he had been an innocent being with a dreamy spirit and wide eyes, curious about everyone and everything, in love with the sweet tones of the harp and the angelic voices echoing through the halls.

Now, he was just a disappointing relic of lost potential.

“It has,” he agreed quietly. “Many things have changed since then. Not the least of which is my height.”

“Your voice has changed much, too,” the ancient elf said, and his smile was as the calm waters on a windless day, still and silent but carrying just a hint of mirth. Not sharp. Not hostile. “Come, young one. Take a seat. I have tea, if you would like some. And cookies. They are quite popular with the children.”

Helplessly, Kanafinwë felt a smile form on his lips. “Sweets are hard to come by for my family. I suppose one or two could not hurt.”

“Good. Sit, and let us discuss why you have come.”

Kanafinwë sat, allowed himself to be served tea as he plucked a couple of cookies from the proffered dish. “Teaching,” he said. “That is why I am here. To inquire about teaching.”

“Well, one of the reasons, in any case,” the older elf said, unblinking gray eyes staring straight through him as though all his thoughts were set out to be read as easily as a bit of sheet music. The perusal of his face was accompanied by the uncomfortable feeling of being naked, making him want to fidget with his hands in a way he had not since his childhood days. There was a strange sort of knowing in those eyes, an almost-fondness, like an adult watching a child toddle, or a puppy trip over its own feet. “Not the only reason, if I understand correctly why a woman is standing out in the hallway waiting for your return.”

Fighting against his blush—not the gentle rosy one, but the harsh, striking red one—he focused on the cookie between his fingers, the sweetness of it upon his tongue, instead of that look. “She is a friend.”

“A friend, of course,” the older elf agreed, sitting down across from him. “She is a very lovely girl, you know. Very kind-hearted, very good with the young children. She has been here, at the School, since she was barely five years old herself, and many young men have worked hard to get her attention. Alas, she is rather hard to woo.”

“A warning?” Kanafinwë asked, polishing off his first cookie, wondering if he was being told off for going after Vardamírë.

“Not at all. If she likes you, that is her business.” The Headmaster took a sip of the tea and let out an apparently rapturous sigh. “Ah, a bit of hibiscus, how lovely, do you not agree? Now, about a teaching position… Tell me your thoughts, young one, and we shall see what can be arranged.”

“Well, my experience is in…”

\---

Sitting outside the door to the Headmaster’s study, Vardamírë wondered if she was not being a little dim about this whole situation.

On the one hand, Makalaurë was by far one of the most handsome men she had ever met, with the classically elegant but striking features of the royal family. All the young women, part of court or not, had spent some of their childhood and young maiden days swooning over the men of the House of Finwë, no matter that most of them (or the ones present in Tirion besides) were quite happily married. Of all his brothers (or what she had seen of them), Makalaurë was amongst the shortest, but his features the most pleasing, the least in sharpness and scorn and sternness. And he had been most sweet, gathering up her missing charges and herding them back to her, behaving as a perfect gentleman.

And his voice…

Well, Vardamírë had heard thousands of voices in all her years here. More than she could possibly remember. But not a one of them stuck out the way his had, and she had only heard him singing chorus between her verses. Hardly more than a warm-up exercise for the average vocalist. And he was far from average

What it would be like to _really_ hear him sing? He had offered to let her choose a song at the Festival. Whatever she wanted to hear. And, when she had suggested he fulfill his promise today, he had seemed eager to comply, his eyes burning into her like stars.

_I wonder what I should choose…_

But no, on the other hand, she should not be thinking about him. About anything but her art and her responsibilities here at the School. It did not matter that Makalaurë had more or less admitted that he had come here to get to know her better, all but stating that he intended to approach her romantically if and when she decided to allow it. It did not matter that he was an infamous Kinslayer, and it did not matter that he was one of the most celebrated musicians to ever walk the Undying Lands.

 _This is my life._ She had turned away many a perfectly acceptable man before this. It was not that she had disliked them all, but none of them could quite compare to what she felt for her music. She had a life and a family here, the only ones she had ever really known. It would have taken a special man, indeed, to convince her to give up her career and become a wife.

_But, Makalaurë is of a similar mind, is he not? An artist devoted to his craft?_

Would he ever ask her to give up her music or her teaching for him? Would he understand that she might never be able to do such a thing, not even for love? It was commonplace for a woman to cease her work when she was married and became a mother—many of the women who had grown up here, even those who had married a man who also had lived and worked here as well—took that route. But that route was not for everyone. And, unlike the average woman, Vardamírë never needed to be concerned about her own wellbeing should she choose to wait to marry, or to never marry at all. She had a place here.

The question was, would Makalaurë prove to be something special enough for her to reconsider her policy on courting and marriage?

The part of her that was flattered at (even a bit secretly proud of) having attracted such a talented man as a suitor now twittered and flounced in the back of her mind, thinking of having him close to her, of his taking up the challenge of catching and holding her attention. She was even a bit excited to see what would come to pass between them, her feet dancing just a little bit over the carpet as she waited.

 _Friends first._ It seemed a good idea, a nice way to get a better feel for her mysterious suitor. As a man who had been out of the public eye for as long as he had been known for his family’s infamous deeds, no one knew a thing about him or his personality. _But, after how gentle he was with the girls, I cannot imagine…_

And the way he had talked about the twin fosterlings he had raised and taught his craft, as though they were his very own, as though he _loved them…_

She could not equate the man she knew—however little time she had spent with him so far—with a murderous maniac. And she did not think it fair to judge him either by his lurid past during the long-distant wartimes she could scarcely recall or by the fairness of his voice who all fell in love with upon hearing.

She needed to know more. It was as simple as that.

She could not help but think it again, gnawing her lower lip. _Should I have turned him away altogether?_

The sound of the door opening drew her attention back to the present, banishing her doubt. The Headmaster appeared, holding the door wide, and Makalaurë slipped past him, nodding and smiling that beautiful smile of his, gray eyes brightened. He looked relieved, happy even, as he bid his farewells to the older elf.

“It went well then?” she asked.

“Vardamírë, young one,” the Headmaster greeted. “Indeed, it has! Makalaurë and I have come to an agreement. I thought we would start with having him give studio classes once a week for those interested in sharing their preliminary works and performances for critique.”

Over Makalaurë’s shoulder, the older man offered her a wink. Her cheeks warmed.

“I suppose we _will_ be seeing more of each other then, Makalaurë,” she answered, turning to look at her new companion. “When do you start?”

“Not next week, but the week after on Isilya,” Makalaurë answered, seeming quite pleased with himself.

“Now, I think you two should be off,” the Headmaster interrupted, still smiling, placing one hand on the shoulder of each of them. “No need to waste the afternoon lingering here with me when I am certain you both can think of far more interesting things to do with your time.”

Vardamírë wondered sometimes whether or not the Headmaster could read thoughts. He seemed to know all about her plans to milk a private concert out of her new beau. Not that she felt even the least bit guilty for it. Or, he might have meant something even more intimate than a private concert, in which case…

Well, trying not to think about it just led to more thinking about it. Which she should not be doing until she knew him a little better.

_As though knowing it is inappropriate to think such things will make the daydreams stop._

“You did say that you wanted to hear me sing,” Makalaurë finally said as he met her gaze almost shyly. “Have you decided what you would like to hear?”

_Especially when he is standing around looking so sweet. Varda’s stars!_

“I am still thinking on it. I suppose I could ask for a classic, or maybe you should sing me something from the Hither Lands that I would have never heard before,” she teased. “Or should I request that you sing the Lay of Leithian. I am certain you have been asked a thousand times for the tale of Beren and Lúthien.”

“Not really,” he answered, laughing as he offered her an arm. “Find an empty room for us, and I will sing whatever you like. Though, you should know, bawdy tavern tunes are not really my preference, nor drinking songs. Most of what I heard in the Hither Lands was one or the other of those… or both. That is what happens when you wander about the barren countryside with an army of men who miss their wives or long to court pretty girls.”

Vardamírë could scarcely imagine someone like Makalaurë—a Prince of the House of Finwë—singing something so undignified. She was so distracted by the mental image that she neither heard the Headmaster sneak away nor realized they had started moving until they reached the end of the hallway and turned the corner.

“Did you really learn something so scandalous? Could you really sing one?” she asked, more out of curiosity than anything else.

“I have heard a few that are not quite fit for polite society,” he admitted, grinning just a little bit with a sort of embarrassed pride. “And, before you ask, I have sung some as well. We men of the House of Fëanáro are impervious to many things, but drink is not one of them.”

 _A drunken Makalaurë stumbling up onto a tabletop, belting out a tavern tune at the top of his voice, which was more than capable of conjuring up images as if before one’s very eyes the thing itself was happening…_ With what most of the more inappropriate tunes that she had heard consisted of—namely, comparisons of various body parts to types of foodstuff and many innuendos describing various forms of the physical act—she imagined the whole tavern might be sporting _problems_ by the end of that performance no matter their gender or state of intoxication.

“Maybe not a repeat performance of that then,” she agreed. “Not tonight anyway.”

“Not tonight?” His eyebrows shot up.

“Maybe later,” she teased. “For now, I think I can live with something tame. I will not make you sing the Lay of Leithian. Instead, sing me another romance. There must have been more than one couple in all the Hither Lands.”

“Most of them do not end happily,” he warned her, shadows passing through his eyes. “But there is a certain lightness even to those that ended in tragedy. Not much was there to be happy about in those days, so one learns to take joy where they can find it, even in the direst of circumstances.”

Vardamírë could not really imagine it. Valinórë was a peaceful place. Not perfect and not without its problems. But love rarely ended in tragedy. A little heartbreak, perhaps, but that was just the way of things.

“Fine, sing me a tragic love story,” she demanded. “We can use the classroom.”

“The one with the pastel walls and the children’s pictures and the little roll-up cots,” he said skeptically, though the undertone was both horrified _and_ amused. “How do you expect me to get in the mood for tragedy surrounded by cute stuffed toys and pictures of flowers and baby animals?”

“I expect you will manage.”

Later, when she was sitting on the floor beside him and his hands were dancing across his harp— _No, she was absolutely not imagining them dance over her skin in that very same way, so swift and so precise!_ —and his voice was raised in song, the whole of the silly room with all its bright colors and childish decorations fell away. Later, she would sit immersed in the twilight darkness, gazing down at a lake’s glassy surface, seeing a reflection in the water, falling in love with the wide hazel eyes that gazed back with astonished awe.

Ah, he had a dangerous voice. To make her fall in love with the fair maiden, to make her weep at the forbidden romance, and to make her heart ache that the lovers were parted never to be together again. By the end, her chest was tight, and her eyes burned, and she wondered if she could ever look at Prince Aikanáro the same way again should she stumble upon him in the streets or within the palace.

Breathless, she sat in the aftermath and wondered what on earth she had gotten herself into. Because he had certainly more than managed to leave her dumbstruck and enchanted.

“Aiya, Makalaurë…”

His face swam back into focus. Sad-eyed and pale. She had liked his eyes when they were coruscating with laughter, but there was something about their soulful darkness now which had her enraptured, leaning closer, wondering if she might be the one to drive that shadow away.

And then he offered a faint smile. Shattered the image. She caught her breath again.

“Think about what you want to hear next time. You can have me all to yourself after my first attempt at running a class,” he teased, helping her to her feet. “For now, though, I should be off. Istelindë will be wanting to return home, and someone needs to help her round up the rest of my brothers.”

The mention of Istelindë soured her mood, driving away some of the daze. But only a little, for she knew the other woman was not trying to earn Makalaurë’s affections, nor was her might-be suitor attempting to give them away. The Fëanárion had been entirely honest with her in that regard, and she would hold it neither against him nor against the previous object of his fascination.

“You had best get going then,” she agreed. Slowly, she reeled him in, pressing a kiss to each of his cheeks. “I look forward to our next meeting, Makalaurë.”

“As do I, Vardamírë.” With a small bow of his head, he was gone.

And she was wrecked.

 _This was an absolutely abominable idea,_ she first thought between random memories of his voice, between strings of admiration, between little wisps of excitement.

_The worst part is, I am not even sorry for letting it happen. Not even a little._

_Fate, do your worst._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:
> 
> Aiya (Q) = exclamation, such as O!  
> amilessë (Q) = mother-name  
> Fëanárioni (Q, p) = sons of Fëanáro  
> meldanya (Q) = my dear/my beloved  
> vennonya (Q) = my husband  
> vessenya (Q) = my wife  
> Menelya (Q) = Hevensday (Wednesday)


	35. Of Bonds Forged and Broken

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We get sibling bonding, brotherly bonding (or not) and cousinly bonding (really not)...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: sneaking around, thinking about/joking about sex, dysfunctional family drama, sex games, consensual rough sex
> 
> Another sex scene for you guys at the end of all the drama.
> 
> Maedhros = Maitimo = Nelyafinwë = Nelyo  
> Maglor = Makalaurë = Kanafinwë = Káno  
> Celegorm = Tyelkormo = Tyelko = Turkafinwë = Turko  
> Caranthir = Carnistir = Morifinwë = Moryo  
> Curufin = Atarinkë = Curufinwë = Curvo  
> Amrod = Ambarussa = Pityafinwë = Pityo  
> Amras = Umbarto = Telufinwë = Telvo  
> Lindalórë = Lórë  
> Egalmoth = Aikambalotsë = Lotsë  
> Aredhel = Írissë  
> Turgon = Turukáno  
> Fingolfin = Nolofinwë

_Aldúya, 46 Lairë (28 June)_

\---

“Over here!”

Startled as a frightened doe, Lindalórë froze in place where she wandered up the winding path to the front door of her parents’ home. 

Just moments ago, she had kissed her husband goodbye, and she was now standing beneath the glowing white lanterns in the front garden having just watched him disappear down the way, wishing she could go with but resigning herself to her own decision to make him wait. With a sigh, she had turned towards the house, accepting her fate, for she had been gone for more than eight hours, and there was no way that there was not a lecture waiting for her on the other side of that front door.

She had started up the path thinking that she might as well get the yelling and scolding over with all in one day instead of trying to avoid it until breakfast tomorrow morning. Only for a soft voice to call out the window of the front parlor.

“Lotsë?” she called quietly, detouring off the path and hopping over a bed of irises, their little yellow-spotted purple petals almost glowing beneath the garden lights, and she found herself standing within reaching distance of the window. It had been opened up, and her brother was peeking out from the darkened room, green eyes catching the light.

“Come around the back way,” he hissed out, glancing over his shoulder presumably to make sure no one was coming.

“What?” Looking past him, she could see that the parlor door was open, but no light was spilling in from the hallway without. She would have seen if the lights in the foyer immediately to the left of this room were still lit, but all was dark. No one was waiting for her return. “Are you… helping me sneak back in?”

Awkwardly, he offered her a half-grin. “Seems like I am, Lórë. Do you need me to let you in from the back patio, or can you climb back up to your balcony?”

“Wearing this?” She plucked at her dress. “I doubt it.”

“Patio is it, then.” He vanished into the shadows of the parlor, his footsteps almost inaudible on the carpeting. “Hurry up!”

Quickly, she pranced through the rest of the flowerbeds, probably getting her slippers stained and dirtied in the process, and managed to scale the gate without tearing her rather clingy skirts. Or breaking her neck, like she would if she tried to climb back up to her balcony wearing this impractical dress in the dark. No lights were on inside as she made her way up to the glass doors, but the farthest left one still slid slowly open to let her inside.

“I told Amillë that you wanted to rest after this morning,” her brother explained as he closed the door behind her.

“And she believed that?” Lindalórë was not really the sort for afternoon naps or sitting around all day in her rooms. In fact, she could not remember the last time she had done something so lackadaisical as hide away for an entire day sleeping.

Her brother glanced out into the hallway. “I told her that you felt guilty about Írissë being missing. And I may have mentioned that Turukáno did not treat you very kindly in exchange for sharing what you knew. Naturally, she thinks you are traumatized.”

Lindalórë scoffed as they tiptoed through the hallways and up the stairs. “That is absolutely ridiculous! I _do_ feel a little guilty, but Turukáno can go ha—”

“Hush!” He pushed her around the doorframe of the nearest room—a guest room with a musty, unused smell about it—just as the door to her mother’s quarters opened.

“Aikambalotsë, is that you?” Her mother was dressed for bed, covered with a closed robe made from the finest embroidered silk, and looking out into the hallway. “What are you doing out here in the dark? I thought I heard…” She looked down the way towards Lindalórë’s closed door as if expecting to see her peeking out.

“Forgive me,” he answered, “I was just grumbling. This morning has left me in a poor mood. I did not mean to disturb you.”

Her eyes narrowed just a bit, glancing about, and Lindalórë slowly eased herself further into the guest room until she was completely out of sight, trying to keep her breathing quiet. Not that she would get a very harsh punishment if she was caught, but it would be rather obvious from her state of grime and dirt and sweat that she had been out and about and not in her room as purported, and she would rather like to avoid that particular late-night lecture if she could.

“Maybe I heard Lindalórë down the hall. Perhaps I should go and check on her, see if she is feeling a bit better…”

“I can ask after her if you like,” her brother immediately offered.

“I really think I should… We have not been getting along too well since last week… And now, with Írissë running off, I am a bit worried about her. Maybe I should bring her some tea and we can talk.”

Lindalórë swallowed sharply at hearing how… not disapproving but just… upset… her mother sounded. They had never exactly seen eye to eye, nor been close confidents, but it was not as though she _disliked_ her parents. Especially not her mother. Her relationship with them was nothing like the twisted mass of both hatred and love that her husband held towards his, for she knew that they had often done their best to help her when she needed help, even if they did not always agree with her choices.

Had she been too harsh as of late, taking out her temper a bit too sharply on her family members? Having Curufinwë back in her life dredged up all sorts of feelings she had been stifling for so long, a whole tangled and thorny garden of resentment, bitterness and scorn that she was desperately trying to burn out to make way for the life that she wanted to reclaim, and she did not appreciate anyone standing in her way to happiness. Now more so than it had in centuries, her fury was present near the surface, writhing in wait for whoever was unfortunate enough to trip and stumble into it first.

“Maybe she might appreciate some tea,” Aikambalotsë agreed. “I will go and see if she is awake, and you can bring some up. How about that, Amillë?”

Quietly, their mother agreed. The sound of footsteps echoed down the hall and own the stairs, accompanied by the soft swishing of fabric and the sound of breathing. Only when they were alone did Lindalórë slip back out into the hallway and down to her chambers, brother on her heels. And… made it without detection!

“You stay here,” she said, reaching down to pluck her discarded nightgown and robe off the floor from where she had abandoned them this morning, heading for her private bathroom. “I will be right back!”

Not three minutes later, she had managed to pluck all the lily of the valley from her hair, tossing the blossoms into a spare jewelry box (along with the bracelet she had definitely neither owned nor worn this morning) and had peeled off her gown, changing back into her nightwear. She half-expected her brother to be long gone when she returned, but…

Well, he was still right where she left him, picking at his sleeves. When she emerged from her private bathroom, he looked up.

“Do I look suitably like I have been abed all day?” she asked quietly as she plopped down on the edge of her bed.

“Shoes,” he reminded. Lindalórë looked down at the yellow slippers, finding them every bit as roughly-treated and dirt-stained as she expected after a long day wandering about the city, watching the flower-dances at the plaza (she had certainly gotten looks for standing about with lily of the valley in her hair while a woman in white was up on stage dancing to their deceptive beauty) and enjoying the public gardens (not only for their convenient nooks and crannies in which she could safely snog her husband) with their entire selection of fifty different colored species of rose and a wisteria old enough to have wound its way through half the giant spot of greenery at the center of the otherwise urban area. Quickly, she plucked the satiny shoes off (almost laughing at the crushed petals that had been hiding beneath the soles of her feet for hours, having snuck in during her misadventures) and shoved them under the bed, glancing up at the door as though someone might barge in and catch her in the act at the last moment.

When her mother’s imminent arrival was not forthcoming, she relaxed.

“Thank you,” she said softly. “Not just for the shoes, or for sneaking me back in, or covering for me all day. Curufinwë mentioned that you saw us as we were sneaking out. You could have said something and Atar would have had me locked up in the house all day, but you did not.”

“He made you laugh,” Aikambalotsë responded.

“What?”

“You were laughing, out in the gardens.” He jerked his head towards her balcony, the gardens now dark except for the night-blooming flowers. “I have barely seen you smile since my rebirth, let alone laugh. And on a day like today, even, when you were so upset this morning. He managed to make you _happy.”_

“Aiya, Lotsë, he is like that.” And he was. Always had been. “He does well with making me smile. That is one of the reasons I married him, even if he does have an awful temper. And he is rather terrified of women crying as well, so I suppose he would appreciate that you dealt with my upset this morning.”

They lingered in silence for a few long moments. And then… “You have already decided to take him back, have you not?”

“The minute he told me I could walk away and never see him again if I wanted,” she answered honestly and without hesitation.

“Then what is… all this?” He vaguely gestured in the air.

Of course, he was referring to the reemergence of the courting rituals, the sneaking about, the romantic outings. “I know that I could have simply chosen to rejoin him, but I… I wanted to punish him. Just a little. Make him work for my regard.”

“I suppose he already has your regard,” her brother teased, going to join her, sitting on the end of her bed. “How is it going? His punishment?”

She let out a small bit of laughter. “I am not so certain that he is the one being punished here,” she answered, blinking away the reemergence of tears hiding just under her ever-present sass and disdain. “You know, on the night he left, he left me crying on the doorstep of the cottage. Some of the things he said to me were cruel. That I was stronger than to cry like some sort of weepy woman at his departure. That he thought I had more steel in my backbone. That I should understand why he needed to go. That I was being selfish by trying to make him and our son stay. For a long time, I imagined saying all sorts of hateful things back to his face when he finally crawled back on his hands and knees. He always was a bit arrogant and a bit thoughtless, and I expected him to be exactly the same when he returned. I thought I would not feel a lick of regret in telling him to leave me be and never show his face again, but…”

“But…?” For once, Aikambalotsë’s eyes were not hooded with an angry glare, his forehead smooth of lines and his eyes warm and affectionate.

“But he changed. The old Curufinwë would never have stood quietly waiting for me to make a decision, and he would never have told me he would heed my choice without argument. But he surrendered to me without even hesitating, even though he was terrified.” She sniffled quietly. “He agreed to my terms without even negotiating. It was so unlike him that I had almost wondered if I had the wrong man for a moment.”

“He is a killer,” her brother pointed out, voice quiet but honest. Not hostile, just making a statement. “He fought in a war. Watched his friends and his brothers die. Of course, he is not the same man. Maybe he learned something. Maybe he got wiser.”

“You do not even like him,” she said, glancing over at him with narrowed eyes.

“It does not really matter if I like him.” He offered her a smirk. “You are the one who is going to be stuck married to him. Do _you_ like him?”

“Do not be ridiculous,” she scoffed, ducking her head against a blush.

“I noticed that you came home with some new jewels,” he teased. “I am surprised you have not pulled out any of your drawings and commissioned him to make you something magnificent beyond measure.”

“Well, I need at least six or seven more magnificent pieces of jewelry before I will consider him back in my good graces,” she replied with a snooty jerk of her chin, looking up at her brother and down her nose at him both simultaneously. “And a few more chaperoned outings would be nice. Think you that I should ask for a restatement of wedding vows as well? The original ceremony was not exactly what Amillë wanted, was it? Very private and very understated. A simple gown. No jewels but for that ridiculously large diamond that Fëanáro gifted. I imagine she would have wanted me to glow for the number of gems that would have adorned my dress.”

“I think you should do what you want,” he finally answered, leaning down to kiss her cheek. “If what you say is true, he will more than likely be happy to throw as big of a party as you want, nésa.”

“You think so?” she asked, wondering why she felt so insecure about the whole ordeal when Curufinwë had been nothing but reassuring and generous with his attention.

“You know him better than I do.” He stood, moving towards the door. Just before reaching it, he looked over his shoulder at her. “I think, though, that if he is going through all this trouble to win you back, he is probably going to do whatever you demand no matter the cost. It is clear to me that the Fëanárioni, when they set their mind to something, doggedly pursue their goal without hesitation and without quarter. And he wants you back.”

“I want _him_ back,” she admitted.

“Am I going to have another nephew by this time next year?”

It was good—for him anyway—that there was nothing of throwing size within reach except trinkets and tokens that she wanted not in a thousand pieces on the floor. “We have not been doing _that_ sort of unchaperoned activity.”

The look he sent her said everything she needed to know about how much he believed in those words. Which, for the time being, were the truth.

 _Not for much longer,_ she could not help but think. There was no denying that the past few nights had been _frustrating._ The problem would have been so much easier to _take care of_ if she had her husband at her disposal.

She sighed. “Really, Lotsë!”

“Of course, of course!” Finally, he opened the door, revealing their mother on the other side. Lindalórë wondered how much the older woman had heard.

Her mother pretended to have heard nothing at all, though, instead offering up a blithe smile and holding her teapot- and teacup-laden tray aloft. “Lindalórë, yendë, I brought up some tea. I know that this morning was a bit stressful, so I thought you could use some lavender and chamomile. And a bit of honey to sweeten it.”

The flush on her face and the look in her eyes gave her eavesdropping away, but Lindalórë said nothing of it, for she felt not like throwing a tantrum so late at night when she was in such a pleasant mood at having her husband to herself all day and avoiding the lecture for it upon her arrival home. Giving her mother a tight-lipped smile, she patted the side of the mattress in welcome. “Of course, Amillë. It was indeed not a very pleasant day, and I could use some cheering and soothing.”

Over her mother’s shoulder, she caught Aikambalotsë’s eye just as he was closing the door. With a sharp nod, he vanished into the dimly lit hallway and let the door click shut.

 _Well, I suppose that could have gone worse. Who would have thought that my brother might have changed a bit as well in his time as an Exile?_ The brother she remembered would never have been willing to admit that there was anything in Curufinwë worthwhile, for he had despised the Fëanárion right from the start and had never stopped. He certainly would never have joked about his sister and brother-in-law having relations.

But then, the whole world felt like it was strangely disproportionate, everything skewed slightly to one side. A week ago, Lindalórë would never have thought she would be here, contemplating how to reclaim her husband and her life.

She would never have thought to be happy again a week ago.

But things changed.

\---

The travel home was quiet. All had fallen into darkness on the mountain, the lanterns illuminating the dirt road but a few yards out front to allow Telufinwë to see into the gaping darkness with rocky slopes on either side. They had not yet passed the meadows nor reached the forests where the Fëanárioni made their home.

Istelindë was not really certain what to say.

Importantly, she had learned much and accomplished much this day. Like two ingredients to a rare and exotic dish, she had shoved Telufinwë and his dancer, Amaurëa, together hoping they would mix tastefully and blend pleasantly, and they had seemed to get along well and gravitate towards one another. Less resistance had there been than she had expected from what Nelyafinwë had theorized about his youngest brother’s outlook on inflicting their cursed name upon a woman. As far as she could tell, the lunch and afternoon socializing had gone well.

Her main goal for the outing, therefore, was complete. Now she would simply need to lure Telufinwë to town more often and, hopefully, the smitten couple would do most of the work for her. At some point, she might even try to befriend her potential sister-in-law.

Makalaurë had returned very pleased with himself and was still humming under his breath. Nothing did she know about how _his_ outing at the School of Music had gone except that he admitted to having a class to oversee once a week. No mention was there of the woman, Vardamírë, but she suspected that he was simply unwilling to share everything. Especially in earshot of his nosy and mouthy younger brother.

Said younger brother also seemed rather smug with himself, not that that was out of the ordinary. It took everything Istelindë had to bite her tongue and not think too much about Curufinwë or the scolding he rightly deserved.

She would leave that task to Maitimo.

Finally, there was Pityafinwë, about whom she had learned something new today. Namely, that he had his eye on a woman and had been hiding all knowledge of her from his brothers and sister-in-law. Not much of a chance had she had to get a closer look at the woman, who was very obviously a healer in the employ of the royal family’s Healing House. A short girl, dark-haired, curvy in the way of one who ate well and needed not to upkeep the impossible standards of courtly perfection.

Truth be told, Istelindë was a bit jealous of her curves.

But that was beside the point. The woman was not at all what she would have imagined for Pityafinwë—when she had set out to find girls for all her little brothers, she had imagined women of court, young and sweet with hearts in their eyes and innocent passion in their souls—but perhaps it was for the best that he had found the woman on his own.

A healer. In a strange way, it made sense. For a man with a broken spirit, filled with bitter resentment, filled with disappointment and hate, to go in search of a healer. Whether he sought her, consciously or unconsciously, for her looks, for her mannerisms, for her profession—for all those things or none of them—hardly mattered. She was not going to stand in his way if he so chose to pursue this mysterious Lady Healer.

Maybe she could even convince him to pay a little more attention to her lectures on the medicinal properties of the new herbs and flowers she was growing in the yard behind the house, or even convince him to help her tend to them now that Makalaurë felt he was no longer welcome to share time with her alone in the gardens. Now that she thought of it, though, Pityafinwë _had_ been more attentive about it than any of his fellow siblings, at least very recently. And now she knew why. She sent a sly glance his way, noting his fresh bandages and the change of the splinting of his finger to a tight binding.

_Of course, he wants to show off for his healer._

It was between this labyrinth of thoughts and plans, of satisfied smirks and huffy sighs, that they finally arrived home. At the sound of their arrival, her husband stepped out onto the porch, golden light spilling out at his back, overseeing his brothers as they piled out of the cart. Telufinwë, like a gentleman, helped her down and fetched her things, though she quietly insisted on carrying the new bolts of fabric and her basket of other goodies herself.

Her husband, naturally, greeted her with a kiss. Just a chaste one at the corner of her lips, for they had a rather large audience. “Aiya, Istelindë, the day has been long and empty without you, vessenya.”

“Did you at least eat?” she asked. She had finished off the morning meal with enough muffins to feed all the boys for a week, so she suspected he was well satisfied.

And sick of them, judging by the wrinkle in his nose. “Maybe something else tomorrow would be pleasant, dearest Princess. I love blueberry muffins as much as the next man, but I may vomit if I eat another one this week.”

She snorted out a laugh and followed him inside, their little brothers at her heel.

It was only after the others were occupied, both with the leftover baking and the freshly stewing pot at the hearth, that she managed to pull her husband away for a private word. Well she knew that, once they made it to their bedroom, thoughts of Curufinwë were likely to be a thousand leagues from her mind.

“I ran into Anairë today,” she whispered. “She was nearly inconsolable but hiding it well for the sake of the public eye.”

“So, Írissë is still missing, then?” Maitimo was not overly distressed by this fact—and Istelindë scolded herself a bit for feeling a little surprised and disappointed by his lack of reaction, for she knew that he and Nolofinwë were no great friends and that Maitimo believed his female cousin to be perfectly competent and capable of caring for herself in the wilds—but he did seem at least a little unsettled that she was missing after an entire week had come and gone.

“Well, she is, but…” _How to put this gently…?_

“Lady Anairë asked me if _I_ had known where Írissë was, because it happened that Lindalórë had known the entire time and only confessed to it this morning after Írissë had already gone. And she told only one other person…”

And they both knew who that one other person would be.

It made her stomach curl in a bit upon itself with dread to see his eyes, already bright, go hot and white with his fury. “Curufinwë _knew?”_

Nibbling at the inside of her lower lip, she nodded. “I think so.”

Without another word, he spun on his heel, heading for the kitchen. And Istelindë, though she trusted him with her life, still felt a bit light-headed at his obvious rage, at the way it sharpened all the angles of his face until they seemed bladed. Certainly, he would not do anything to harm any one of his little brothers, but—

“Maitimo, wait!”

He slipped past her grasping hand as it reached for his sleeve. “Curufinwë!” She winced back at how his voice was raised in displeasure.

The fifth brother looked up with those blazing silver eyes, and she could already tell that he would be infuriatingly unrepentant. “What has you twisted into knots so late at night? And here, just a minute ago you were making cow-eyes at your wife and waiting eagerly for an opportunity to sneak away from the rest of us.”

“So, that is how you are going to play the game, pretending you did nothing wrong?” Maitimo was clearly unimpressed. “Do tell me then, little brother, what part of _mending rifts between Houses_ did you not understand?”

“Oh, this is about Írissë, then? Are you angry with me because I withheld that information from Nolofinwë—and from you?”

Curufinwë’s sneer made Istelindë shiver. But it clearly had little effect on her husband, who seemed neither intimidated nor fearful for all its reciprocal fury. “I am angry because I have asked you—as I asked all of our brothers—to cease hostilities with the House of Nolofinwë with whom we once shared vows of brotherhood. You do not have to _like_ any of them—Valar knows, I like Nolofinwë and Turukáno no more than the rest of you!—but you _do_ have to be respectful. _That_ was the agreement, the promise all of you made to _me.”_

Istelindë blinked, for this was the first _she_ was hearing of it, and it left her feeling a little bit hurt, shrinking back to hide behind Maitimo’s broad back. Had her husband had been speaking to his brothers behind her back to make them behave? Would they really have brushed aside her concerns and her wishes to mend fences between their House and their extended family so easily had he not cornered them and forced them to swear to uphold good behavior?

“Please, speak not to me of such drivel,” Curufinwë snapped out in return. “We owe Nolofinwë _nothing._ Not respect. Not assistance. _Nothing._ Crimes committed against his House were perpetrated by Atar and Atar alone, and yet they hold the rest of us in contempt for a sin we did not commit. I see no reason to bargain nor beg for favor with their lot!”

“No, you owe Nolofinwë nothing,” Maitimo agreed, the white of his teeth showing behind his curled lip. “You owe _me_ your respect, as the Lord of our House and as your oldest brother. Clearly, that means nothing to you.”

Even Curufinwë, it seemed, had nothing to counter that. His lips parted, but nothing was forthcoming except a look of utter offense, as though Maitimo had just cursed his name rather than castigated him for doing wrong by their family. With an audible snarl, like an angry mountain lion, he brushed past his older sibling. “Enough of this!”

“I think not.” Maitimo’s singular hand caught his brother by the back of his tunic. Before Istelindë could even attempt to intervene, her husband was quite literally _bodily dragging_ his brother towards the door. In one swift motion, he had more or less thrown Curufinwë right off the porch and into the dirt in front of the house.

“You _will_ apologize,” he said, and his tone brokered no argument. The remaining three brothers stayed well back from the spectacle, and Istelindë continued to hover a few feet away, hesitant to reach out and try to soothe her spouse’s anger when the muscles of his arms were trembling visibly. “You will apologize to me, to my wife, who has been trying hard to give us opportunities to mend broken bonds with our families, and to your brothers, who have upheld their word where you have not. But you will first begin with an apology to Uncle Nolofinwë and his family for endangering their daughter and breaking their trust. A _public_ apology.”

“Excuse me?” 

“It is either that, or you find Írissë yourself and deliver her safely back to her father in repayment for breaking the trust between our families,” Maitimo added, and his voice was colder than any winter wind and harsher, too.

“Turkafinwë will have found her already by now,” Curufinwë ground out. “I told him the night before he failed to show up at the breaking of fast.”

A vein in her husband’s jaw pushed out against his skin, so hard did he grit his teeth at that. “Then I suppose you have only one option.”

“You cannot make me do this,” the younger brother insisted, absolutely outraged. And, while Istelindë was a bit alarmed by the physicality of the whole dispute, she could not bring herself to feel too sorry for his suffering. One little apology would be little in the way of pain—except to his ego—compared with how much Írissë’s parents and brothers must be suffering, worrying themselves sick about her.

“I can, and I will,” Maitimo countered. “Do not expect a welcome here until your duties are completed. You can stay in the damn barn and eat whatever you can scavenge from the woods on your own. I will not have you at my table until you have made a discernable effort to fix what you have broken callously without thought.”

And, without another word, he slammed the door so hard it jiggled on the hinges.

All was silent.

Maitimo let out a sigh. The other three relaxed, and Istelindë along with them, for she sensed that her mate’s rage was now greatly diminished. He turned to look at his remaining younger siblings. “Will I need to scold anyone else this night, or can the remainder be peacefully spent at the fireside?”

They were hesitant in offering reassurance, and Makalaurë stepped forward first. “I think the rest of us heard your message quite clearly, Nelyo. Even Curufinwë likely understands your motives. He is just not always the best and thinking his actions—”

Maitimo held up his hand. “Do not defend him. Not tonight. Tomorrow, you may try to sway my mind to mercy, if you dare.”

“Very well,” Makalaurë agreed.

Quietly, the harmony of their household severely disturbed but slowly falling back into some semblance of order now that the momentary fire and fury had passed like a dark cloud across the stars, they assembled about the fire. Even with empty seats available, the twins still made their home upon the floor, and Makalaurë took the armchair, harp in hand.

“Tell me about the rest of your outing,” Maitimo demanded, pulling Istelindë down upon the loveseat and reeling her in close, his hand rubbing over her upper arm until she felt herself going boneless against his warmth. The tension—half from alarm and half from fear—now drained away beneath his tender touches, beneath the kisses that he planted just under her ear and the way his lips stroked the shell. “I know the plan was to take Telvo alone with you, so how did I end up here alone with not another elven soul for leagues around?”

Slowly, the day came spilling out. With some lips (her own) more forthcoming than others (everyone else’s). Makalaurë was happy to speak of gaining a position at the School of Music but said nothing of Vardamírë, and Pityafinwë complained a bit of watching Telufinwë flirt and then abandoning the couple to have his hand tended instead, failing to mention anything at all about the beautiful healer he longed for.

Naturally, Telufinwë was silent, even through his brother’s rendition of his interactions with Amaurëa, who had apparently been cast this year as a dancing lotus blossom. The older twin still earned a few sharp glances from his younger brother despite.

No matter. Istelindë could share what else she knew with her husband in private. Though, probably in the morning.

Fatigued, she let her eyes drift shut with her face pressed into his shoulder.

\---

Someone was following her.

She had been out on her own in the wilderness for a good number of days, and quite happily at that. The woods here were old and towering, the trees alive and whispering and even welcoming, for they were of a much different sort than the malicious and enchanted Nan Elmoth within which she had made her home with Eöl. They were more than happy to have a visitor who tread with soft feet between their thick and twisted roots, a visitor who spoke to them in the twilight of faraway things and great adventures.

And, in return, they warned her. Whispered of strange happenings to the south. A second set of footsteps echoing in the twilight.

At first, she thought it of little importance. This was Valinórë, yes, but there were still many people who spent time wandering the forests or hunting game for their evening meals. Was it really so strange that someone else might be wandering near enough that she could occasionally hear something upon the wind distinctly elven and out of place, that the trees noticed their presence?

 _Hunter,_ they named him. _Quiet. Bright. Wild. Cold._

Trees did not really understand personality, and they did not really understand spirits, not in the very conscious sense that the Eldar knew. Still, Írissë felt her heart leap up into her throat (foolishly, perhaps), for such a description fit her most recent lover far too well. Feeling a sudden tightness to her gut and fidgety nervousness to her limbs, she wondered if it really was Tyelkormo who was out here with her, if he was out here _following_ her. Maybe even _hunting_ her, like a bit of stubbornly elusive prey. Or, maybe she was being a silly girl about the whole thing, giving in to wishful thinking and her own sense of importance and attractiveness. She knew she could be seductive, but was it a bit self-important of her to think that he might have come out here looking for her, to, perhaps, have another liaison with her? She was being completely silly, surely!

Still, what if it _was_ him? What if he _had_ ventured into the wilds in search of her?

If it _was_ him, should she let catch her?

Before she could make any decisions at all, she needed to know what it was that trod in the wake of her passage. So, she doubled back carefully, following the soft brushing of tree-voices against her mind speaking of another visitor traveling by foot. It took most of the early afternoon, but she could sense that she drew nearer and nearer to this stranger in the wood. The sound of whispers grew louder and louder. Of brightness and coldness and wildness.

She caught her first glimpse of him from a good half-mile away. Silver-haired, carrying a bow across his broad shoulders, white eyes breaking through the dim lighting of the underbrush and the shadows of the canopies like their own set of twin stars.

Well, she could have simply gone to him. It was a tempting thought, to track him down and lose herself in him, in his wildfire spirit and in his equally wild sexual prowess. Since rebirth in the Undying Lands, she could not deny that she had felt neglected and unsatisfied with her affairs, romantically and sexually and spiritually. None of her previous lovers had much in the way to offer her except a life as restrictive as the one she was trying to escape, and none were particularly satisfactory in the bedroom either. And then, the spur-of-the-moment idea to take Tyelkormo to bed at the Festival, which had turned out to be more than satisfactory… If she could have that again, she would.

But it was equally tempting to play a little bit of a game. More than once, she had played this particular one with Eöl. Not only on the night they had first come together, but afterwards quite a few times as well. The game where her lover had to catch her, and she received not only a thorough round of gut-wrenchingly satisfying intercourse at the end but had the heart-racing and thrilling experience of being chased, of seeing her potential mate in action, of testing his speed and endurance, his skill at tracking and hunting prey, before she even got to sample his body.

She did not doubt for a second that Tyelkormo would be up to the challenge.

He just needed a lure to chase.

Reaching down, she pinched the tattered hem of her mostly ruined gown. Easily did she tear a scrap from the edge, and it came away stark white between her fingers. Smirking, she dropped it into the grass. Walked away, back turned to him, quiet as a mouse but plucking another little scrap, leaving it to be found in a nearby bush. And then another and another as she traversed the first few miles.

Just a little trail to get him started on the right track.

Maybe, if she wound him up enough, he might even tear the rest of the ruined dress right off her when he caught her. Would that not be delightful?

Setting off briskly, she smirked to herself and did nothing to cease the burning that had started up between her thighs, the dampness that seeped ever so slightly into the fabric of the trousers she wore beneath her skirts. By dusk, perhaps she would have a companion to take care of that little problem.

She was looking forward to it.

Afterwards… They could figure out everything else afterwards.

\---

She was close.

More importantly, she knew _he_ was close.

Swiftly had he made up for the lost time Curufinwë had wasted in telling of her hiding location to start with, though only by means of his own innate skill. Until now, her trail had been _there_ but _quiet,_ a creature of the forest passing through and leaving her mark but not any more of one than any other woodland beast. He was not so versed in the language of the trees as his female cousin, but the birds were more than happy to tweet their little hearts out all about the woman in white who passed underneath their perches and nests like a ghost. The deer had seen her as well, coming up to have their velvety snouts stroked while their big, dark eyes shared all their secrets in languages most Eldar could scarcely comprehend.

As he grew closer and closer to catching his prey, his sweet cousin, he felt the itch beneath his skin dissolve. No more urge to scratch at his own skin until it bled, nor sleepless nights pacing beneath the trees and wishing he could curse the silence of the stars. Just a little while longer, he had thought, just a few more days of tracking her soft trail, and he would have her again, wildly and upon the grass if she would allow it.

He supposed he had thought to surprise her, that he would come upon her in the middle of nowhere in the forest and take her in his arms, maybe lay kisses upon her lips as he tangled his fingers in the long and lustrous waves of her dark hair. Maybe, if she did not resist, upon her neck and her breasts as well. Would that he could see if his marks from the night of the Festival were still upon her white flesh, if they were still red and stinging when he nipped at them with his teeth, and if she would squeal quietly as he did it.

Clearly, though, his arrival was no longer going to be a surprise.

Her trail was now deliberate. There was simply no way she had caught on so many branches and bushes to leave this many scraps of white lace and fabric behind. Even with something as cumbersome as a set of skirts, she had long since learned to pass mostly unmolested by the reaching boughs and branches of the plant-life and trees. He even saw a few strands of dark hair intentionally left behind, curled about a group of leaves like threads of shadow waving in the breeze, and he plucked them loose to hold them against his nose and breathe in the scent that was undeniably _hers._

She wanted him to find her. She was leaving him a starting trail to follow. All these little teasing hints of her presence, they had not been here more than an hour or two at most. He was _meant_ to find them and follow them, like a hunting dog that had caught the scent of a fox or a bunny and chased it down.

Naturally, there would be no bloodthirsty murder and gorging himself upon her torn flesh when he found her. He rather thought she had something a little more sensual in mind.

 _Clearly, I am not the only one who has been thinking about our rendezvous in the last few days,_ he thought with a smirk, wrapping the strands of dark hair about his hand and braiding them tightly together. The small braided strand went into a pocket. _Clearly, I am not the only one interested in a repeat offense._

At the knowledge that she was safe and nearby, he felt his recent anxieties calm, replaced rather by the heat of excitement bubbling through his veins. If it was a hunt that she wanted, it was hunt that she could receive.

Silently, he slipped through the undergrowth in her wake.

\---

Even without the whispering of the trees, Írissë could sense that he was close. Close enough that she knew his exact position relative to her own, how swiftly he was moving and in what direction. If she looked over her shoulder, she might be able to catch glimpses of his swift-moving form through the sea of tree trunks, his eyes glowing like white fire through the blackness of the falling night.

No time for that, though. Not if she wanted the chase to be _fun._

Like a fleet-footed deer, she swerved between the trees and leapt over tangles of underbrush and fallen trunks. There were small tugs at her hair and snags in her gown, but she ignored them in favor of her flight. Up ahead, to the north, she could hear the river bubbling peacefully along on its way and turned slightly west to avoid having to cross.

Only to see flashes of silver off to her left. Shuddering, she realized that he was going to attempt to cut off her escape. Instead of fear, though, she felt a shocking jolt of heat travel straight up her spine and make her knees weak as she swerved back towards the east, towards the nearby sound of the river. She almost stumbled, hearing the snap of twigs in the forest at her back. Most definitely, he had spotted her, and she sensed that he was going to play with her for a while, keep her on her toes.

The thought only made the building excitement worse. Tingling and burning between her legs, she felt swollen and would have reached down to brush against herself had she been alone. Had there not been the promise of fulfillment to close she could almost taste it.

As the river came into view, she knew he was right on her tail. Almost as soon as she was out in the open, he was going to catch her. And by _Varda_ if that did not make her inner muscles squeeze tight with anticipation. Breathlessly panting, she made one last attempt to head back and to the east, only to be cut off before making it even a few steps, her pursuer appearing like a ghost from the trees in all his pale-eyed and pale-haired glory.

She bolted for the riverbank, and the sound of his feet against the ground behind her was thrilling. He was _so close…_

And then his arms went around her, and she screamed as they tumbled down at the place where the sandy bank and grass bridged, all in a scramble of limbs and her wild laughter as she curled her fingers into his hair and pulled. Already, she felt his fingers pulling at her skirts harshly, only to discover her ratty trousers, giving them a horrifically disgusted look when they proved to be _in the way_ of a swift joining.

Gasping as she was bodily lifted and almost flung down upon her belly, she barely had time to get her hands underneath her, scrabbling through the sand, getting it beneath her nails, before she felt her trousers and underthings pulled down to her knees, exposing all her naked skin (and sex) from behind to the evening cool. Two of his fingers, long and agile, pushed swiftly into her opening, testing her wetness as she cried out his name, thighs pressing tightly together at the jolt of golden heat that left her squirming. They slammed deep into her in just the right way, and she must have been wet all the way down her knees for how slick and ready she was when he curled his fingers and stroked over her spot until she shook.

“Tyelko?” She looked over her shoulder, feeling aflush with heat, feeling so ready to be ravished that she almost snarled at how he wasted time fingering her open. Her legs were _shaking_ and her nipples were _hard_ and she wanted to be _filled_ and—

And he was pushing into her, pushing her down until her cheek pressed into the grass. And _Eru_ but it felt so _perfect_ to have him there, heavy and filling her up until she felt almost strained with his girth, pounding into her harshly as his hands tore at the ties of her gown and ripped the white tatters aside. Bare from the knees up as her dress was cast away, she let out a little delighted sob as her breasts were pressed to the damp sand. His hands found her, one knotted into her hair and holding her face down, and the other pinning her right hand where it curled in the grass, grip bruising about her wrist.

He might as well have set her loins aflame for how she burned. “Eru, Tyelko,” she moaned out, trembling all over as he used her. “Tyelko, harder! I need you!”

She had him. As hard as he would go. Until she was sobbing out his name with every movement. It did not matter that she was going to be covered in sand, that it was going to leave red, raw patches on her skin. There was no pain as she felt each deep thrust, buying him down to the root inside her, send a jolt of pleasure up her spine, leaving her back arching, pressing back against him to take everything he offered.

It was all over too soon, her orgasm rushing in on her suddenly in a burning wave, for she had been hungering to take him inside her, to have him entirely to herself, since the moment she had spotted him hours ago and set the trail for him to follow. All of this, leading up to this moment of exquisite pleasure as she came apart at the seams in a wave of bliss and golden light, gasping out airy cries of his name like prayers to the earth and the stars. Even as she was crying out for him, he fucked her hard through the quivering and jerking and trembling until she felt swollen and exhausted.

And he did not stop. Even when she fell limp against the grass, moaning almost deliriously, she let him have her, almost purring in satisfaction at hearing his voice swelling behind her from low groans to crooning her name into the dusk like a man possessed. As she squeezed around him, intentionally tightening her inner walls, she heard his voice crack and felt his hips stutter.

Aiya, how he was _hers!_

And then he was panting over her as he trembled and came. It did not even matter that she was the one with her cheek pressed to the grass, half-naked and shivering as he curled over her and made a sound of agonized pleasure, giving a few final, harsh thrusts into her that dragged her breasts and cheek across the sand and the grass. Everything had gone exactly as planned, and she let out a luxuriant sigh as he crumpled above her, blanketing her naked back and breathing a curse into the hair at the nape of her neck.

“Írissë,” he breathed out, and she could see his arm trembling as she turned her head. “You have me where you want me. What now?”

“Now,” she answered, squirming out from beneath him and sighing at losing the heaviness within her channel, “I push you down on the bank, divest you of everything you’re wearing, tease you back into hardness and ride you until I can no longer move.”

Laughing, he rolled over onto his back, looking up at the open sky, now darkened completely and dappled with stars. She kicked her boots and trousers loose and then pulled his leggings down as well, giving her the desirable access to his sex that she sought. Panting, he pushed up onto his elbows and looked down at her, jerking faintly as she touched his half-hard cock, teasing her fingers around the head.

“How did your husband ever keep up with you?” he asked, smirking.

“He was almost as ravenous as I was,” she answered, leaning down to kiss the head of his sex, delighted at the flicker of his eyelashes and shudder of pleasure. “Do not pretend you are any better, cousin. We both know the truth.”

She managed to tease him back to full mast with her kittenish kisses and licks, paying homage to his length while she cupped his sac and massaged it slowly between her soft fingers. Not that he was particularly resisting, happily rolling his hips upwards into her attentions, delighting in how she almost swallowed him down in her eagerness, for he was more than willing to participate in the plans she had so bluntly laid bare.

“Eru,” he groaned out, and collapsed back to the earth, throwing back his head. “Írissë, I am going to come undone again if you continue that.” 

“Are you?” Just for that comment, she was going to tease some more!

He reached down and squeezed about the base of his cock. “Írissë, I would rather be buried inside you. Melwa Írissenya put me out of my misery!”

Laughing, she straddled his hips, more than happy to take him in hand and direct him back into her body, ignoring the way the slickness of their joining was already seeping down her inner thigh (though it gave her satisfaction to feel evidence of their mating upon her bare skin) in favor of feeling him part her tender inner walls open again and sink deep, sending a jolt of almost too-bright and too-sensitive bliss shooting up her spine like silver lightning. His cheeks, already flushed, gained a red hue to compliment the sweat gathered at his temples and streaked through his mussed silver hair, and his back stretched and arched luxuriously to push even deeper into her velvety embrace. Moaning with satisfaction at being joined again, she gripped his shoulders tightly and rocked.

Large hands squeezed about her hips, fingertips digging into her skin and he pressed up to meet her each of her downward strokes. Slower, more sensual than their last joining, it was, but no less satisfying as she felt him stroke over her bare skin, cupping her breasts, thumbing her nipples, brushing over her curves, then reaching back to grasp her buttocks and squeeze.

He held her there and thrust upwards. The resulting spike of pleasure, the dizzy headiness that rested upon her brow as a crown, had her eyes rolling back, had her toes curling, had her voice breaking into a quiet wail.

Naturally, he repeated the motion. Again, and again, until she was shaking all over.

“I was supposed to be riding you,” she said breathlessly, bearing her weight down to take him as deeply as he could reach. It almost felt like he pushed all the way in behind her navel, so far in that she trembled and let out a soft bleat, fingers digging into his shoulders. “Here you are, doing half the work still.”

“I am a man of action,” he panted out in response, grin toothy and eyes glowing brighter and brighter by the second.

She leaned over him, and they shared their first kiss of the night. “I can appreciate that.”

One hand tangled in her hair and connected their mouths again, tongues brushing between their parted lips, sliding against one another in a splash of their shared natural tastes and scents. As incorrigibly as he did anything, he teased her into opening her mouth wider, surged in to fill her mouth with an invasion of sensual warmth and pleasure as all-encompassing as that which he used to fill her below. Helplessly, she moaned into him and pressed down again.

Feeling overfull and sensitive as he slid in deep, she whimpered her next orgasm into his mouth and writhed against his chest, her tender nipples rubbing against his rougher clothes, her thighs squeezing in around his hips. For long moments, she mindlessly enjoyed the convulsions of her inner muscles sending new waves of light and weightlessness through her body, all the way out to her tingling fingers and toes, each flashing light behind her eyes and leaving her blind. And then fell into the down-pillow of the afterglow, jerking softly with residual aftershocks as he rocked up into her gently. The rasp of his callused palms over her bottom and biting into her inner thighs sent another jolt through her belly.

They parted. “Satisfied?” he asked playfully.

“Not a chance,” she answered, curling her fingers into his hair and tugging the locks, knowing that he enjoyed the demanding nature of the gesture. “I want at least one more, cousin. I have been impatiently waiting for you all afternoon.”

“Just this afternoon?” He pulled her down upon his turgid member again, and she let out a hiccupping gasp.

“Maybe a bit longer than that,” she admitted, sitting up and arching her back to fully display her breasts before his eyes, rosy nubs hard and pointed out into the cold air, skin still dappled with the marks of their last coupling and with red spots where they had been rubbed raw upon the harsh sand. “My nipples are still a bit tender from our last joining. Best that you keep them that way, Tyelko.”

His fingers plucked at one, and she gasped, pulled tight about his sex.

“I shall keep that in mind.”

He pinched the tender little bud, and she felt her inner walls ripple in bliss. His other hand slid down to stroke around her sex, thumb brushing across her clitoris.

“And I shall make sure that you are left not unsatisfied,” he added, sounding impossibly smug. “How does that sound, dearest cousin?”

“Perfect,” she gasped out. “Perfect.”

And it was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:
> 
> Amillë (Q) = Mother  
> Atar (Q) = Father  
> Aiya (Q) = exclamation, like Oh!  
> nésa (Q) = sister  
> Fëanárioni (Q, p) = sons of Fëanáro  
> yendë (Q) = daughter  
> vessenya (Q) = my wife  
> melwa (Q) = lovely  
> Írissenya (Q) = my Írissë


	36. Her Lips Are Like Some Roses Fair

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Carnistir makes his move...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: cultural differences, politics, courting rituals, flower erotica, flower language, new OFC minor characters
> 
> This is shameless self-indulgence on my part, but I just can't help myself. So, some courting drama in Valmar awaits...
> 
> Maedhros = Maitimo = Nelyafinwë = Nelyo  
> Maglor = Makalaurë = Kanafinwë = Káno  
> Celegorm = Tyelkormo = Tyelko = Turkafinwë = Turko  
> Caranthir = Carnistir = Morifinwë = Moryo  
> Curufin = Atarinkë = Curufinwë = Curvo  
> Amrod = Ambarussa = Pityafinwë = Pityo  
> Amras = Umbarto = Telufinwë = Telvo  
> Aredhel = Írissë  
> Artanis = Galadriel

_Menelya, 47 Lairë (29 June)_

\---

This whole morning was going to go monumentally wrong. Nevertheless, Morifinwë managed to crawl his way out of bed and assemble his clothes without falling to pieces, understated in the darkest shade of green but still fitting for nobility if not for royalty. He indulged in tugging at the hem of the shirtsleeves and the embroidered velvet of the dark gray robes that draped across his broad shoulders, staring himself in the eyes in the mirror.

No crown did he wear, nor did he wish for one. Once his name was known, all would know the status of his birth, in any other circumstance more than worthy of the regard and companionship of any woman of the nobility no matter her background. Besides that, there was no need to overstate his status as royalty.

It was clear that Eruanna was of a family of high status herself. Not royalty, of course, but one filled with sacred responsibilities and tasks that he did not understand but from which she could not be drawn away. If they were to appeal to her family for permission even to court—let alone to marry, should they be drawn in that direction with time—he would have to make it clear that he had no intention of pulling her away from her duties with demands to serve as the wife of a Prince in the faraway city of Tirion. There as no need for such a thing, after all, and he was more than happy to throw away his own royal status in favor of playing consort to a sworn devotee of Varda Elentári.

Painful as it was to think, if this worked as well as he hoped, he might well come to live here. In Valmar. It was so strange to think, for he had scarcely seen a man or woman here who was not blond-haired and blue-eyed. Even now, as he descended from his room and slipped out onto the streets in the early morning light, he turned heads from all directions.

This time, the gazes were filled with wary interest. Yesterday, he had been a ratty Noldorin interloper, something that belonged in neither coloring nor dress. Today, his hair was loose and combed, gleaming darkly beneath the sunlight as it streamed in straight lines over his shoulders and back, and his clothes spoke of the supposed wealth and privilege of his birthright. Mayhap they felt awkwardly heavy about his body, made for a slimmer man of intellectual or philosophical pursuits or the burden of kingship, but he could bear the weight just this one time.

The servants did not even seem to recognize him when he came to the door, though he recognized several of them peering out from where they tended the front gardens. Even the manservant who answered the door, the same as last evening, took a few seconds to make the connection between yesterday’s sweaty messenger and the solemn-faced visitor.

“My lord,” the servant greeted, sounding a bit faint. “How might I be of assistance?”

“I am here seeking Lady Eruanna, just as yesterday,” he answered, lifting his chin in challenge. Beneath his gaze, the servant quailed and shrunk back, sensing the fire creeping just under the dark-haired male’s skin, hiding like a torch burning behind the green pigment of his eyes. “And I seek words with her father at his convenience, if you would be so kind as to inform him of my desire.”

“And who shall I tell him has called?” the servant asked, slightly wide-eyed and cowed at the overwhelming presence occupying the hall.

“Prince Morifinwë Fëanárion of the House of Finwë,” he intoned with a tight-lipped smile, just pulling at the stern corners of his lips. Here, he made no quarter, allowing his intimidating height, the darkness of his angular features and the cruel chill of his eyes to send the now white-faced servant scrambling up the steps as though a rabid wolf nipped at his heels.

The sound of his footsteps pounding up the steps did nothing to hide the gasps from the top of the stairway. There were a number of women peering down at him, though none of them the one he sought even if some features were shared. Their attempts to look unruffled by his announcement—indeed, they were trying for that look of nonchalance or tranquility that often he associated with those of a spiritually-inclined nature, unmoved by the trivialities of the real world—were ruined by the way their eyes showed white about the iris and the way their lips parted in surprise before closing into tight little lines.

One of them slipped away, and he could distantly hear Eruanna’s name being called. He could not deny the way his heart leapt with eagerness to look upon her lovely face, though he did his best to stifle his helpless smile when under the scrutiny of so many foreign eyes.

Even maintaining his façade of distant and unmoved royalty could hardly make him contain the soft curling of the corners of his lips, the faint softening of his harsh brows, when quick steps neared, the sound of running echoing down through the foyer. At the railing, she appeared, all dressed in silvery white and pale pink, looking as a lady of her birthright ought except for the radiance of her wide smile.

“Carnistir,” she gasped out, swiftly descending the stairs. As soon as they were near enough to touch, she grasped at the velvety sleeve of his robe, lifted his hand to press her lips upon knuckles that were marred with the marks of many battles and training mishaps, scarred and rough-skinned. “I know you said you would come, but I almost did not believe…”

“Men of the House of Fëanáro keep their word to their last breath,” he murmured, sounding nearly breathless even to his own ears. “I said I would be back until you banish me from your sight, and I stand by that promise.”

He kissed her knuckles in return.

Even the murmuring from the audience above could not dampen the mood that came upon him, light and golden and sweet as the scent of the loveliest blossom or the taste of honey upon the tongue. Not when she blushed so vividly at his words, bosom rising and falling with a deep breath. Nervous she looked, but also joyous, and that, more than anything, gave him the strength of will to resist the urge to turn on his heel and flee.

Glancing up at the women leaning over the railing, he raised an eyebrow. “Your sisters?” he asked quietly.

She followed his gaze, and something in her expression faltered for but a moment before she spoke. “Yes. Ankalimë and Tindómiel by birth, Vanessë and Laurelótë by marriage. I have two older sisters and two older brothers.”

It was upon the tip of his tongue to ask if her siblings and their spouses all made their home here, in this small palace of a household, for he might very well end up here if they were ever to marry were that the case. Glancing about at the ostentatious displays of luxury riddled with rather blatant religious imagery, homage to the Valar, he thought that there were worse fates. Better, he might imagine, for one not so pious, but worse as well.

But that was why he had come. To ask for permission to court. To learn if he was willing to surrender himself to a potential fate amongst the Vanyar for a woman. To learn more about the smiling girl who made his heart stutter with affection and his gut churn with nervous excitement at her coming.

“You will have to explain more later,” he said quietly as approaching footsteps, quick and heavy upon the floor, approached as an oncoming storm rides down from the mountains. At the railing directly overlooking the foyer appeared her father, dressed in the deepest shade of blue overlaid with white, brow crowned in silver and sapphire.

He took one look at Morifinwë, who, ignoring the way his body pulsed with dread and no small amount of terror, stared directly into his eyes in return, and his face paled to a shade that might make milk jealous. The fourth son took a fortifying breath, shoving down his fear. He had grown up facing the visage of Fëanáro every day of his boyhood, had walked into the unknown darkness of the Hither Lands seeking war, had haunted countless battlefields as a spear-wielding wraith and had marched to his death without so much as a flinch! He could bloody well face down one pompous Vanyarin nobleman!

“My Lord,” he greeted with the stiff inclination of his head. “The House of Meneldëa has shown a generous welcome to a weary traveler.”

“Prince Morifinwë,” the man countered, recovering just enough composure that he did not look ready to fall over backwards should the infamous Kinslayer take a forward step. “My servants have told me that you seek an audience.”

“One might call it that,” he agreed, casting a swift glance upon Eruanna. “Does the Lord of this House have time to speak with a lowly Prince of the House of Finwë?”

The golden-haired lord swallowed thickly. “Come, join me, honored guest,” he finally said, though it appeared as though the words tasted sour on his tongue for the expression he made whilst speaking them politely if coldly. “I would gladly speak with such an esteemed visitor.”

_Well, at least he is not rude to guests in his own home, no matter how much he might dislike them on principle._

Turning to Eruanna, he offered her another smile and a brush of his lips across her knuckles. “My lady, I shall return shortly. Forgive my inattentiveness.”

She scarcely seemed able to breathe as he left her and made to ascend the staircase. Setting his foot upon the first step, he steeled himself against the wobble in his knees and the twisted knot of his lead-weighted stomach. So far as his audience knew, he was as unmoved by the approaching doom as a pillar forged from the toughest stone.

But he felt it in his bones. That a turning point approached. One always felt such things, like a cold hand reaching out to brush across the spirit.

He felt it before the Oath, and again before the Nirnaeth Arnoediad, and again before the Kinslaying at Doriath. All the most terrible, gut-wrenching moments of his existence had carried this weight, tugging and pulling at his spirit as if meaning to tear it apart.

_If I am going to walk to my doom again, I may as well be dignified whilst I do so._

He joined his might-be father-in-law at the top of the steps and followed the man silently down the hallways lit with white, glowing lanterns and tapestries wild with the wheeling of the starry skies. Dizzy though they left his mind, he did not falter.

When Eruanna’s father opened the door, Morifinwë bowed his head and slipped inside first. Listened as it closed behind him with all the oppressive solemnity of a deep bell of mourning ringing across open plains. Blank-faced, he waited for his host to circle the desk and sit before he dared to even touch the available chair.

And then he seated himself, face impassive and chin raised. And he met those eyes without so much as flinching.

And he could see that they were cracked with icy lines of fear.

\---

“Are you _mad,_ nésa?”

The night before, Ankalimë had looked out from the windows and seen her youngest sister upon the steps of the house with a man, his lips upon her knuckles, his dark hair worn like a curse made of shadow wreathed about his head. Beautiful in face and form had he been, tall and fit with glowing eyes that shattered the night.

She had seen that he held her sister in high regard. For all that his face was a cruel one, unyielding and made of stone as were the features of most of those born of Noldorin blood, its lines had softened beneath the tender strokes of Eruanna’s being, her soft voice gentling a spirit that burned with its brightness and sliced white-hot against all those who drew too close to its danger and fury. When he touched her, his hands—scarred from the craft of war and violence, bearing the strength needed to maim and kill with frightening ease—had brushed against her skin as one traced the contours of delicate glass. As though he feared to break her should he measure the softness of her cheek or shatter her should he do more than breathe a kiss upon her hand.

Last night, though, he had looked as one of the common folk, dressed as a mere countryman rather than a nobleman. Rather than a Prince of the House of Finwë.

It was shocking to realize that the man was no mere noldo. Not even a mere Exile. Not even a mere _Prince._ Yesterday, she had looked upon him and seen a man stern of heart who had seen much suffering but took rest and respite in the light and resplendent presence of her sister’s innocent attentions.

Now she knew what darkness shrouded his spirit. And it made her heart sick.

The hands that even now cradled her sister’s, that raised and held the curled hands up to the dark being’s deceptively lovely mouth, were stained in the blood of kin. Invisible though it might be, for blood could be washed away, the stain it left upon the spirit was there. Even now, she could sense it as she reached out. For all that his spirit was so bright it was painful to brush against, blinding to look upon, it was not a welcoming brightness, nor cool to the touch like the stars and the love of their Queen. It burned her, lashing out at her touch.

If his eyes flickered towards her for but a moment, she must have imagined it. As he walked up the stairs to join her father, he did not so much as glance her way again.

As soon as he was gone, the words left her lips.

Blankly did Eruanna gaze up at her, blinking with surprise, as if she had passed from some daydream into a half-forgotten reality. “Ankalimë?”

Quickly did she descend the steps only to grasp at her youngest sister’s shoulders with clawed fingertips, her nails digging in slightly. “When you brought a suitor to our doorstep, I thought he was merely an unsuitable man of the Noldor, perhaps even one of common birth. Instead, you bring home a Prince drenched in Telerin blood. In _sin_ and _death.”_

“You have not spoken even a word to him,” her sister countered, taking a step back with a great look of offense on behalf of her suitor. “All you know of him is his name!”

“That is all anyone _need_ know of him!” she gasped out, more horrified than she could describe that Eruanna had even spent more than a few moments in the presence of such a person. For that alone, she ought to be cleansed with moon-bathed water and stood awash in the purifying smoke of frankincense and burning white sage for a full night!

“Is it?” her sister countered.

“Even if I did not object to such a man on principle,” Ankalimë spoke, “Can you imagine what the people of court would say? The House of Meneldëa, sullying itself by allowing itself to be tied with the foul and bloody House of Fëanáro? What possessed you to even allow him entrance into this house? All this ceremony and fuss for the sake of a courtship that died before it was ever born! What possessed you, Eruanna?”

“I judged him by his heart and his actions and his words towards me rather than deeds attested to his family and his father in word of mouth and song!” she nearly shouted, unwilling to see any reason now that her mind was set.

Ankalimë shuddered, wondering if the Kinslayer had put her sister under a spell of some evil design, for Eruanna was undoubtedly smitten. Yet, reaching out, she sensed nothing. No net of enchantment blinding her younger sister’s eyes to such folly. No insidious mass of black magic creeping in and seeding itself like a vile poison in her spirit. No trickery layered upon her mind that might confuse and entangle her thoughts and lead her astray into madness or reverie beyond the reality of the world.

To her eyes, even as wise as they could be, as far-reaching into the realm of spirits, nothing appeared to be wrong at all. Eruanna was untouched by evil.

_How? How can this be?_

Just as confused and just as wrought with worry, her other sisters whispered furiously. Her eyes met those of Tindómiel, who was pale of face. At her back lingered Laurelótë, who kept one arm about poor shivering Vanessë. The last of their sisters, their brother’s young wife, fearfully cradled her unborn child, and all color was drained from her face. Such shock and melodrama would do nothing for her health and peace of mind, nor the health of her baby.

As if sensing her concern, Eruanna shook her head. “For all that you fear him, Carnistir would never harm a woman or a child,” the youngest sister insisted. “There is no need to fear his presence in the house. He drags not a curse with him or any such nonsense.”

Admittedly, Ankalimë had sensed nothing particularly malicious about his presence when he had entered. Much as she disliked the admission, there was no evidence that he carried some evil spirit or thought into their domain with the intent to harm the residents therein. Perhaps somewhat horrifyingly (if for the deceptiveness of its presentation) he genuinely seemed enamored with Eruanna and sought nothing else from their kin nor meant any harm.

But what Kinslayer could be anything but a dangerous and cruel man?

“What did you think would come of this?” she asked tiredly. “Eruanna, Atar will never allow this. Not for all the begging in the world!”

“I had to give him the chance to ask,” her sister whispered. “He said he would not leave unless I bid him to go, and I asked him to stay. So, he seeks approval for courtship rather than to sneak about in secret.”

“I suppose he has that much honor at least,” the eldest sister snapped sourly, half wishing to shake her younger sibling and half wishing she could go back abed with her husband and pretend that this was all some sort of twisted early morning nightmare. “Why did you not simply just bid him go? Why put him and yourself through the misery of being denied?”

“I do not want him to go,” was the simple answer.

Sighing, looking towards the heavens, Ankalimë wished she could go up to the tower and entreat to the stars for guidance in this matter. Swiftly, before the very hour was out, her youngest sister was going to be stricken with heartbreak and sorrow, and no small amount of resentment besides that, if she was reading correctly the stubborn light in those evening-sky eyes. Eruanna was determined to see this through, and she would look upon them all with disdain for denying her, for judging her suitor unworthy based upon his name alone.

But, truly, what other option was there to be had? She could not give her sister false hope for a pleasant ending when there was, indeed, no hope of one. She _would not._

Instead, she shook her head and looked away. “I suppose there is nothing to do but wait now upon Atar’s judgment, though we all know it will not be kind.”

“Indeed,” Eruanna agreed, face set and solemn. “Let us wait.”

And Ankalimë knew any further argument would yield no result. So, she did not bother to speak again.

\---

“I should have you cast out of this city,” the Lord of the House of Meneldëa spoke, voice no longer trembling now that he had had his long moments of respite from Morifinwë’s stare and the shock of his unannounced presence. “You do not belong here, Kinslayer.”

Far too late to be surrendering, Morifinwë instead pressed forward. “I do not belong anywhere,” he answered, voice devoid of shame. “I am a Prince in name alone and have nothing to offer. I am here only because your daughter asked me to return, and I gave her my word, but with the stipulation that I would not sneak about behind the backs of her kin. As if I could, what with how conspicuous one of my bloodline appears in a city full populated by the Vanyar.”

“Then why even bother?” the man asked, managing to contain the disgust in his eyes, to keep it from seeping into his voice and leaving it venomous.

“I already said, your daughter asked it of me. And I had not the heart to deny her.”

“The heart,” the other scoffed. “You have no heart. For all that your spirit is hot to the touch and burns like a star encased in flesh, you are still stricken with the taint of your sin. Nothing so pure and untouchable as a star. Nothing so beautiful or so holy.”

“If you say I have no heart, that Kinslayers do not feel love, you greatly misunderstand how the misfortune of our people came about.” Morifinwë could scarcely help but smile derisively at that, for it had been nothing _but_ love—a harsh, jealous, possessive love—that had destroyed their family, riddled it with rotting holes that they tried to patch up with grief and with salvation and with other unspeakable deeds.

“And, yet, you would subject that purported love upon my daughter?”

Morifinwë bared his teeth at that, feeling that hated, awful, addictive shudder of power down his spine when the older man winced back from the look upon his face. “I would not do anything to harm her, no matter what you say or do, no matter how much I might dislike you or you hate me and mine in return.”

Pale and shaking a bit in his fingers, Eruanna’s father seemed to at least accept this much. “What I said stands. I ought to have you thrown from this city. Tainted, sinful, stained, you bring shadow upon us all. You deserve nothing but my disdain, and you have no right to be here, let alone to ask for courtship of any woman of the Vanyar no matter how mighty or lowly her family might be.”

“You have not the power to cast me out,” Morifinwë countered. “Disciple of Manwë you might be, but King you are not.”

“And were he to cast you out—the King—would you go?” Intensely did the man look upon the Fëanárion, almost desperately, and Morifinwë took a moment to wonder why the man had not simply said “no” to the courtship and sent him on his way, to wonder what was staying the man’s hand in his favor. “Or, should I simply ask you to go, and you would honor my wishes regardless of what my daughter wants or seeks from you?”

“I do not answer to you,” he said simply. “My kin have defied Kings, including our own. We have defied the Valar themselves. No matter what you or anyone else says, I will not stop seeking your daughter until she asks for me, of her own free will, to depart and never come back to her. But…” He hesitated. “I will not enter Valmar if the King banishes me from its borders. I have no wish to be imprisoned.”

“Without access to the city, you have no access to my daughter. I can keep her here until she is ordained and married, far beyond your reach.” As much as Morifinwë’s chest ached to hear it, he knew it to be true and nodded along with the words, keeping his features impassive for all that his spirit writhed in the anticipation of sorrow. Not only his, but hers as well. “You have given me no other choice but to take that course. To ask my friend, the High King of the Eldar, Ingwë Ingweron, to judge you unworthy and send you forthwith from the city.”

_No other choice? Why not simply reject my suit?_

But he was hardly going to look a gift horse in the mouth. If the Lord of Meneldëa would prefer not to dirty his own hands with this business, it made little difference. The ending, to Morifinwë’s dismay but not surprise, would be the same either way.

“Then do so,” he answered. “But know that it will bring your daughter’s heart nothing but dread and sorrow in the doing.”

The man met his eyes for but a moment. Even the older elf could not hold his gaze for long, not when the full force of his spirit was burning just behind his eyes. Indeed, it was quaking with the oncoming nerves and fear, just as his mind quailed to know that Eruanna would be brought sadness, alone and without comfort, by his deeds. If he were sent away in banishment, he would have no way to even contact her, for all methods required compliance of a willing accomplice, unless he risked the consequences of sneaking into the city of the Vanyar without permission. He would dare not try to contact her directly, aware that his words and messages could be tampered with or censored. In fact, her father could prevent all missives from reaching her eyes, all gifts from reaching her hands. He could keep her here, locked away, and give her to another man in marriage, as was his right as her father.

And there would be nothing Morifinwë could do about it.

_You knew this might happen. You knew, and you promised to come here anyway. Deal with the consequences of your actions._

Unafraid, he stared straight at that face. He wondered if the man realized how much hatred could be bred in the heart of a son or daughter when they felt betrayed by their own parent, when they felt as though they were unloved and little in the estimation of those who should love them the most.

He wondered if this man realized how much Eruanna might come to despise him for trying to cage her like a pet songbird. That was, if she already did not for being forced down the path of her family, as she had hinted with the softest undertone to her otherwise cheerful and reverent words of worship towards Varda.

But, for now, it was out of his hands. No words could he speak that her father would heed.

For reasons he barely comprehended, that lessened his fear and the disappointment of imminent failure. Accepting whatever fate might come gave him no hope, and he dared reach for none knowing what a double-edged blade it could be if mishandled, but it did give him peace of mind. He had kept his word to the best of his ability, and so he had kept his honor by the rules of his House. If it were not enough, as it so often had not been in the past, then that was the unfairness of the world. He would still try, even if it ended in failure.

“I will speak to the High King,” the Lord of the House of Meneldëa said, lips pursed and jaw set. “Until then, you shall stay here, where eyes can watch your movements.”

Morifinwë offered a small bow of his head. “As you wish.”

Standing in a flourish of robes, the Lord of the House departed, and Morifinwë followed on quiet feet, mood somber, wondering if that meant he was going to be kept locked in a room until he was to be judged. But, rather than be led to a room and locked inside, they backtracked and found the women gathered at the base of the stairs, five golden heads that all turned and looked up to stare when they reappeared. 

“Ankalimë,” Eruanna’s father snapped, “A word, daughter.”

Cool-eyed and straight-backed, the woman who approached reminded Morifinwë of both Queen Indis and her daughter Findis. Rigid and distant, looking upon him with disdain visible beneath a sheet of biting ice. “Atar, what need have you of me?”

“Take this man to your sister, Eruanna, and keep an eye on them both.”

There was a flicker of light—surprise—that broke through her icy shields. “Atar?”

“I have a meeting to attend to, and I cannot watch them myself. Until I return, neither of them is to leave your sight,” he ordered.

For a moment, Morifinwë wondered if she might argue or question. Certainly, most of his female cousins would have questioned, stubbornly seeking information. He could not imagine proud Írissë or independent Artanis bowing their heads like this woman did in acceptance of snapped and brisk orders without explanation or information.

Yet, that was what this woman—Ankalimë, Eruanna’s sister—did. Accepted the order without questioning. “Of course, Atar. We will await your return.”

Without further acknowledgment, the man disappeared.

Which left Morifinwë with the women as he was led to the bottom of the stairs. He looked at each in turn, taking in the wary, shielded faces and the wide, fearful or chilly eyes of each. At least until he met Eruanna’s, glowing with surprise. He raised a brow. “I suppose, my lady, you have me all to yourself for now.”

“What happened?” she asked immediately, threading her arm through one of his.

Mindful of their audience—indeed, not one but _all_ the sisters deigned follow as Eruanna led him away. “I made it clear that disapproval was in no way a personal deterrent for a man of my background. He seeks to use his political clout to have me banished from Valmar to prevent me from having access to you. He is well aware of how it would make things significantly more _difficult_ should I be unable to set foot here and should you be unable to leave.”

She went a little pale in the face, her eyes averted. “This was a horrible idea. I should not have asked you here today. By the Valar, if you are outright banished—”

Her voice dropped into silence. Both knew that their chances of successfully contacting one another—not even thinking of outright courting subversively—were slimmed down to nothing. At least, not without drastic action on the parts of one party or another. Him breaking the law to seek her out, or her disobeying her father and family to seek him. Not an ideal situation at all, indeed, and he had been hoping for better. The smile he offered her was clipped, tinted with his disappointment.

“Well,” she said then, “You are not banished yet. Not until the High King has made it so! There is still a possibility that things will play out in our favor.”

He sincerely doubted that. “Eruanna, my family is _hated._ Almost universally.”

“The High King is wise, and he does not judge by hearsay,” she insisted, perhaps naively, though he said not that much to her face. “I saw more than a killer within a few minutes of meeting you. Someone so ancient and wise would also see that there is more. You should have more faith in yourself and in the rightness of the universe.”

It was upon the tip of his tongue to tear into the word _faith._ He hated it almost as much as _hope._ But he was not a cruel being. Not like Curufinwë, who would have delighted in disillusioning her, of speaking of all the times when good and righteous people suffered tragedy and destruction unfairly and undeservedly. It this instance, there was no point in hurting her heart with words, for it would be hurt later by deeds and he did not want to be the harbinger. Morifinwë had allowed himself the tiniest bit of optimism on the misadventure, and he was going to pay for it dearly, so he might as well make the most of the little time he had with her before life reared its ugly head upon them and crushed her _faith._

“For the time being,” he said, “Let us talk of lighter things. Have you broken fast yet?”

“I ate early,” she admitted, her smile losing some of its waxiness as it was no longer forced so tightly. “I was so excited and nervous, I barely slept.”

 _Me, too,_ he wanted to say. But it was one thing to admit such weakness to Eruanna and another to admit it before an audience of all her female relatives. Instead, he grasped her hand and squeezed, and he wondered if it showed in his eyes when their gazes met.

“How about we go to the gardens, then?” he asked. “You must have some here.”

Eru, how pretty she was when her cheeks flushed that soft pink color! And damn his own for echoing but in their ugly, vivid shade of red! Still, she seemed more pleased than anything, gaining a little bit of a skip to her step. “Our gardens are not nearly so exotic as the greenhouses, but I can still show you around if you like!”

Honestly, he cared little what they did and much more about the fact that it was _his_ suggestion which made her smile like _that,_ losing the last bit of her anxiety. He quickened his steps, allowing her to pull him along by their clasped hands.

She was right in that these gardens were not so unique as those she tended in the grand greenhouses with the towering glass ceilings. The gardens here were meticulously kept, gardeners wandering about tending to all the flowers, looking up with wide eyes and briskly skip-hopping to disappear from sight the moment they were within range. Meant to do the care and keeping but not be seen by the guests and ruin the illusion that the gardens kept themselves looking so vibrant with many-colored flowers.

“Atar would never let me tend to our own gardens,” she explained quietly when he sent her a questioning look. He guessed then that, in these gardens at least, there would be no sitting in the soil and drinking straight from the small stream murmuring its way along. “I can still tell you about all the flowers, though!”

He glanced back at their followers. None looked all that pleased with the idea of chasing them all over the gardens, and he took pity on them. Was there a point to making Eruanna’s family dislike him even more than already they did?

“Mayhap we should find somewhere shady to sit instead,” he soothed. “Your sisters are looking tired, and I could use a sit down while I wait.”

It was a lie, but she still acquiesced with a sigh, likely sensing that it was more for the benefit of appearing proper in the eyes of her family than anything else. Even then, it took them a good five minutes of traversing the lush gardens (and he did nothing to quell Eruanna from speaking about and to every flower they met along the way) before they wandered into a gazebo lined with roses. At first, he leaned back from the encroaching, thorny plants, but quickly realized that they had been shorn of their thorns.

Eruanna’s lips pursed slightly as she ran her fingers down one smooth stem, brushing across the few leaves and cupping the bloom in her palm. “The gardeners trim the thorns,” she explained, “To avoid injuring those who would seek to appreciate the flowers too closely.”

“They are still lovely.” _Not half so lovely as you._

“They are,” she agreed, carefully breaking off a single bloom and holding it in her hand. It was large, blushing pink of the same shade as her lips he noted, feeling the burning drip of sweat and something heated down his spine, and she held it tenderly in the cup of her joined palms. It filled up the makeshift chalice completely, and even from here he could breathe in its perfume. “These flowers were cross-bred to live happily in sunny, open gardens and bloom constantly. Of course, they were also created for the sake of their color and their scent.”

She held the flower up in offering. Even Morifinwë, who was not a man who spent much time partaking in or enjoying the finer arts, had been force-fed enough poetry and heard enough illicit songs to feel like he was being offered something _very_ forbidden. And to know by the dewy look in her eyes that she was doing it entirely on purpose.

The rose was pink, at least, so he could not compare its shade to his own face. But, if it had been a red rose, he was sure his cheeks would have outdone its color.

Carefully, he took her hands within his own and lifted the blossom up to his nose, breathing deeply of its sweetness. The petals were so soft as they brushed his mouth and that sensitive spot between his upper lip and nose, that he had nothing to compare them to, though he would have loved to compare them to her lips in truth. To see which was softer. Looking up to meet her eyes, he lowered their joined hands.

“It is lovely,” he said truthfully, though he may not have been speaking wholly of the flower but rather the way her face grew darker with her blush, the way her blue eyes darkened as her pupils dilated, the way her lips parted as if to speak but no words departed.

Gently, he plucked the flower from her hands. “Come closer.”

Wide-eyed, she let him draw her in, let him reach out to brush back the hair on the right side of her head. “May I?”

Slowly, she nodded. He made to tuck the bloom into her hair just behind her delicately-pointed ear, but her hand halted his gently, her fingers weaving through his own. “Wait, I… The other side. I want it on the other side.”

Confused but obliging, he let her shift, pulling her golden curls over her right shoulder to leave her left ear bared. Quietly, he wove the short, thorn-less stem into her hair with swift and sure movements, encasing it in a tiny braid that held it in place such that the vibrant pink flower faced outwards welcomingly. She shivered as his knuckles brushed against the shell of her ear with each new weave.

“I did not know you knew how to braid flowers into hair,” she murmured, “Or how to braid hair at all, for that matter.”

“Well, I learned not to specifically decorate hair with flowers,” he answered with a half-smile, pausing to stroke his fingers against the petals again, almost shivering at the rather explicit imagery that flashed behind his eyes when he did so and measured their softness and give. “No matter how many tapestries and paintings you might see of warriors in battle with loose and flowing hair, we do typically bind it back before rushing onto the battlefield, and quite tightly at that. No one wants their hair to be shorn accidently by a blade or to be used as a handhold by the enemy. Do not tell anyone I admitted this aloud, but my brothers and I used to practice on each other, for we had no reason to have learned such things as hair-braiding before Exile and no one to teach us when we had to learn out of practical necessity later. We all took turns. Except for Nelyafinwë, of course, who cannot braid hair for having a single hand and who just got to laugh at our attempts and failures.”

“I would never have even thought about it,” she admitted quietly, reaching up to trace at the tiny braids with her fingertips as he was working his way down behind her ear. “We have handmaidens to dress our hair, my sisters and I. Most of the more elaborate styles women wear at court are hours and hours of work of a servant and a great deal of time spent being bored and sitting very still.”

“Luckily, we men are not required to do anything so complicated.” He tied off the braid, tucking the end back into her curls. Leaning in, he breathed heavily of the scent of the bloom, and of the natural scent of her skin, just as sweet and tempting as the smell of any flower. “Satisfied, Lady Eruanna?”

“I am certain it is beautiful, Carnistir,” she answered, turning to look up at his face. And, had they been anywhere else, had her sisters not been clustered just a few yards away watching, he might have thought to kiss her on her lips then and there.

“You are,” he assured her, making due with kissing her hand instead.

She took a deep breath and looked away shyly. “Do you want to hear about the other flowers? Or maybe you can tell me if you have any gardens back home. You and your brothers live in the mountains, do you not?”

“There are flowers that take care of themselves well enough in the mountain meadows,” he said, laughing quietly, “But nothing so lovely as the gardens here. And we do not keep flowers, or not many. Istelindë keeps mostly herbs with medicinal uses or which can be used for cooking or burning at the hearth.”

“Meadows are perfectly lovely,” Eruanna countered, twining their hands. Even though they stayed far enough apart that they could not be accused of sitting indecently close (cuddling) beneath the shade of the gazebo, their hands rested entangled on the stone bench between them. “The gardens here are beautiful, but they are rather manicured and pruned. Nothing so untouched as the wildflowers in the meadows, or the strawberry plants and lilacs that grow wild at the edges of the forests, or the roses that would overrun the trellises and fences if they were not kept so tamed by the armies of gardeners that prowl the city.”

“You might like to see them then, the mountain meadows,” he suggested quietly, leaning his head back against a stone column.

“I think I would.” Slowly, she leaned in close, and he stiffened for a long moment as their shoulders brushed together, as she pressed her weight into his arm. They had not touched so intimately since he had lifted her up with one arm to salvage her slippers and save her feet from imminent harm. “Tell me about it instead.”

“I do not know any of the flower names,” he countered.

He looked down at her where she leaned her right temple against his shoulder, looked up with her bright blue eyes gleaming, the rose braided behind her left ear perfectly pink against the gold of her hair in the sun. “Tell me anyway.”

So, he did.

\---

They waited that morning, and most of the afternoon, outside in the gardens and away from the ugly reality of their situation. Eruanna napped against his shoulder and arm while he lay still with his eyes closed, feeling her nearby warmth and weight against him, and then they had tea brought to the table and ate the midday meal together, talked about importantly unimportant things and enjoyed the sounds of the gardens and the songbirds in their silences.

Oddly enough, for a woman of the House of Meneldëa, there were so very few mentions of the stars and their beauty. The one time he brought up their brightness, she quailed.

 _Another conversation for another time and place._ He had looked at their watchers, who had begun to take shifts chaperoning the couple. As he turned to look, he met a gaze the same shade as Eruanna’s, but upon a man’s face, blank of judgment. _Another conversation for when we do not have listeners who may not be receptive towards such secrets._

Now, the sun was getting low in the sky as the afternoon slowly faded to evening, and Morifinwë was beginning to wonder if he would be imprisoned here tonight after all, like a criminal awaiting sentencing.

But then, just as Eruanna was drifting off into sleep again, her father came to them.

“Wake up,” he whispered against her ear, bumping their shoulders gently. “Your father has returned, Eruanna.”

Her eyes fluttered open.

They moved apart enough to be proper, though Morifinwë was certain their closeness had been glimpsed and reported already to the ears of Eruanna’s father. Both turned to look as the older male approached, as he entered their small sanctuary.

“Prince Morifinwë,” he greeted coldly. “Come. As promised, we have an audience.”

Silently, he inclined his head and stood, only to find that Eruanna clung to his hand. He looked over at her, and his features softened helplessly at the sight of the reemergence of distress in her blue gaze, in the crumple of her dark blond brow and the worry of her teeth upon her lip. “I do believe that was a summons, my lady.”

“I want to come with,” she said.

“Absolutely not,” her father snapped, looking away from their hands. “You will wait here with your sisters.”

 _Not her mother?_ He had not yet seen hide nor hair of Eruanna’s presumed mother.

_Not the time to ask, perhaps, though._

“No, I…” Her voice faltered, and she looked almost desperately to Morifinwë, as if for help. “Please, I do not want to wait here. I want to be there.”

“And I made my decision,” her father countered, unconvinced by her pleading. “You will wait here, and I will bring you news. This is not a frivolous social gathering to which I should bring empty-minded girls who cannot seem to understand the weight of their associations. This is an audience with the High King.”

“It will be fine,” Morifinwë added, knowing that might be a lie but also knowing that, by the traditions and laws of the Vanyar, Eruanna really had no place arguing against her father, who would not change his mind. “Wait here.”

She shook her head. “What if this is it?”

“It is not.” He kissed her knuckles and squeezed her hand between both of his. “I will be back. Have a little faith.”

Finally, her hand uncurled from about his. And he felt bereft without its warmth.

“I will be back.”

He had promised. And a Fëanárion did not break his promises.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:
> 
> nésa (Q) = sister  
> noldo (Q) = Noldorin elf  
> Eldar (Q, p) = high-elves  
> Atar (Q) = Father


	37. Dark Water, Mirror Into Starlight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Judgment is passed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: politics, gemstone porn, memories of semi-explicit (to explicit) violence, mercy-killing, abusive behavior (from a parent towards their children), non-explicit vomiting, suicidal ideation, suicide, mentions of enchantments (glamors), dead bodies, blood imagery, flower language, very vague allusions to oral sex, background politics of religion
> 
> As you can see from this long list of things, this chapter has some iffy stuff in it. Most of the nastiness is pretty much all in the long italicized flashback scenes. Otherwise, some relief for the cliffhanger I left you guys with last time.
> 
> One last thing. I made up a flower name here for the Jonquil (because I don't think it would make a whole lot of sense for the Vanyar to have named this specific type of daffodil after a random Spanish word). So, in case you wondered what that yellow flower is at the end of the chapter... that's what it is.
> 
> Maedhros = Maitimo = Nelyafinwë = Nelyo  
> Maglor = Makalaurë = Kanafinwë = Káno  
> Celegorm = Tyelkormo = Tyelko = Turkafinwë = Turko  
> Caranthir = Carnistir = Morifinwë = Moryo  
> Curufin = Atarinkë = Curufinwë = Curvo  
> Amrod = Ambarussa = Pityafinwë = Pityo  
> Amras = Umbarto = Telufinwë = Telvo  
> Fingolfin = Nolofinwë  
> Finarfin = Arafinwë  
> Turgon = Turukáno  
> Finrod = Artafindë

_Menelya, 47 Lairë (29 June)_

\---

“You should not give her false hope.”

They were far now from Eruanna, and Morifinwë was alone and without allies in the Court of Valmar, feeling chilly, alone, and unpleasantly helpless. Her father, at his side, held just the faintest hint of unbearable smugness mixed with a level of condescension Morifinwë had not experienced since the long-lost days of the Trees.

From the rising feeling of hopelessness, he searched for a momentary distraction. And there should have been distractions aplenty in this place, for it was of the loveliest make and entirely unfamiliar to his eyes.

In the opulent halls of the High King of the Eldar, there were trees made from gold and silver, a towering likeness of sunny Laurelin on the King’s left side, the leaves formed of peridot set in trim of gold, dappled with blossoms of citrine and topaz, and an equally spectacular likeness of Telperion on the other, emerald leaves plated with the same silver that formed the boughs, its blooms dripping with adamant and moonstone. They shone and glimmered almost blindingly in the late evening light spilling through the fantastically large windows of frosted glass and reflected the white light of glowing stones set in lanterns all along the walls and hanging from the ceiling as floating little stars.

Where the Two Trees of silver and gold reached overhead, branched up to form a bridge above the throne of the High King, they seemed to mingle and curl together into one. It was, in many ways, like looking at something straight out of the long-lost depths of the past, a phantom of younger years of the world every bit as resplendent as the most opulent finery and design of the Court of Tirion.

Perhaps that should have helped to calm Morifinwë’s spirit, to set him to rights as his feet echoed sharply upon the intricately tiled floors, but he still felt a little sick to his stomach. Not that anyone would have guessed by looking upon his face, for it was a dark cloud to combat the light that seemed to glow down in beams from the spectacle of a throne.

Of course, the eyes of court followed him as he entered, all tall and dark and cloaked in dark green and gray rather than their softer, paler array of cheerful and bright colors. Morifinwë hated that his heart raced as he began the long path across that hall, glancing up at the ceiling that seemed leagues away, painted in blue and cloud. Would that he could so easily forget the sea of parting courtiers watching like vultures watch a dying beast in wait for the feast.

And then he looked at the High King.

Never had he interacted directly with Ingwë, who was apparently enough of a friend of Finwë to approve of the man’s marriage to a woman of his own bloodline, even if the marriage was an unprecedented second marriage that broke the traditions of the Eldar and went against the scriptures and laws as laid down by the Valar.

Looking into those eyes now made him shudder from head to toe.

He was almost thankful, then, for the distraction of the cruel words from the Lord of the House of Meneldëa. “What else should I tell her?” he asked.

“Once you are thrown from this city, you will not return, and she will not leave,” the man said matter-of-factly, voice carrying not a droplet of mercy. “You will not return. You should not have lied to her.”

“The Fëanárioni are many things, my lord,” he said quietly, hating the feeling of the eyes watching his every movement and the ears listening to his every uncensored and unplanned word, “But we are not liars.”

He received a warning look. Not one he took particularly seriously, though.

“If you seek to intimidate me, my lord, I would suggest something more than a tame warning glare,” he mocked quietly. “You have nothing on my father.”

“Your father indeed was something special.” The voice that interrupted was not unkind, but it captured attention, drew it and held it, almost forced eyes to scramble to seek out its owner and stay fixed. Not at all surprised was Morifinwë to find that the one who had spoken was the High King, standing now from his terrifying throne. Up close, he was tall, meeting Morifinwë for height just barely. A feat, for the only person he knew to have greater height than his own was Nelyafinwë. “As are each one of his sons. Never before have we been introduced, Morifinwë Fëanárion.”

At the announcement of his name, the murmurs fell silent. Many eyes were wide and bright with fear, realizing who—and _what_ —stood in their midst. Those who lingered too close were quick to clear themselves from his space as he approached the throne and bowed.

“It is an honor, your Majesty,” he greeted, heart still drumming, hands deliberately limp and uncurled to avoid reaching for his sleeves to twist his nervousness away.

“Come closer,” the High King bade him. “Tell me how you came to be here, in my halls. I have heard tell of it from the lips of my councilor, but I would rather wish to hear it from the perspective of both sides.”

Carefully, Morifinwë approached, like one who might be approaching a rabid dog rather than a sophisticated and civilized regent. “Where shall I start?”

The High King sat, motioned him close. “From the beginning, naturally. Tell me how you and the delightful young Eruanna met.”

“My King,” Eruanna’s father interrupted, “Is this truly—?”

“You asked me to judge a man,” Ingwë interrupted, not angrily but firmly. “I will do so as I see fit, meldo.”

There was a long moment of silence between the men and the eavesdropping courtiers. Then, when those blue eyes turned back upon Morifinwë and sent his breath rushing from his lungs and his limbs faintly trembling, he knew it was his turn to speak. “I met Eruanna on Midsummer night, your Majesty. Accidently.”

There was little need to hide anything about what happened, for none of it had been of a questionable nature, except, perhaps, the picking her up around her thighs and carrying her about part. Throughout their discussion, a chair was brought, and he sat at the High King’s side and spoke. About the rest of that night and the incident that had ended it. About meeting again just yesterday. About the green dress and the greenhouses. About the promises he made and intended to keep. About sitting in the gardens and about braiding Eruanna’s hair.

He left out the part about the rose. Though, by the odd little quirk of a smile that might have alighted the High King’s mouth, he wondered if the ancient elf had not read the thoughts straight from his mind. And that, if nothing else, had his face flushing with vermillion color.

“There is no need to be embarrassed,” the old being crooned. “Being young and falling in love are perfectly normal and natural happenings. In fact, I should think you have waited rather longer than most.”

Eruanna’s father made a slightly choked noise at that.

“Your Majesty, I must insist. We are not here about some silly courting gestures. We are here because this man is a slayer of kin, a monster wearing unassuming flesh to mask his true nature. He has committed a great sin against the people of Valinórë, against the sanctity of life, against the will of the Valar. He does not belong here, playing at courting and pleasantries with a daughter of the Vanyar.”

“Shall we talk about that, then?” Ingwë asked calmly. More calmly than Morifinwë felt even _thinking_ about the Kinslayings. About the night on the docks of Alqualondë that he wanted desperately to forget. About the night of walking mindlessly, spirit raw and shivering, over blood-slicked bodies to his death in Menegroth. The mere mention of it had the blood draining from his features. No more flush was he wearing upon his cheeks, he supposed, but he doubted that the subject matter had done anything to quell the way his eyes gleamed and burned at the memories swimming up to the surface of his thoughts like dark, twisted demons out of the deepest abyss of the coldest ocean.

He looked over into Ingwë Ingweron’s eyes and fell through the dark water-mirror of their surface. Into starlight.

“Shall we talk about Alqualondë first?” the man asked, and Morifinwë felt as though his spirit had been caught aflame, that he might burn through his own skin and fall to ashes right there from shame and from terror.

“What do you want to know?” he said, relieved that his voice did not tremble.

“How many died upon your blade that night?” the High King asked, almost casually, as if they were not talking about gutting living beings. As if they were not talking about the screaming, the blood, the stink of excrement, the throbbing of his heartbeat flooding his ears, the long moments watching some of them die. Because it took longer than most people knew for a person to die just of blood loss. So long that it felt like an eternity.

“Eight,” he answered.

He remembered all of them. All their faces. Twisted in anger. Wracked with fear. Stricken with realization. Begging for mercy.

Looking into Ingwë’s eyes, he remembered.

_Remembered that it was dark and cold, and the only lights were the stars twinkling dimly above through a smugly haze and the torches carried by the men made of red and the lamps hanging white over the streets and docks like ghosts. Remembered that there was shouting, pushing and shoving, people falling into the water, and he could barely recognize faces because they looked wrong cast in red light and blotted out by smoke. Remembered hearing his father’s voice shouting above the rest, words half-heard. “Á mahta! Á mahta te! Á mapa i ciryar!” and the sound of screams and the scent of blood._

_He remembered chaos. The sounds of arrows in the air and the cutting of the swing of swords and the meaty sound of their bite into flesh and bone._

_He remembered being terrified._

_And he remembered his first kill._

_The man almost stumbled into him, shoved through the crowd, so very obviously not one of his people for his lack of shining armor and his humble hunting bow. All Morifinwë knew was that the man raised his bow aloft, and it looked like it was aimed at Nelyafinwë’s back, and, in that frozen moment of time, he felt panic and rage and peril. Never had he used his sword on another person who did not have a sword as well, who was not sparring with him in return, but he did not hesitate._

_He aimed for the hands first. Hit his mark, saw blood, heard screaming. Then aimed for the throat. And there was no more screaming. Just blood. Everywhere, blood._

_There had been no time to think things through. No time to contemplate if this course of action was wise. He knew not how the fight started, who drew blade or bow and used it first to strike a blow. All he knew was that someone had aimed an arrow at his brother’s back, and he had killed that person before they could strike._

_Their eyes were so full of fear as their gazes met, as he knelt beside their body and shook with a sudden feeling of sickness, his sword slicked with their blood. It was sticky on his hand as his fingers trailed through the growing pool that spread out on the cobblestones._

_And then, from out of the darkness, a hand was on the back of his neck, gripping his hair, pulling harshly. “Get up! Up! Morifinwë!” Above him, his father’s eyes glowed like a thousand coalesced stars._

_He scrambled to his feet. He almost slipped in the blood. His head spun with sickness._

_Off to the left, he heard a cry and a gurgle, saw a dark-haired comrade stumble and fall to his knees, clutching at an arrow sticking out of his throat. Blood bubbled out from between his lips even as tears of agony spilled from his eyes. He was choking, unable to clear his airways, collapsing and coughing and drowning in his blood._

_Morifinwë pulled in close to his father and brothers. And there was no time any longer to feel sick at the feel of hot and thick liquid drying between his fingers or to acknowledge the acrid, disgusting smell rising over the water, the fume slashing through the cool, salty night air. Spilled, perforated entrails. Any hunter would recognize the mistake, cutting open something that ought to have been left untouched and removed in one piece._

_At that time, it did not matter who he had to kill or how. He was not going to be lying on the ground drowning in his own blood. Nor were his brothers._

_The second man, and the third, and the fourth, and the fifth, all killed as the brothers, led by their father, cut a swathe across the docks towards the ships. All of them jerked sharply, breathlessly, as he gutted them or stabbed their throats, no voice summoned to scream (if they could have spoken at all with, in some cases, ravaged vocal cords) until they were on the ground and Morifinwë was stepping over them without a further thought to their survival or their imminent deaths. All the while, Fëanáro was screaming orders at his men, who were scrambling to take the boats. Morifinwë barely heard and understood the words, for his heartbeat was loud and frantic at the base of his throat and at his temples._

_The sixth man had a spear. One meant for fishing, not one of the later ones that Morifinwë knew were designed to gut men. The pair were practically thrown together by the writhe of the panicking masses, grappling with one another, stumbling over a body. This victim was unlucky, tripping backwards and losing his hold on his weapon._

_Morifinwë stabbed, aiming best he could for the heart. At least this death, though no less painful, was relatively quick. The others might not even have died yet, might be lying on the cold, wet ground drowning or screaming for help through the crowd, or might have been trampled beneath unwary feet as people fled before the fiery eyes and blazing swords of the Noldor as they pillaged the docks._

_He sat panting where he straddled his victim’s chest, used his sword as leverage to hoist himself to his shaking knees, yanked the blade harshly to rip it from the ribcage below. The limp body shook with the violence of his movement, but the man was dead, and his stare was empty._

_The sound of horns stilled his heart for a moment. He turned his head towards the ridge to the west, where reinforcements would be coming down from Tirion. Nolofinwë and his people. Arafinwë and his people._

_And all he could remember was taking the One’s name in vain over and over as he watched it unfold before his eyes like a game of chess upon a giant, grassy board. The Teleri were closed in, herded down with Fëanáro’s folk on one side and reinforcements on the other, nowhere to run and nowhere to hide._

_Looking around, he spun in circles feeling like he was floating and falling simultaneously. In the time it had taken to kill his sixth victim, his brothers and father had vanished into the crowd. Disoriented, he trembled and shook, fingers curling around the hilt of his blade and pulling so tight that his bones ached because nothing else in this hellish world of blood and screams and black smoke was familiar. There was just blackness and the spinning of the cold, unfeeling stars overhead._

_“Nelyo?” His voice was hoarse. “Nelyo? Káno?”_

_It was the second oldest who appeared out of the darkness. “Moryo? Thank Eru!” Hands clutched at his shoulders, pulled at the fabric of his tunic and cloak, caught in his hair and pulled his head down to press their brows together._

_Blinking as he was yanked forward into an embrace, he had but the momentary comfort of no longer being alone and lost before he spotted something emerging from the darkness at his brother’s back. Wild-eyed, wounded, ripping a sword from a dead man’s hand and holding it aloft. He pushed Káno out of the way, took them both to the ground and rolled to his feet in a practiced, thoughtless motion._

_He did not have time to think of aiming. He rammed the sword into the oncoming enemy’s gut before the man could slice at his own throat, watched that face turn from mindless rage to terror and pain, pain, pain. The sword slipped from nerveless fingers, the hands moving to clutch at Morifinwë as they both collapsed onto the ground._

_His grip on his sword was so slicked with fluid now that he could not grasp it. Each time he tried to pull away it failed to come free of the mess of spilled entrails, and his unfortunate victim screamed and convulsed on the ground. Until, finally, he pulled free, rushing to get away, scrambling backwards into Kanafinwë, almost panicking except that he recognized those eyes, the voice crooning his name in order to calm his raging pulse, that very same cadence and rhythm that he helplessly associated with lullabies from distantly sweet nights of childhood innocence and bliss._

_“It is over,” his brother breathed. “It is over…”_

_Around them, the fighting was subsiding as suddenly as it had begun. There were just bodies. And blood. Men walking wide-eyed through the carnage with their swords pointing down, too shocked to speak to one another. Not like the remnants of battlefields that would come later, for then they would all have seen so much blood and death in later years that they would wander solemnly and not feel that stricken sort of numbness that now rested in each of their hearts, that left them holding their breaths and waiting for something to happen and break the stillness._

_The two brothers stood together, shaking. It was only the desire not to appear weak (like his father always named him, a spineless coward, most useless and worthless of the seven) that kept Morifinwë’s knees from crumbling. Now that the screaming and the battle-cries were done, there was nothing left but the moaning and sobbing of the dying and the mourning._

_Out of the shock, Fëanáro appeared. And, shamelessly, shamefully, Morifinwë clung to his father’s strength, to his unmoved visage, lips sneering in disdain as he stepped over bodies. No tremble shook the hands or knees of the King of the Noldor, nor did grief or shock dull the garish glow of his white-gray eyes._

_“Get those ships!” he ordered, voice booming so loudly that it might as well have been formed of thunder. He was paying not a bit of attention to the dying wails and groans all around him, for they were of so little concern in the grand scheme of his plans that he could not be bothered. His voice was sharper than any blade and cut through the listless wandering of his men like a whip, lashing them into action. “I want them manned and moved along the shore! Hurry! We have no time to waste standing about here!”_

_His eyes landed on the pair of his sons, and Morifinwë flinched back from the fey light therein. The look on his father’s face…_

_He had never seen Fëanáro look so wild before. So unkempt and ruffled. Even though his father had a temper that had left him meek and scared of the man all his life, it was a controlled sort of temper, groomed and sleek and filled with thoughtful malice and cleverness. This was… not._

_This was madness._

_“Yondonyar,” he greeted, and his smile could have cut diamond._

_“Atar,” they intoned together, both lowering their gazes in deference (and no small amount of fear, for Kanafinwë was trembling just as much as Morifinwë)._

_“Come along. We have work to do.” He turned to go, but the sound of another dying man’s thin screams cut through the night, just yards away. For a moment, Fëanáro’s eyes flickered towards the man, weakly writhing against the ground. “Morifinwë, take care of that noise first. Hurry! I do not like to be kept waiting.”_

_The brothers exchanged looks, both frozen. But their father was already walking away. “Kanafinwë, come!” he shouted over his shoulder, and the second brother scrambled to follow, shooting almost desperate backwards glances at the younger brother._

_Leaving Morifinwë alone. Shaking, wet with sweat and blood, his stomach churning. He looked over at the unfortunate man whose voice was now too weak to even moan._

_It was quick, at least. The man did not have to lie on the ground and die of a wound to the belly, leaking acid and filth out into his body cavities. Morifinwë made sure not to miss the carotid artery. He knelt in the gathering pool of hot blood as his victim died, movement slowly dying into stillness, eyes rolling up to meet his gaze as they grew dim._

_He wanted to apologize without really understanding why. By the time he thought he might be capable of summoning his voice, the man was long dead._

I should get up. I should return to my father and brothers. Get up!

 _He did get up. Stumbled over to the docks and vomited in the water of the bay. Felt the numb shock leave his body. And then came the horrified guilt, because this was_ not _what was supposed to happen. This was not something he had agreed to, not something he had intended, not something that he had wanted._

_Eight men. He had killed eight men with the sword now resting in his palm. Eight!_

_It was only that he might need it again later that kept him from throwing the blade straight into the bay and watching it glimmer in the torchlight as it sank to the bottom of the bloodstained water. That and the fury with which his father would look upon him if he crawled back like a pest begging for a new sword because he_ lost _the one he had been gifted. As if he needed to look any more pathetic than he probably already did, trembling and white-faced, walking on wobbly legs like a drunken man._

I killed them. _He stumbled past bodies. He recognized some of them._ I killed them.

_He found his brothers soon after, though it felt like an age had passed, that he had grown older and more disillusioned with its cruel ravages. Nelyafinwë embraced him, warm and strong, smelling of blood and cinnamon and smoke. But there was no comfort to be had where he had always found his brother’s arms to be a safe haven against the world and all in it that left his heart cleaved._

_“I am glad you are safe,” his older brother breathed. “All of us are safe.”_

_Morifinwë should have felt relieved. But he did not._

_“Now what?” he asked quietly._

_And his older brother kissed his brow, almost smothered him against a hard, flexing shoulder. “Atar will be back, and he will have orders for us. Until then, slow your breathing, little one. Slowly… in and out…”_

_Until then, he had not even realized he was hyperventilating._

_And he hated that, by the time he had slowed his breath, he was weeping. Sniveling like a child, like a craven worm. Humiliated but too weak to make it stop._

_“It is alright, little one…”_

_But it was not._

He did not explain any of it. Did not justify it. Did not say that he was following orders, that he was protecting his family, that he had been frightened. What did any of that really matter, at the end of the day? It did not negate his crimes.

Ingwë saw it all. Morifinwë could see it staring back at him, like a mirror. Stars reflected upon the water in the endless night.

The High King’s smile never even wavered. Morifinwë felt ill.

“And what about Menegroth?” he asked. “You died there, did you not? I know that you have a scar, but you keep it hidden with simple enchantment.”

“It is rather conspicuous,” he replied, trying to remain calm and unruffled by the questions, by the way the courtiers crept closer to listen, by the way their many shades of blue eyes were searching all over for this purported scar that he kept hidden.

_He went because Nelyafinwë asked (ordered) him, because his brothers were going, and he had nothing else in the world but for them. He went because of the Oath, because they had sworn to reclaim the Silmarilli, and, in the absence of ability to claim those still set in the crown of the Dark Lord, they sought the one that rested now in Doriath with those who had no claim upon it and should not have it._

_He went because he really had nowhere else to go and nothing else to do._

_Because he was a coward, he asked to lead the forces that came behind the main front. The men under his command would not scout forward, as did those of Turkafinwë, nor would they make up the bulk of this assault, as did those of Nelyafinwë and Curufinwë. Instead, they would stay behind and clean up any stragglers, escapees or defectors._

_The moment he stepped into the halls of Menegroth, beautiful for their adornment of the cave walls with ceiling-high tapestries (now streaked and stained forever in crimson) and richly-tiled floors (their lines now filled with pooled blood and less pleasant things) and jewel-encrusted carvings, were now little more than another hellish battlefield. Bodies everywhere. But worse than had been any battlefield of the north, for the bodies then had been of armed and armored men killed in combat. Worse than the docks of Alqualondë, for no women or children had been out on the streets that night, fighting for their lives and livelihoods._

_Here, none were spared._

_“Come along,” he had said coldly to his men, having already given them their orders. He split them, sent a few down each fork in the corridor to search for anyone who might still be alive. In a way, he was ordering mercy that his brothers (some of them, at least) did not approve of, for there were those amongst their number who had a very personal hatred for the people of Doriath and especially their King._

_Nothing about this was personal for Morifinwë._

_They heard fighting up ahead, catching up to the tail end of the main attacking force clearing out the city and ransacking it in search of the gem and any other useful treasures they might find. Morifinwë paid them little mind._

_Coming upon fighting, he felt more than saw some of his own men surge around him where he stood at the center of the hall, out in the open. Looking down, there were just more bodies. A couple curled together a few feet away, the man kicked aside to make way for the woman’s death. Two armed sentries a little farther along, one facedown and one faceup, divested of their weapons, bows snapped to pieces. A little further, a woman and a child. Quickly, he looked away. If he stared too long, he thought he might go lightheaded._

_“My Prince,” someone said at his shoulder, “Orders?”_

_“Keep to the rear of the forces and do not engage unless your life is threatened directly,” he tonelessly answered, eyes staring straight ahead without emotion, looking at nothing._

_The man bowed and backed away._

_With a sigh, Morifinwë moved forward. Just watching. By the time he passed as a ghost, none of the victims were alive to need his mercy. It was probably for the best that his men were more efficient than he in this manner. For all that he could clear a strip of land through a battlefield covered in orcs with ease, other elves, even men, were different. Difficult._

_Finally, he came upon an open hall just as decadent and laid with a throne of carven alabaster and obsidian stone. There was fighting at the other end. He should have been alarmed, but he could not muster the strength._

What am I doing here?

_“My Lord! My Lord, it is not safe!”_

_He did not even turn his head towards the voice, towards the poor loyal servant trying to protect his hapless master. What point was there?_

_Instead, he looked around with a sort of lazy disinterest, keeping his gaze above the level of scattered bodies. Met a pair of eyes glistening in the shadows like tiny, distant stars of twinkling red hatred. A better commander—or a man who still possessed a self-preservation instinct—would have shouted immediately that one of the enemy had escaped notice and should be slaughtered with all haste. But he said nothing._

_“My Lord? My Prince, look out! Over there! Over there!”_

_It was all over before anyone could even reach him to pull him down. The pale face twisted into a snarl peering out at him, the eyes filled with ashy, blood-tinted hate, a bow pulled back and straining, and then the whistle of an arrow and a shot of pain._

_Blackness. Relief._

“Yes,” he murmured. “I died there. Shot in the head.”

The scar was not very gruesome, not like some of the scars Nelyafinwë bore upon his body. No more gruesome than any other arrow wound, truth be told. He reached up to brush his fingers over the small pucker, the place where, had it not been hidden, he would bear a star-shaped scar dead-center between and just above the eyes.

“And how many of the people of Doriath did you slaughter before you were killed?” Ingwë asked, though he was quite certain the High King already knew the answer, already read it straight from Morifinwë’s eyes.

“None, though I did nothing to stop the slaughter either, and thus carry no small amount of guilt for the happenings there.”

“Lies,” someone nearby hissed. “He lies!”

But Ingwë was unmoved by distant rage. Unmoved by the whispers and snarls that swept through the hall. He was looking at Morifinwë’s eyes still, falling into them and sucking the younger elf deep under in return, and the Fëanárion had nothing to hide and did nothing to shield himself from scrutiny. Of murder, he _was_ guilty, and there was no denying that. There was no denying that he was a Kinslayer.

“Shall I go now, your Majesty?” he asked quietly.

The people were calling for his dismissal, for his banishment from their fair safe-haven of Valmar. Eruanna’s father seemed to be at the edge of his patience waiting for the High King’s decision. But the High King seemed to be in no rush to meet their demands for justice, nor in any hurry to release Morifinwë from the torment of thinking back on some of the worst moments of his long years.

Those ancient eyes blinked, and the memory shattered like glass upon stone, suddenly enough that he almost jerked in his seat. It took all the strength he possessed just to breathe slowly, just to sit without trembling.

“I have no quarrel with you and your kin,” Ingwë said finally, breaking that heady tension. “I have no reason to cast you from my halls nor ban your feet from walking my fair city. Consider yourself as welcome as any other nameless traveler come from cities abroad.”

Shocked, Morifinwë stared like a dimwit.

A glance around confirmed that the other occupants of the hall were just as stunned, all the courtiers quiet and watching. Eruanna’s father looked on with an empty expression, hiding shock if it be present, and, also, any disappointment and rage.

Ingwë was unaffected by the shocked incredulity he left in his wake, standing from his throne unbothered by the painful silence. “Come along, young one. We have more yet to discuss, and I wish to walk as we go.”

Who was he to deny the High King?

“O-of course, your Majesty.” He pushed himself to his feet, wishing he could have managed it with more elegance but grateful nevertheless to have avoided stumbling and falling flat on his face. Ingwë was already moving.

There was no choice but to follow.

\---

It was beginning to become evident that the Vanyar were even fonder of their gardens than the Noldor, whose love was for the making of craft rather than the appreciation of the natural world of the earth and the sky. If he had imagined that the gardens of the House of Meneldëa were exquisite, the gardens of the High King were as close to paradise as one could imagine. Never had he walked the Gardens of Lórien or the home of Vána the Ever-Young, but he could scarcely imagine they could have made a haven more beautiful.

He felt as though he left black stains wherever his feet touched.

“Look not so lowly with upset,” the High King scolded, though his voice was light and gentle rather than the vicious and biting chastisements that Morifinwë knew from his youth. “I have not thrown you from this city. Should you not rejoice?”

Morifinwë did not know that he knew how to rejoice. He did not know that he had ever experienced anything worth rejoicing that was not also overlaid with a blanket of sorrow.

Perhaps, he wanted to someday experience such an event. Perhaps, that is what it would be like to marry a woman who he faithfully loved and who loved him equally in return. Pure joy and bliss, untainted by the undercurrents of fear and desperation that so slipped and wove their way through all else in his life.

But there was something worth rejoicing, he supposed, in the fact that his attempts to reach for such bliss, to court Eruanna, who had been so accepting of him—a man whose very name carried with it the weight of all the death and destruction of the Exile—and who was sweeter than honey and lovelier than any sunset or blossom, were not cut short. In his thoughts he could barely comprehend that he had _not_ been cast from the city forthwith, that he was instead meandering peacefully through a twilight garden with the High King of the Eldar, who was not sneering upon him as though he were the lowliest of rats.

“I do not understand,” he murmured. “Why did you not cast me from your city? I am guilty of what I am charged.”

“Guilty of Kinslaying, you are,” Ingwë agreed.

Morifinwë looked down at his feet.

“But, guilty of cold-blooded, maniacal slaughter, reasonless and purposeless but for your own enjoyment and fulfillment in taking lives, you are not,” the High King added. “I have seen those who take pleasure in killing for its own sake, who enjoy inflicting egregious harm and suffering upon others, and you are not of their make.”

It was something that Morifinwë already knew about himself, that he had the body and the skill for war but not the mental constitution for its ravages of the mind and spirit. Even battles where the enemies were immoral and mutilated creatures of darkness or cruel and lawless men allied with the forces of darkness, even those still lay heavy upon his spirit, duties that he had undertaken to salvage himself and his family but not out of glee or desire for valor or any other cause. They were simply necessary. Such was the nature of war.

“The people of Valinórë have been sheltered and seen little of the world,” the High King continued, eyes slipping shut as if to enjoy the soft breeze, its coolness driving away the midday heat. “Those of older make, those who were born on the shores of the inland sea at Cuiviénen, remember a time before the Valar protected our people and gave us lawful ways and sacred directives. There were times when our people had no encircling Pelóri to hide us away, no Alatairë to separate us from the darkness of the Hither Lands, nothing but our own wits and strength and will to keep us alive when nothing stood between our fledgling peoples and the Dark Lord. And not all have done deeds only of which to be proud.”

Morifinwë would not pretend to really understand, for he had been born into the golden and silver plenty of Valinórë at the height of its peace and glory. But he did know what it was like to perform reprehensible and unforgivable acts because, in the endless moments when there was nothing but panic and shock, they seemed the only options that lead to survival. One did not survive the Hither Lands by being merciful.

Shuddering, he tried to focus on the flowers, on their cloying scent, to soothe the chilly feeling crawling across his skin and through his bones, aching and bending and twisting.

Only when the High King stopped did his feet halt of their own accord. He looked over to the ancient one crowned in golden locks, meeting those eyes for a split second and then looking away when their weight was too much. “Your Majesty?”

“At the end of the day, I suppose, also, I like not being used in the schemes of my courtiers who seek power and prestige over righteousness,” the High King admitted. “I know that the Lord of the House of Meneldëa wanted me to banish you to put an end to your courtship of his daughter. It would have made his trials much easier, for he knows that he has no reason to block the courtship otherwise, not beyond his own pride and concern over the reputation of his family in the squabbling hierarchy of my councilors and courtiers.”

“I do not understand, my Lord,” Morifinwë admitted. “Most would consider my family’s deeds to be a perfectly acceptable reason to deny even the privilege of courtship.”

“But the Lord of Meneldëa is a disciple of Manwë, and he knows better. The Valar have granted you and your brothers rebirth where they have denied it to your sire, where they have chained and cast out of this world in banishment those beings they have deemed truly evil. If they are willing to grant you a second chance at life through rebirth and freedom to walk these lands unfettered, they must believe you are not wholly evil and unworthy nor beyond redemption and salvation. So, who is a lowly servant of their Lord to counter their judgment and deny you? How would it look, I wonder, for Manwë to judge you worthy but for his humble follower to declare the Lord of all Arda wrong? He would be placing his pride, his family reputation, and his daughter above his faith, to declare that one Manwë deems worthy is indeed worthy of the Valar’s regard but not of his daughter’s hand. Such a thing might do his reputation more harm than a Kinslayer making romantic gestures upon his daughter ever could.”

Never had Morifinwë thought of it like that. The Valar were not exactly what one would call a _friendly_ topic at his family’s table. He could already imagine the absolute fit that Curufinwë would throw for anyone even _suggesting_ that the Valar were worth worshipping and deserving of regard, that the Valar might have granted their family the _favor_ of forgiveness. It was not in some of their number to be grateful, for they were prideful creatures, born beneath the hand of a father who could snap his fingers and have whatever he desired, who were raised to believe that they _deserved_ regard and respect and need not earn it. Owing anyone, most especially the Valar, who had originally placed a Curse upon their family and people, was not something that most of them could stomach.

Even Morifinwë felt a bit queasy thinking about it. That he might owe it to the Valar that he would have a chance to court Eruanna, even indirectly. It was hard not to think upon them and blame them for all the hardships and suffering of the Exiles. It was hard not to be resentful and infuriated even now, because his family had suffered through so much heartache, had been forced to make so many ill choices, had dealt out and been dealt so much horror and death, that he wanted to call it the unfair bias of the Valar against those who would not roll over and submit to the rulership of greater beings like dogs. In response to the bitter thoughts, he stood still with his hands curling into fists at his side and grit his teeth against harsh words.

But, then, of all his brothers, Morifinwë was used to having his pride torn down and shredded before his eyes without mercy. He had been raised upon such humiliation. Why should it not continue on even now? And what should he do but continue to endure it as he had always done?

His hands uncurled, falling limp at his sides, fingers brushing against the charcoal gray velvet of his robes. “So, you do not think he will deny me the chance to court his daughter?”

“No, I should think not. Though, you might still want to go in search of some assistance.” The High King reached out to clasp his shoulder, squeezing firmly. “We do things just a little differently than our Noldorin kin, I think. But, men of your House have successfully courted lovely Vanyarin girls before. Just a thought.”

The very last thing Morifinwë wanted to do was talk to Turukáno or to Artafindë, though, he supposed the latter was somewhat tolerable. “My thanks for the advice, your Majesty. I appreciate your concern.”

“Certainly. It is nice to see something interesting going on around here on occasion to stir up all the traditionalists. Now, let us find some flowers for you to bring back to your lovely lady and then I shall send you on your way. No doubt this day has been long with worry and you would like to get some sleep.”

Indeed, Morifinwë had had longer days, but few which left him feeling as drained as he felt now that all the excitement had passed. Drudging up the ugly past, sharing it so openly and publicly, was bad enough, but sitting about in suspense all morning and afternoon, only for the climax to be so emotionally ravaging… He certainly could use a few good hours of rest. At the same time, he wanted to bring back news to Eruanna as quickly as he could manage, for things had turned out better than he had dared to hope. And, admittedly, he wished to, perhaps, earn himself a few smiles (or kisses) from her lips before crawling back to the inn and collapsing onto the bed to sleep for a day or two.

_By Eru, it did not end in disaster. I am not going to be thrown from the city in shame._

“I… I would not want to disparage your garden by tramping around,” he said quickly, cheeks heating. “I know nothing about flowers.”

“Well, you ought to learn,” the High King recommended. “For now, then, perhaps I shall assist you, young one. I imagine you might want something to make a little bit of a statement for the lovely Lady Eruanna?”

His fingers found a yellow bloom, a six-petaled thing with a trumpet shape. “Tulkaromba is what we call this flower, though they have other names in the dialects of the Noldor and Teleri.”

Morifinwë drew closer. He had seen these before, of course. They were early spring flowers, bright yellow or white with yellow trumpets. Scarcely did he dare to touch them, or any other flower, for how fragile they appeared. “What do they mean?”

“I am certain you can figure that out on your own with a little digging.” The High King then proceeded to clip a few stalks, each with a bunch of some four or five blooms clustered together. Without hesitation, he braided them together and handed them over to the stunned and frozen dark-haired guest. And how ridiculous they must have looked, so vibrantly yellow aside his somber coloring!

“I assure you, your lady will be pleased.”

And then he wandered back in the direction of his hall, leaving Morifinwë little choice but to trot in his wake. Rare was it that he felt so like a young man as he did then. A flush-cheeked young man lost in the dark twists and turns of courtship.

 _I am perhaps going to need a little help after all._ He looked down at the yellow flowers. _Maybe more than a little._

\---

It was the purest torture.

All evening, Eruanna had waited impatiently before the front window, lace curtains pulled back to reveal the golden streets outside. It was no secret what she was waiting for, and her sisters, no matter their level of disapproval of her suitor and his past deeds, at least had the decency to stop by and bring her tea and bread to tide her over when she refused to budge from this spot even for the sake of dinner.

How could she? No desire for food did her stomach announce, for it felt too twisted and turned with nerves to even consider adding fullness to the mixture. She might very well be awaiting ill news, and she remained suspended in that state of terrible anticipation, wondering if she would see one man or two appear upon the end of the street.

Her fingers brushed the blossom in her hair. _By Lady Vána, two. I pray for two._

So many times already had she repeated these prayers and devotionals, not to Lady Varda, who always felt so cold and faraway, but to the Ever-Young, who she imagined might hear her pleas and bless her and her new love joyously. The same way she blessed the coming of spring, the blooming of flowers and the birth of animals. The new beginnings of all the world belonged under the care and keeping of Vána.

Maybe Carnistir’s new beginning was as well, or so her fantastical mind imagined.

It was then that a figure—first one, leaving her feeling cold and barren until her squinting eyes made out a second shape emerging from the gloom—and then two appeared from the falling shadow of night. 

The moment she saw both, her heart soared in her chest, alight like the sun no matter that dark had already fallen completely upon the street by the time her father and her suitor reappeared upon their doorstep. Her father’s face was a bit sour, not at all the smug thing she had been expecting to see half-hidden beneath a façade of tranquility. And Carnistir just looked stunned, his green eyes just a bit wider than they had been before, his features just a bit softer.

In his arms, the yellow bouquet stood out. It took her only moments to recognize the blooms for what they were, for her throat to feel tight and then her lungs release the great knot of fear they had been holding that whole afternoon and evening. Certainly, if he had been banished from the city at the High King’s behest, he would not be here at all, let alone here with flowers that made a statement as eye-catching and bold as their color.

_I desire a return of affection…_

She met them on the doorstep, breathless.

“Yendenya,” her father greeted with a kiss upon her cheek. He glanced over his shoulder at Carnistir, lips pulled into a tight line. “Send your suitor back to me in the morning. For the time being, I desire rest and quiet contemplation.”

He disappeared inside, leaving the woman and her suitor standing alone (in the illusion of privacy) beneath the white lanterns on the porch.

“I should have listened to you, Eruanna,” Carnistir said, his lips curling into a half-smile. “I should have had a little more faith.”

“You were not sent away, then,” she breathed out. “What happened?”

“The High King asked me a few questions. About my past. About subjects best left undiscussed in polite company. I am quite certain it will be circulating all about the Vanyarin court for quite some time.” He let out a long breath, which could have been relief or resignation to his fate. “At the end of it, he declared that he had no quarrel with my family, and he bid that I be welcome in his city as any other traveler.”

“Truly, that is all?” Mayhap it was her vivid imagination, but she had expected _more_ than that. Shouting, declarations, a spectacle. But it sounded so tame.

“He ordered me to walk with him afterwards and converse,” Carnistir added with a little sound of embarrassed mirth. “Mostly, he spoke to me and I did not get in a word edgewise. And then he insisted I bring you some flowers from the palace gardens.”

He held up the bundle in his arms, cradled gingerly as though he worried that he might crush the poor flowers with the faintest bit of pressure applied. Beneath the white lanterns they were even more starkly bright. Tulkarombar. She swallowed sharply and received them, feeling as though she were receiving a much heavier burden than the light weight in truth of the bouquet that settled nicely into the crook of her elbow. Her fingers traced the edges of the yellow blooms as she tried to think of what to say.

“Well?” he asked, leaning towards her, looking a bit concerned with her silence. As though he worried that she might be rejecting his declaration.

To which she stood upon tiptoe and pressed a kiss to each of his rosy cheeks, knowing that she should not but wanting to anyway. If she had not known someone must be watching through the windows, she might have kissed his lips instead. “I will give you my answer on the morrow. When you return to speak with my father again. Properly about courting this time.”

The color of his face darkened. “O-of course, my lady. Eruanna. Tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow,” she agreed, shyly backing into the doorway.

With one last brush of his fingertips against her cheek, he backed away, released her from his enchantment. Even after she closed the door, cutting herself off from his sight entirely and stepping back upon shaking legs, she still felt the phantom of the touch upon her skin, soft as a butterfly’s kiss.

 _Aiya, Vána and Varda, I am lost._ She looked down at the flowers again. _I desire a return of affection._

Her heart skipped a beat. Just as before, when he had touched her hands, when he had bowed his head and brushed his lips across the petals of the pink rose she had offered him, she felt a stirring of heat as well. One hand slipped down to touch her belly. The way he had spoken to her, the way his voice had dropped in pitch and rumbled through her hands, the way his eyes had looked upon her, their color deepening to evergreen…

What she felt in response was not simple nerves. She might be inexperienced in the ways of love and sensuality, but she knew that much.

_How should I reply?_

Her fingers stroked across the lovely yellow flowers again. And she thought of all manner of things she might give him in return, ranging from the perfectly proper to the explicit. Within the confines of her slippers, her toes curled sharply. Some of the things that her loins so urged her to say to him!

But she settled for something proper. Thought about other options and blushed but thought of her choice and secretly smiled.

_Perfect._

\---

_Valanya, 48 Lairë (30 June)_

\---

In the morning, Eruanna was more radiant than any dawn, and her arms were filled with trailing spirals of pale purple flowers. Without a word, when she saw him appear out of the morning’s gray light, she danced forward to kiss him upon his cheeks and then lightly upon his lips, bringing his cheeks to a full scarlet bloom.

“These are for you,” she said, gifting him her armful of tiny purple blooms.

“Lilac,” he recognized, for they grew wild in the mountains and were a fragrant favorite in the hedges of the lower classes of Tirion.

Her cheeks filled with color. “Yes, they are. I… I mean… My father is waiting inside to speak with you.”

Feeling a bit breathless, still blown away by all that had happened since yesterday morning, mind scrambled even more by his lack of sleep for the excitement that had lingered in his breast after last night, he accepted the flowers and followed her inside. Indeed, her father was waiting with a resigned look upon his features.

Those eyes, a shade or two lighter a blue than his daughter’s, took in the lilac bouquet with distaste, expression alike to a man looking upon something that might leap up and give him a poisonous bite.

Whatever they meant, it must be something telling.

“Come along,” the Lord of the House of Meneldëa murmured. “Let us treat in my study.”

Giving Eruanna a last besotted smile and a kiss on the cheek in return, he followed her father up the stairs. And swore to himself that he would lace her hair with lilac that afternoon and kiss her again for good measure.

At least for today, he felt like he was the luckiest bastard in the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:
> 
> Eldar (Q, p) = high-elves  
> Fëanárioni (Q, p) = sons of Fëanáro  
> meldo (Q) = friend  
> Á mahta (Q) = deal with/fight (imperative)  
> Á mahta te (Q) = fight them (imperative)  
> Á mapa i ciryar (Q) = grasp/seize the ships (imperative)  
> yondonyar (Q, p) = my sons  
> Atar (Q) = Father  
> Silmarilli (Q, p) = the Silmarils  
> Alatairë (Q) = Belegaer  
> Tulkaromba (Q) = lit. golden-trumpet, Jonquil  
> Tulkarombar (Q, p) = Jonquils  
> yendenya (Q) = my daughter  
> Aiya (Q) = exclamation, like Oh!


	38. Of the Happenings in Tirion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Curufinwë is kicked out of the house, and life continues rolling onward. He just has to choose what path he is going to take now...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: dysfunctional family politics, politics of royalty/court, bad coping mechanisms, mental health issues, making up, mentions of violence/torture, depression (present but they have no name for it), insomnia/nightmares hinted at, female masturbation (including fingering), consensual voyeurism, thoughts of oral/penetrative sex
> 
> Basically, Curufinwë plots with Lindalórë's help (mostly off-screen) and we take a peek at the current status of Nolofinwë and Arafinwë.
> 
> Note: It annoys me that Finrod and Aegnor's father-names here are in different dialects, and I may go back and change every reference to Finrod by Finarfin to be in Telerin dialect, or I may do a transition from Telerin to Noldorin dialect for Aegnor and Angrod's names. We'll see. But, for now, they remain two different dialects.
> 
> Maedhros = Maitimo = Nelyafinwë = Nelyo  
> Maglor = Makalaurë = Kanafinwë = Káno  
> Celegorm = Tyelkormo = Turkafinwë = Turko  
> Caranthir = Carnistir = Morifinwë = Moryo  
> Curufin = Atarinkë = Curufinwë = Curvo  
> Amrod = Ambarussa = Pityafinwë = Pityo  
> Amras = Umbarto = Telufinwë = Telvo  
> Fingolfin = Nolofinwë = Arakáno  
> Aredhel = Írissë  
> Lalwen = Lalwendë  
> Finarfin = Arafinwë  
> Finrod = Artafindë = Findaráto  
> Aegnor = Ambaráto = Aikanáro  
> Lindalórë = Lórë

_Aldúya, 46 Lairë (28 June)_

\---

To say that he was furious would be an understatement.

If he thought it would have done him any good, he would have stood outside the cabin door screaming obscenities and curses upon his oldest brother, but he knew Nelyafinwë well after years and years under his command, and he knew that his sibling would not be swayed by words. At least, not this night or any soon to come. For all that Fëanáro’s heir did not have the flash-fire temper and unpleasant demeanor of his sire, Nelyafinwë was just as if not _more_ stubborn than their father had been. It would take bleeding miracle to change his damn mind!

Which left Curufinwë in an uncomfortable spot indeed.

_Apologize to Nolofinwë? The very idea makes me feel like losing my lunch!_

And what a waste of a perfectly good lunch it would have been, what with how much coin he had shelled out to eat fancy seafood and watch passerby at his wife’s behest. He had actually enjoyed himself, gossiping with Lindalórë and insulting passerby, despite the fact that the octopus had been so disgusting he had gone back and ordered lamb instead. And now, here he was, kicked out of the damn house because his brother was wrapped around his sister-in-law’s little finger, and how dare he upset her and her ridiculous plans to make nice with the stick-up-the-ass relatives! What an awful end to a perfectly enjoyable day!

_At least it is not cold out…_

He knew better than to expect sympathy overmuch from his brothers. The twins probably found the whole thing funny, though they would have hidden it well behind their stoic masks, for it was not often that their mean-spirited older brother got scolded for being his normal caustic self. On most days, no matter who the victim of Curufinwë’s well-meaning cruelty was, Nelyafinwë tended to look the other way, so it was a treat to see him caught in a net of his own making. And then there was Kanafinwë, who might feel sorry for him but who had so rarely be mustered to fight back against Nelyafinwë’s overwhelming wall of obstinance, and, besides that, Kanafinwë owed him no debt that he might call in as a favor. After what he had done to “alert” the second-born to Istelindë’s lack of reciprocation of his affections, Curufinwë doubted he was going to get much quarter from that direction.

Sister Istelindë, well… She must have been the one to tell Nelyo in the first place. He thought he might have sensed that she was disapproving earlier in the coldness of her actions towards him and her refusal to speak openly to his face, but he had also decided that he did not care what she thought. Naturally, though, Nelyafinwë was on her side.

Another man might have held a grudge, but he was almost proud in spite of his own discomfort at the situation. Certainly, it would be her fault that he actually had to go through with his horrid form of public humiliation in order to buy his way back into decent food and bed, but she was learning how to get what she wanted in this family. Playing Nelyafinwë against his younger brother was a perfectly intelligent way of giving Curufinwë what she thought he deserved for messing up her plans to lay the foundation of _good faith_ between the lines of Fëanáro and Nolofinwë.

If only _someone else_ could be used to that effect. He supposed that, by openly flouting his promise to Nelyo—that, in good faith, he would do his best not to intentionally antagonize any of their uncles or cousins—he had more or less been asking for the _honor._

Sighing with disgust, he sat on the lowest step and rubbed a hand over his eyes.

_I cannot even go begging for Lindalórë’s assistance. No more than a single night could I hope to hide out with her in her bed before being discovered. Besides that…_

Well, he doubted they would be able to keep their hands off one another if they tried to share a bed. Not only was he not comfortable with playing lovers’ games under the roof of her disapproving parents—no matter how funny their faces would have been had they walked in on something illicit—but he had promised to keep up with this ridiculous courting business until his wife decided he had suffered enough indignity to make up for his ill words and deeds against her. He was not about to jeopardize his hard work to that end.

_I am truly going to have to apologize. To Nolofinwë._

He looked up at the cruel lights of the stars. They twinkled merrily back.

 _To_ Nolofinwë. _In public._

 _Well, you could always go looking for Írissë if you prefer._ Even as he mentally considered that option, he found himself wincing. Perhaps, if he had immediately shared her location with Turkafinwë, he might have been willing to rely on his older brother’s good will to help “find” Írissë and deliver her back to her father, but he suspected his older sibling was still going to be quite annoyed at having secrets kept from his ears. And probably would not be in any rush to return Írissë to her father anytime soon besides.

_If I do, indeed, find them—and I will undoubtedly find them together rather than separately, and probably lying in a field fornicating like rabbits—how long will Turkafinwë make me wait, following at their heels like an unhappy dog, before seeing fit to return to civilization?_

It would be faster to just apologize. And he would be forced to listen to much less explicit noisemaking.

But the _very idea_ of crawling back down to Tirion like a damn dog to beg forgiveness from his half-uncle… The _very idea_ of prostrating himself even before his older brother, admitting to a wrong… It went against the very ideals by which he had been raised. Had his father been here to see, had he watched Curufinwë surrender with such ease, he would have looked down his nose at his fifth son and called him a sorry, craven worm.

_You could wait a day or two. Just to avoid looking too pathetic._

Sulkily, he turned to look back at the front door, lips curling into a sneer. It was not as if he had not lived off the land for weeks at a time before, but he could also admit that he had gotten used to a softer life. Indoor fires sweet with herbs, beds with actual clean sheets and down pillows, or at the very least an armchair that was not covered in dust, overlaid with a thick quilt to keep him warm, and food available three times a day without him having to lift a finger to cook—Istelindë had certainly managed to improve the quality of life around here vastly in a short period of time.

If he _did_ wait, he would at least appear to be holding out for the sake of standing by his word, his insistence that his half-uncle barely deserved to lick dirt from the bottom of his shoes. Which was true from his perspective, after all the man had done (and had not done) in the past. And, besides that, a son of the House of Fëanáro should not ever be apologizing to one of Nolofinwë’s ilk, and he did not want to look like he was giving in to anyone’s insistence otherwise without a fight. His _father_ would never have considered giving in to such pressure, not even for a moment. His _father_ would have been of the strong and immovable opinion that keeping to one’s words and principles was far more important than catering to the goodwill and loyalty of family that did not _understand._

Fëanáro would have stood by his words and actions, would have sneered in the face of criticism with his chin held high.

_You are not your father. What does it matter what he would have done?_

That was what Lindalórë would have said had she been sitting here next to him as he wished she had been at that moment. Her hand would stroke his hair back from his face, run down over his shoulder blade and rub circles into the knot of tension in his lower back. She would have known what he was thinking, why he was struggling.

She would have known that his resistance had nothing to do with genuinely wishing to resist Nelyafinwë’s insistence on an apology—though she would have understood that he had no desire to make good with Nolofinwë either—for she knew that he cared for and respected his family above all else, and Nelyafinwë he respected most of all. She would have seen the ghost of his father staring back at her from his over-bright eyes, and she would have known exactly what to say to make him give her a half-shattered smile.

 _What do you want to do?_ And she would have made the choice seem so simple, so uncomplicated. _What do you want to do, Curufinwë?_

 _But she is not here._ He shuddered.

_This is something you will have to do for yourself. Swallow your pride or do not. Be your father’s doppelganger or be more._

Sighing, Curufinwë felt the last of his anger draining away.

Well, there was no point in lingering. Nelyafinwë was not going to be letting him inside, so he would have to sleep elsewhere. Not the barn, what with how itchy hay could get. But, perhaps, a nice tree somewhere might do.

Just for tonight.

In the morning, he would figure out what to do with his onerous pride.

\---

As horrible as it was to contemplate—and he had contemplated a great many things in these past few days which he had believed would never cross his mind again in the peace and harmony of Valinórë—in some ways, the fact that his daughter was _missing_ was far worse than if she had been _dead._

Nolofinwë knew death like he knew an old friend. He understood it intimately. He had experienced it personally. For one of the Eldar, death was not a permanent state. Eventually, those who died would be returned to their loving family’s arms when the time was right, and the end would be fair. Before then, though the separation ached and burned, lost loved ones were safe and secure in the keeping of the Valar, protected within the Halls of the Waiting or cared for within the Gardens of Lórien under watchful eyes and ears and gentle care for their worldly hurts and wounds.

They were not _lost_ and _unknown._

Not like this. Not like _her._ It was driving him _mad._ He could not _sleep_ for it!

If it were just him, perhaps he could have stomached the breathless waiting, the feeling of drowning on oxygen, lungs aching to draw full breath but squeezed tightly shut and burning. The feeling of helplessness left his limbs jittery in need of movement after more than a week of doing nothing but _waiting._ He was _good_ at patience in most situations—he had besieged the gates of Angamando for hundreds of years, waiting for his Enemy to give in or else empty his fortress in resistance—but this was different. There was no end to this in sight, no conclusion, no assuaging the tension that ached just behind his eyes like a spear stabbing into his mind. There might _never_ be an end to this.

If Írissë was alike to her aunt, she might not _come_ back. Ever. Valinórë was vast enough, wild enough, that one could simply _disappear_ if they should wish and never be found.

 _Did I do that?_ It was driving him to distraction. _Did I make her do that?_

His wife certainly seemed to think so. Anairë was no less distraught, no less sleepless, no less torn to shreds over their daughter’s disappearance than he, but she had not sought comfort in her husband’s arms nor allowed him to seek comfort in hers. Cold was the reception of his wife, whose eyes were dull and stark with fury beneath her worry, who had moved herself out of their shared quarters and into a guest room to be away from his presence.

Thinking of it, Nolofinwë swallowed sharply. His hands trembled to the same fragile rhythm that his heart thudded.

Even her anger, he could have suffered, were it not for how it placed an unbridgeable gulf between their hearts, keeping them separate when they so desperately needed to be whole. His wife… His Anairë… He stood outside her door every night and listened to her cry, pressing his forehead against the door wishing he could go inside and cradle her close but knowing she would send him away should he dare to call for her and offer his love.

When she returned this eve, he fully expected that she would lock herself away again. No one had been allowed inside her rooms except for young Elenwë, who was just as upset because her husband was wild with fury (and worry) as well.

Sitting in his study, he heard her soft footsteps coming down the hall. Closing his eyes, he listened to their cadence, so impossibly familiar, for it had echoed in his dreams for thousands of years, embedded into his subconscious as a sound of comfort and a harbinger of good things. Fully, he expected to hear them dance right on by this room and own the hall, around the corner towards the bedchambers. A sweet solace denied to him in punishment for haste and arrogance and ill-thought-upon words.

Except, they did not. His eyes flashed open.

Fingers tapped against the door. “Arakáno? Are you there?”

His heart rose up to clog the back of his throat. Rare was it that his wife used his amilessë, for he had always preferred his ataressë. It was usually reserved for their private moments, curled together in the dark in the warm cocoon of their sheets and each other. For her to use it now left him floating upon the first foaming vestiges of hope.

“I am here,” he answered, standing from his desk and circling around. With quick footsteps, he crossed the room, opening the door.

Anairë was on the other side, sad-eyed and looking exhausted.

No more reminding did he need that this was every bit as difficult—if not more so—for her than it was for him to swallow. “Melmë, is everything…? Are you…?” He let out a half-frustrated sound, a cross between a groan and a sigh when he sought words and found none that would do. _Of course,_ she was not alright. _Of course,_ everything was _not_ well.

She sniffled slightly. In her hands, she cradled a silver brush. “Arakáno?”

He blinked down at it, glinting in the dim light of the hallway, shimmering as the firelight from within danced across its luster. Even as an awkward silence stretched between them, neither really knowing what to say, he fell back upon old comforts, reaching out to trace the contours of the brush with his fingertips, careful not to touch her skin without her permission. “Do you want me to brush your hair?”

Without speaking, she nodded.

She moved past him and into the study, sitting on the single loveseat near the fire. And he moved to sit beside her, silently accepting the hairbrush. With a last glance, she turned her head, offering her back to him trustingly, her waves of dark hair loose and spilling down to pool against the fabric and tip over the edge, dangling towards the floor.

Carefully, he brushed through the long waves, gently tugging at any tangles. A familiar ritual, one they had done many thousands of times. Only, this time felt different. Not sensual, as the many times they had done this unclothed and cuddled close. Just intimate, deceptively welcoming, and, perhaps, forgiving. Working his way down, from the crown of her head to the tail ends of the locks, he struggled with the tightness in his throat, the words he wanted to say but was not certain she would be willing to hear.

It could have been an hour or three. He did not bother to track the passing of time. Eventually, there were no more knots to be had, but he continued to brush through the dark silken strands nevertheless. Just waiting for her to make the first move.

His patience, it seemed, was not wasted.

“I spoke to Istelindë today,” she said quietly, and his stroking stilled. “She was out and about at the market unescorted, though I am certain at least one of two of Fëanáro’s boys were with her, either watching or on their own business. I asked her whether or not she had known where Írissë was and just did not say.”

Even though it was not a great surprise, it still had been a blow to learn that _someone_ had known of his daughter’s whereabouts and said nothing until it was too late and she had already flown. Nolofinwë understood that the House of Helyanwë had reasons to despise his own line, and he understood that Lindalórë held no personal loyalty towards him, and certainly not more than she did towards Írissë, but it did not make the withholding feel any less like a betrayal. That she had told Curufinwë and his nephew, who might be cruel but was usually sensible, had said nothing out of pure spite…

It was not a surprise. Not at all. But, for some reason, it still hurt. He had hoped, perhaps, that the Fëanárioni, slowly inching their way out of isolation, might not carry on that same vicious twist of character that had so epitomized their sire.

Because that was something Fëanáro would have done to him without hesitation. Something he would have done and then _laughed._

“And, did she know?” he asked quietly.

“No,” Anairë answered, voice trembling. “And I believe her. The look on her face, Nolofinwë… I believe that she did not know. If the men did, I could not say.”

He let out a sigh, wondering at how tired the whole thing made him feel, down to the roots of his spirit. Could he believe that Istelindë had been truthful? Could he believe that Curufinwë had known and kept what he knew to himself, that Nelyafinwë had had no idea? Or was the whole House of Fëanáro playing its hand against him as it had in the old days, before brotherhood was woven and broken between their Houses?

Did it matter now?

“She said that Turkafinwë took off a few nights ago,” Anairë added. “She thought that, perhaps, he had gone looking.”

 _For Írissë._ It passed silently between them.

Nolofinwë stood and began pacing, one hand rising up to cup his chin, fingers tapping against his cheek. At the announcement, he felt something that might have resembled relief mixed with resignation and no small amount of helpless scorn. One brother withholding information, causing all this grief to start with, and another setting out to mend the mistake, as if that would make it well? It was true that his sons had tried to track their sister and so far had failed—whatever else she might be, skilled in the wild she most certainly was, and she had covered her tracks well—but he was not certain he liked the idea of Turkafinwë finding her overmuch.

_You should be grateful that she reappears at all, no matter who might accompany her out of the shadows of the forest boughs._

Personally, he would not have cared, he decided, pushing away the resentment. If he were honest with himself, enough time had passed that he would have been too relieved to even be angry with his daughter, at least for some time. Personally, if Turkafinwë managed to corral his daughter and bring her home safely, he would kiss his nephew’s cheeks gladly and accept the gesture as the debt of Curufinwë’s slight repaid, because that meant that Írissë was home and not vanished like a wisp of cloud over the ocean.

 _But the Court of Tirion will not see such happenings through a rose-tinted glass of gratitude._ He had grown up here, was raised on the drama, the suspicion, the rumors. He knew exactly what would happen if Írissë stumbled out of the wilds of Valinórë accompanied by a man unchaperoned. The same damn thing that had happened to Lalwendë. The same vicious whispers, the same shunning, the same cruel disregard.

And Valar forbid she come back _pregnant…_

_Surely, she would not be so foolish? Surely!_

But Lalwendë had been.

“Arakáno?” Anairë was watching him move back and forth in front of the hearth. “What thoughts go through your head now, ammelda?”

“I will have to ask Írissë to marry Turkafinwë if they reappear together and word gets out. Or, more aptly, perhaps, I may have to beg my half-nephew to marry my daughter, because I doubt Írissë will take kindly to a single suggestion that leaves my lips.” He pinched the bridge of his nose, feeling the ache in his forehead spreading. “Am I doing the right thing in that, Anairë?”

“I do not think we would have many other options if we want her to be welcome here, in Tirion,” she admitted, sounding downcast. “Do you think Turkafinwë would agree?”

“What with how Curufinwë obviously disregards any ties that exist between our family and the House of Fëanáro, I have my doubts,” Nolofinwë snapped, perhaps more harshly than he intended, for he immediately regretted the way she flinched and went to sit at her side, catching one of her hands and pressing it to his lips. “Forgive me, I meant it not to come out so…”

“I know,” she crooned, leaning into his touch, her long hair spilling over their conjoined hands as a thick blanket. Loose, it was long enough to fall past her hips, and he itched to bury his hands in its depths again. It would have soothed him so. “Arakáno, if Turkafinwë went after Írissë as Istelindë has said, perhaps he might be more agreeable than expected? If it had just been a one-time affair, surely he would not have gone after her?”

Nolofinwë did not know any of his nephews well, not anywhere near as well as he had known his own half-brother. But, if Turkafinwë truly was very much like his father—If not in face than in spirit—then he worried that his half-nephew would simply laugh in his face and leave Írissë to her fate one way or another.

_But he seemed concerned the morning after the Festival._

The fidgeting. The seriousness of face. The restlessness. It all reminded him painfully of Fëanáro during that short period of time after their father’s murder. Wild, almost mad with the inability to take vengeance, with the impotence. If Turkafinwë was like to Fëanáro, he was a man of action and purpose, but not a man who cared often for anyone or anything but his own interests, not a man easily moved to agitation.

Perhaps it was a figment of his imagination, wistful thinking, that it might be a sign that Turkafinwë _cared._

_But does he care enough to marry her should her reputation hinge upon it?_

“There is little to do now,” he finally said, “But to wait and see if they reappear together, or if they reappear at all.”

They sat curled together.

“Are you… still angry with me?” he then asked, hesitant as a flighty deer.

“Aiya, Arakáno, I was not really _angry_ with _you,”_ she said quietly, squeezing his hand tightly, returning his kiss from earlier upon the back of his hand. “I am frustrated, perhaps with everyone and everything about this awful situation. That you and Írissë see not eye to eye, that both of you are so unwilling to listen or budge or compromise until things get so terribly out of hand.”

“I am sorry for reacting so poorly,” he admitted, both soaring with relief but also feeling the heavy and sickening weight of guilt, for it had not been his intention to mistreat or otherwise harm his wife. “I am sorry I let my worry over Írissë—over her sharing Lalwendë’s fate—get the better of my temper.”

“It is not you alone who needs to apologize, Arakáno. Think you that your children get their temper solely from you?” Anairë met his gaze, still looking tired, revealing her own feelings of guilt in turn. “I knew you were worried and that is why your temper reared its ugly head, but I put my own worry and my own upset ahead of that knowledge and blamed you entirely for Írissë’s misbehavior and disappearance. And I know it was not, in truth, only your fault. I did not do anything to help when you both needed me to. So, I am sorry, too.”

As if he had ever blamed her. As if he would not have forgiven her anything in a heartbeat. As if he did not now hold her hand against his cheek, breathe in the aroma of almond and honey, and breathe out the feeling of emptiness in his chest.

Gently, they pressed their brows together, breathing one another in again and again. Having her scent filling his senses, her heat against his skin, it helped. It did not make everything right in the world, but they had spent this last week apart, and to feel her so close was a great relief. He almost trembled as he cupped her face, as he combed back her hair.

“Are _we_ well?” he breathed on her lips, meeting her pale eyes ringed in her lovely dark lashes, long and thick.

“We are,” she almost sobbed out, wrapping her arms around his neck.

And he was not ashamed to admit that he clung to her for all he was worth. And, if he wept, there was no one but his wife there to see it.

\---

_Menelya, 47 Lairë (29 June)_

\---

So far, investigations had yielded _nothing._

Arafinwë did not find this to be particularly surprising, though it was rather annoying. The streets of Tirion had been filled with visitors and drunks all Midsummer night, celebrating, dancing and gorging on food and alcohol until the first light of dawn. Most of them were either too busy or too incapacitated to be concerned with watching for suspicious behavior, and a large number of them had already departed the city, gone back to their homes out in the countryside or away in other cities scattered across Valinórë. Simply put, no witnesses could be found. No witnesses of the attacks themselves, no witnesses claiming to have seen either the victims or the assailant in the locations that the men had been discovered, not even any witnesses to strange or suspect _noises_ in the general area.

Whoever had done this knew _exactly_ what they were doing and when and where to do it to avoid detection. Arafinwë was not even convinced that the men had been attacked in the same locations they had been found! But, of course, there were no witnesses speaking of seeing anyone being dragged or carried to those locations either.

And, of course, the victims were still keeping quiet.

Therefore, Arafinwë had decided to take something of a different route to continuing his investigations into the matter. The two sons he politely invited (read: pressured) to assist him were standing in front of his desk. Findaráto, of course, was playing at being unaffected with that empty static smile on his lips, but Arafinwë had noted that his oldest had been rather sleepless as of late, dark circles under his normally bright eyes, and looked in no great mood to be ordered about on quests and missions. On the other hand, Ambaráto was not even trying to hide his annoyance at his father’s _request,_ as per usual, arms crossed and nose faintly wrinkled, eyes looking up at the ceiling. Offering them both his most beatific smile did nothing to quell their discomfort.

Not that it was meant to.

“Come now, dear ones,” he teased, swirling the tea in his teacup. “It is nothing so bad as all that. The matter is important, and who would I trust more to discover the truth of the matter than two of my own blood?”

“I do not see why you cannot just have your spies and servants do this tripe,” Ambaráto complained harshly, plopping himself down into the singular chair across the desk from his father and helping himself to a few biscuits. He made no secret of staring at the far wall, already bored with the idea of playing detective. Arafinwë tended to ignore the petulant behavior from his youngest boy; he was more than aware of his child’s coping mechanisms.

“Is it really too much for a father to ask of his sons?” he questioned.

“Atar, why do you really want this to stay within the family?” As usual, Findaráto was much more aware of his father’s motivations that his younger sibling, or at least more outspoken and willing to question them. “Are you actually suspicious of our cousins?”

The rumor mill, of course, had immediately tried to implicate the Fëanárioni. Some of them, of course, were unlikely suspects. Nelyafinwë was almost certainly in bed with his wife the entire night, not that Arafinwë would have been ill-bred enough to ask for confirmation. Pityafinwë had been knocked nearly unconscious in a tiff, bruised and battered and still unsteady on his feet the next morning, hardly in a position to be beating up three fit men. Curufinwë, though he had been out all night, had been with his wife (as Arafinwë had learned from some gentle questioning out of earshot of Lindalórë’s parents) and so drunk that the pair had passed out naked in the grass by the lake.

That obviously did not rule out all the rest. But, much as he would admit that his half-nephews were _capable,_ and much as he would admit that not all of them had been accounted for, he could not for the life of him think of _why_ any Fëanárion would be bothered to assault and batter three unimportant courtiers in the middle of the night and inscribe insults upon their flesh with a knife. Capable, they were, but lacking in motive. He was not certain if these men had even been alive the last time his nephews had been at the Court of Tirion, let alone how they might, in any way, have known one another.

Unfortunately, Arafinwë was a meddler, and he liked to know what was going on in his own domicile. If these assaults were _not_ the result of a Fëanárion in the midst of a temper tantrum, he wanted to know who _was_ responsible.

And he wanted it all quiet. There were some things that a King wanted to be the _first to hear,_ and this was damn well one of them.

Servants and spies, unfortunately, were the absolute _worst_ at keeping secrets.

But _sons…_

“I simply would appreciate being the first to hear the truth,” he said, knowing that Ambaráto would roll his eyes (which he did) and Findaráto would see right through his words and sigh (which he did).

“And what, exactly, do you really want us to search for?” his eldest asked shrewdly.

“To start with, I would like to know why someone would like to permanently mark those three men with the word ‘filth’,” he began, watching as the younger son perked up in interest. Findaráto’s eyes narrowed to blue slits, brightening with the same suspicion that Arafinwë himself felt when first hearing that curious and unfortunate detail of the series of altercations, while Ambaráto seemed suddenly more willing to take on the investigative task.

“Someone carved words onto them?” the younger asked sharply.

“On their backs. The healers said it was done rather intentionally to scar, unlike other knife-wounds, which were very obviously intended to cause pain but not to mutilate,” he explained. “As you can understand, this is not a simple case of beatings, and it is _not_ something I would want to lightly blame anyone for, especially not one of your cousins.”

“They are more than capable, should the needs call for such means,” his oldest commented, trying for a lightness of voice that belied the darkness of his gaze. Old and ill experiences lingered in the murky waters of those eyes. No doubt, Findaráto was recalling the actions of his half-cousins against him which had ultimately resulted in his removal from the throne of his own kingdom and his banishment with a mere ten loyal vassals. “While I agree that the Fëanárioni do not do things for no reason, this is _mild_ compared to what they _might_ do if they _had good reason._ Or thought they did, by their own twisted moral perspectives.”

And here, people were so quick to assume that his oldest son was a proponent of forgiving and forgetting. More so was Findaráto a man who did not cast blame without evidence, but who lived by a particular code of honorable behavior.

Arafinwë wished his son would think better of his cousins. Or, at the very least, give them the benefit of the doubt.

“Understandably,” he said in response, “I would prefer to know if one of your dear cousins _is_ responsible for these attacks, or more than one of them. But, for the time being, I would like to know _why_ these attacks happened in the first place. These men were obviously targeted, but they claim not to remember their attacker.”

“They will not speak.” Findaráto tapped his chin with his fingers. Ambaráto glanced between his brother and his father.

“So, who are these men who would keep silent after a brutal attack out of fear of their attacker?” the younger son asked, leaning forward with intrigue lighting a little baby of a fire in his normally dull eyes. “And what did they do to believe that we might agree with their attacker’s choice of label if we know the truth of this altercation? What other reason would they have for resisting identification of their attacker than that they fear what we will learn should we speak to the one who did this?”

“That is for _you,_ yondonyar, to figure out.” Arafinwë sipped his tea and stole the last biscuit out from beneath his son’s sneaky fingers. “I am quite certain you can do this swiftly and discreetly. I would prefer this whole business remains as confidential as possible.”

Still smiling, he shoved the list of three names across his desk and watched his eldest pick them up, skimming them with his eyes. In a single motion, he folded the parchment and tucked it away into his tunic. “Come along, Aikanáro. We have some work to do.”

Meanwhile, the younger brother eyed the empty plate of crumbs with distaste. “I suppose this might be entertaining. Fine, let us begin.”

“So glad to have your support,” Findaráto muttered with no small amount of sarcasm.

“Naturally,” Ambaráto agreed.

The pair made for the door, and Arafinwë, for his part, went back to his paperwork and his finances and his correspondences. No rest for a King was there ever. And no shortage of people who needed but a moment of his finite number of moments of attention.

But he had faith in his boys. They would get to the bottom of this.

When he had the truth, he would know what to do.

\---

Under most circumstances, Findaráto was _glad_ to be helpful to his father. As the Crown Prince, the heir, it was expected that his father would place a certain amount of trust in him, and that he would be expected to shoulder some of the burden of the throne. There were so many people who demanded so much of his father’s time that he knew his father found his willingness to be helpful a blessing.

However, the firstborn Arafinwion was wary of this task.

He was wary of anything pertaining to the crimes—potential or otherwise—of the men of the House of Fëanáro. And for good reason.

Delivering a missive was one thing. Investigating them, drawing attention (potentially negative attention) to himself in the process, willingly stirring the resting nest of resentment, anger and violent impulse that lay at the bottom of the still and rancid waters of the Fëanárioni and their pasts, that was not something a man should take up lightly, for it could come with unanticipated and even fatal consequences. It only took one instance of getting on the bad side of certain cousins for Findaráto to learn that caution was a more precious commodity than he had ever realized until it was far too late to turn back.

As soon as he and Aikanáro were out in the hallway, as soon as the door closed and they were away from their father’s sight, he felt his shoulders slump. Fatigue beat heavily upon the doors of his conscious mind, calling persistently for rest that had eluded him these past few days. He had a feeling rest would be even harder to come by in the coming weeks.

Especially if it turned out that one of his half-cousins (or more) truly _was_ guilty of these brutal acts of beating and torture.

One might have presumed that, as the man in the position of power with his father—the King—at his back, he would be assured of his own safety in this matter. The law, if it came down to that, was on his side. He was an honorable citizen seeking justice for men under his jurisdiction, lords of his people.

But a kingship had not protected him from the Fëanárioni before.

 _Curufinwë. Turkafinwë._ He shuddered to think of them, of accidently tripping over their traps waiting in rest to spring, of falling victim again to their cruel disregard. When they were a distant monster, hiding faraway, far from his family and far from his life in Tirion, he had been capable of ignoring their continued existence. But now, after they had come out of self-imposed exile, after they had spent the night sleeping just a few hallways down, when his nightmares crept in from all sides, full of flashing, dripping fangs and tearing pain and glowing white eyes that slowly bled to scarlet…

His heart skipped a beat. Phantoms pains arched across his seemingly unmarred flesh, twisting and turning in a labyrinth beneath his clothes, over his heaving chest, across his perfectly symmetrical features.

It made him nervous. Pitting himself against his cousins made him _nervous._

“You look tired,” Aikanáro commented. “Do you think we ought to wait until tomorrow to begin this task? Little difference will it make.”

“No,” he immediately countered, shaking away the images that flickered at the edges of his gaze. The shimmer of blood on the floor. Of white, grinning teeth. “No, we should begin immediately the task entrusted to us. As Atar said, we can finish this swiftly unfettered by the duties that devour most of his days.”

Aikanáro scoffed quietly, arms crossed. A sad shade of his former fiery self. “I suppose I should follow your lead?”

“You would do well to.” Out of little arrogance did he say that, for he had been named wise but in truth just had much experience in matters of delicate verbal dealings. Unlike his brother. For all that Aikanáro was handsome, he was also of a brasher nature. More straightforward and lacking in subtly, as his amilessë might imply.

Less so now that he spent his days in grief, half-hidden beneath a mockery-mask of his old self. But, still, he was no elegant negotiator.

“Then, O wise older brother,” the younger brother mocked, “Might I suggest that _you_ take care of matters in the Healing House. I suppose the healers need to be spoken to again. And the obstinate patients besides. If anyone can get words of their attackers to depart their lips, it would be you.”

Findaráto raised a brow. “And what do you propose I have _you_ do, then?”

“Well, naturally I should go and gather the lurid gossip about our three soon-to-be new _friends_ whose aggressor we are trying to hunt.” Aikanáro sent him a jagged look, eyeing him up and down as if examining a weapon for flaws, assessing its usefulness for a particular battle strategy. “No one will be telling _you_ anything of use.”

“Pardon me?” Findaráto tried his best not to feel insulted.

His little brothers grin, sharp as an arrow’s tip and just as straight and true in its target, made the muscles of his cheeks twitch in irritation. “You are the honorable older son. No one will so much as breathe a word of anything illicit or suspect in your direction.”

 _Perhaps true,_ Findaráto hated to acknowledge.

It was well known, though perhaps erroneously, that Findaráto was an upstanding creature with a moral compass that never strayed. The picture the Crown Prince painted of himself and his deeds in the Hither Lands leant him credibility to bolster his reputation of a steadfast man that any could come to and expect fairness and just discernment. No quick-tempered fiend of the House of Finwë was he, but more of the made of his grandmother’s people, or his mother’s. Loyal and honorable to a fault.

If, indeed, their few “friends” had been dabbling in some questionable pursuit, Findaráto was unlikely to hear of it. His brash and wild younger brother, on the other hand…

“I shall start with the women they have courted—or consorted—with,” the younger Arafinwion explained, “And, perhaps, business associates or friends if I can learn some names. Naturally, it would be helpful to know the names of the men who were attacked first, however.” With a raised brow, Aikanáro looked upon his older sibling.

Well, it was sound. For now. Findaráto pulled out the scrap of parchment, name-laden, and handed it over. “Take care not to be too obvious, hanno.”

“Unlike you, I am still a bachelor, so there is little unexpected or concerning about my pursuit of feminine company.” Never mind that they both knew Aikanáro had no interest in any woman and would be putting on his best flirtatious smile for the cause rather than for any real form of enjoyment taken in feminine attention. “How many women, do you suppose, would be all too happy to try and assist me through my grief over the loss of my poor, pathetic mortal lover, hm, hanno?”

The biting sarcasm, even hatred, was not lost on Findaráto. “They know nothing of Andreth or what a remarkable being she was, no matter that she was mortal.”

“They think our love as fickle and fleeting as the lifespan of an atan. Might as well make it appear that they are right.” Aikanáro rolled his shoulders, hid the shadows in his once-bright eyes, which went back to being dull and lifeless and glassy. “Let us not speak of it. It is done and cannot be undone. Hopefully, this little assignment proves interesting enough to make its conclusion worth all this trouble.”

Findaráto did not push the subject. Aikanáro might be perpetually saddened by the loss of his mate, but that did not mean he did not have limits at which his temper snapped.

“We gather information,” he said, “And share what we have learned at meetings of our own arrangement. At least two or three a week. Starting tomorrow.”

“Fine. May I go now?”

The cynical twist to those words grated, but Findaráto let it go. “Yes, of course.”

“Yes, of course,” Aikanáro mocked even as he set off down the hallway, boot-heels clapping sharply upon stone. “Tomorrow, hanno.”

“Tomorrow,” he agreed.

But his brother was already gone. Leaving Findaráto to head towards the Healing Houses alone.

\---

Maybe he should have thrown the rock first.

There were times, however, when Curufinwë was not what one would call _wise._ Thus, it was that he climbed up to his wife’s balcony without having the foresight to think that, perhaps, it would be in his best interest to give her prior warning of his arrival. His intent, naturally, had not been to impinge upon her privacy, but to seek her council in finding a way to apologize to his half-uncle without spontaneously combusting from either shame or rage.

The results were… mixed.

He heard her gasp echo from beyond the lace curtains the very moment his boots could be heard thudding against the stone of the balcony, as well as the hastened rustle of sheets as she (to his ears, at least) sat up in bed to see who had appeared outside her glass door.

“Curufinwë? Is that you?”

Pushing aside the curtains, he stepped into her room with the early morning gray at his back, streaks of sunlight only barely alighting the sky.

Lindalórë was abed still. This time, no sleek and pure white nightgown did she wear, nor a heavy robe to hide her silhouette from sight. Instead, she was nude but for the sheets hastily pulled up to cover her modesty. At least, enough of it that nothing officially explicit was showcased, which did little to quell the swell of heat that made itself known between his legs when his eyes caught on her bare leg uncovered all the way up to the juncture of hip to thigh, just a hint of the dip down to her groin visible. It took him a few long moments of staring at how her legs were clearly widely-parted beneath that thin veil of fabric, of breathing in the sweet smell of her sex as a perfume on the air, and of seeing the glistening of her fingers where they curled in the hem of her sheets, to realize that he had _interrupted_ her.

 _Oh Eru…_ And, of course, his cock did not care at all that he should not be here and had promised not to attempt to seduce his wife. It thought seducing Lindalórë sounded like exactly the right thing to do right now. _Oh Eru…_

“I… I can… go…” He was already backing away.

But she was sitting up, the sheet falling down to her waist, and he was seeing her breasts while sober and very aroused for the first time in a _long time._

“No,” she said breathlessly. “No, stay.”

_Stay?_

Her hand crept back underneath the sheet, which inched down over her belly, low enough for her trimmed, dark curls to be visible at the edge of the white fabric. And, underneath, he could see the motion of her hand, circling rhythmically, tracing patterns across the swollen pearl of her pleasure just hidden from his sight.

“Yes, stay,” she purred, leaning back luxuriously among her pillows, back arching to display her perfect breasts, dark nipples perked against the cool breeze slipping in through the open door. “Should I not get to look upon the handsome face and form of my husband while I pleasure myself?”

It was on the tip of his tongue to offer to replace her fingers with his tongue—or, better yet, his own fingers—but he resisted the urge, wondering if it would be quite welcome. “You just want me to stand here and watch?”

“Mm… yes,” she answered, eyes fluttering shut. “You interrupted my morning. You can wait until I am finished before conducting business.”

 _She is going to torture me._ Curufinwë felt his face flush with heat, and he was certain he was stricken with that same rosy red coloring that he and his brothers so often teased poor Morifinwë about. _She is going to bring herself to orgasm right here in front of me while I stand here and watch._

In his leggings, his cock gave a sharp twitch. If he thought she would allow it, he would have reached down to stroke himself through his clothing at the sight of his wife letting out a breathy moan, her hips arching upwards and her thighs opening even further.

Would that he could have reached out and wrapped his fingers in her long, dark hair, wild and tangled what with how the back of her head writhed back and forth against her pillows. Her other hand, graceful and long-fingered with manicured nails, cupped her breast and squeezed, fingertips tracing around a supple, tantalizing nipple. “Curufinwë,” she moaned, hips arching upwards sharply as her circling fingers slipped down and inside.

Just dipping, though. He closed his eyes momentarily, swallowing sharply against the burn of arousal in his gut, knowing she liked that gesture. Liked feeling her own fingers slip inside, stroke up against the anterior walls of her channel, and then slip back out to circle her swollen opening. Liked it when he did the same.

With his eyes closed, he could not _see_ her fingers. But he _knew her._ Knew what she preferred when she touched herself, or when he touched her. Remembered it better than he remembered the hilt of his sword or the back of his hand.

Licking his dry lips, he opened his eyes to watch.

To watch as she threw her head back, voice raised in a soft song of bliss. The rhythm of her hand picked up, moving fast beneath the sheet.

“Lindalórë,” he murmured, mouth dry. “Lórë, let me see?”

Laughing, she shoved the sheets the rest of the way down, pushed by her restless feet. And then she opened her thighs wide and let him see all of her.

Feeling like he might burst into flames, he watched as she finished herself with loud, breathy whines, fingertips rubbing across her clitoris swiftly. “Yes,” she crooned out. “Yes, yes… Oh, that feels so lovely! Would that it was your tongue instead, melindo!”

His knees felt made of jelly. “Say the word, melissë.”

“No, no…” Her nipples pulled taut and tight, and he could see the way she shivered, knew what it meant down to his bones, hungered to go down on his knees and taste…

“You stay right there,” she hissed out.

And then she spun apart right there, right beneath his gaze, shameless and glorious. And, _Eru,_ but she was beautiful! The way her swollen lips opened up, matched the way she bloomed beneath her fingers below, as she sighed out his name again and again. Her whole body flushed and shuddered, her belly rippling in seductive waves, and he could only just imagine how her inner muscles would have felt around his cock, massaging him into his own climax as she came undone about him like a tight, grasping velvet glove.

It took all his willpower to stand still and wait for her to come back down. Lazily, her fingers traced around her opening, glistening and tempting, and then teased over her swollen outer lips through the tangle of her dark curls.

Slowly, her emerald eyes fluttered open, looking at him from her royal bed of debauchery. “Vennonya, I wonder how much longer I can resist the temptation of taking full advantage of my own husband. Especially when you wander into my chambers as such opportune moments.”

He swallowed down an inappropriate comment. About how he really would not have minded if she had taken advantage.

Instead, he cleared his throat. “As lovely as that was, meldanya, I did not really come here to be tortured.”

“Naturally.” Much to his disappointment, she rolled over (but not before giving a rather languid stretch and stroking herself between her legs one more time) and grabbed at a robe, pulling the dark, heavy fabric over her nakedness. “Why did you come so early? It has not even been a full day and already you are back in Tirion.”

“Nelyafinwë kicked me out of the house. Quite literally.” He plopped himself down at the end of her bed, trying desperately to will his erection away.

She eyed him curiously. “What did you do this time?”

“He is angry about the fact that I kept my knowledge of Írissë from Uncle Nolofinwë.” Curufinwë huffed quietly, but nevertheless felt a shock of relief as his wife’s hands tickled against the nape of his neck, pushed his hair back so that her fingertips could trace the shell of his ear with the lightest of touches.

“It seems everyone is angry about that lately,” she murmured. “What do you have to do to get back in his good graces, then?”

“Apologize publicly. To Uncle Nolofinwë.”

She let out a snort of amusement. “And, are you planning to do so?”

“When I was younger, I might have been willing to remain stubborn for an age,” he said, happy to spill himself down onto her bed, laying his head into her lap, now covered again by her blasted sheets. “I am afraid, in my dotage, I have become used to the perks of an easy life. While I suppose I could stay at the old cottage, I will admit that the thought of being there alone is less than welcoming. It took less than a half-hour to burn through all my rage and leave me wishing for a welcome back in to the nice rug before the lit hearth where there is good food and good company.”

“You know, I do not think anyone will find you weak for handing over an apology,” she soothed, laying a kiss against his brow, "If that is what you truly wish to do."

“After all that the House of Nolofinwë did to my brothers, all the blame they foisted off upon us because Fëanáro was not alive to take responsibility for his own cursed actions, it makes my spirit _itch_ even thinking about just forgiving and forgetting it,” he admitted, looking up at her with all the consternation he could muster. “I will not lie. I still despise them all. Nolofinwë and every single one of his damn sons.”

“Tell me,” she murmured, “What, then, do you want to do? It seems you must either stay stubbornly upon your path or bend to Nelyafinwë and swallow your pride.”

Groaning, he looked up at her face, leaning over him. Felt her hair, trailing like little moth’s wings against his cheeks. “In truth, though I have not been swayed on my opinion in the matter, I also have no desire to remain stubbornly out of my brother's favor. I do not want to be my father, Lórë, who would put his own feelings on the matter above the wellbeing and harmony of his family. Yet, I cannot help the way that I feel about this whole mess, or that it makes my pride smart terribly to think of yielding. I do not want to let Nolofinwë think that he has won, that he can just walk all over my family without consequences, expecting our subservience when he is undeserving.”

“It is not about winning or deserving, Curufinwë, for an apology for your own actions does not mean you are forgiving all the ill will between your Houses. It is only about garnering favor. Besides, I suspect that having the upper hand over you and your brothers is the last thing on Nolofinwë’s mind right now,” she pointed out, stroking a finger over his brow. “I also doubt that Nelyafinwë will back down in his decision. So, do you want to be allowed back in the house or not?”

He let out an exasperated sigh. “Of course, I want back in the bloody house.”

“Then you had best apologize, whether you mean it or not,” his wife advised. Her fingers moved to trace down his throat, over his collarbone. "It seems to me that that course is the one you wished to take even before speaking to me."

 _It was,_ he thought to himself, eyes fluttering shut beneath her hand. _I simply needed to hear from another's lips that it was acceptable to feel as such._

His father would never have approved. But he trusted his wife's judgment in this matter as a counterpoint to his father's unyielding opinions haunting him from the grave, trusted her when she told him it was alright to yield. That there was no shame in doing so, if that was what he desired.

“If I do, will you give me the satisfaction of having your hands upon me now that you have seen fit to tease me so cruelly, vessenya?”

At his cheeky grin and the roll of his hips, she let out a soft tinkle of laughter. “I shall think about it, dear Curufinwë. Now, let me get dressed for the day. I would not miss this apology for the world, I should think, so let us plan it down to the last detail.”

“Of course, you would not wish to miss it,” he answered. “You live to see me suffer.”

“I do,” she agreed. “Up.”

Groaning again, he obeyed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:
> 
> Eldar (Q, p) = high-elves  
> amilessë (Q) = mother-name  
> ataressë (Q) = father-name  
> melmë (Q) = love  
> Fëanárioni (Q, p) = sons of Fëanáro  
> ammelda (Q) = most beloved  
> Aiya (Q) = exclamation  
> Atar (Q) = Father  
> yondonyar (Q, p) = my sons  
> hanno (Q) = brother (informal)  
> atan (Q) = one of the Race of Men  
> melindo (Q) = lover (male)  
> melissë (Q) = lover (female)  
> vennonya (Q) = my husband  
> meldanya (Q) = my beloved/my dear  
> vessenya (Q) = my wife


	39. Getting the Short End of the Stick

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Or, in which Curufinwë's problems only continue to escalate... Because I'm mean like that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: allusions to/talk about sex, unabashed nudity, religious/spiritual undertones, family of choice, mental instability, gender inequality, dysfunctional family politics, alcoholism, drinking at inappropriate times of day, people trying to make the best of a shitty situation because polite society is shitty
> 
> As a side note, for those of you who read these, I am planning to post a small (and by small I mean a long three-story mini anthology) sexy interlude (that takes place in this AU, so it'll be posted on this story) later today as a Valentine's Day gift to my dear readers. Keep your eyes peeled if you're interested.
> 
> Maedhros = Maitimo = Nelyafinwë = Nelyo  
> Maglor = Makalaurë = Kanafinwë = Káno  
> Celegorm = Tyelkormo = Tyelko = Turkafinwë = Turko  
> Caranthir = Carnistir = Morifinwë = Moryo  
> Curufin = Atarinkë = Curufinwë = Curvo  
> Amrod = Ambarussa = Pityafinwë = Pityo  
> Amras = Umbarto = Telufinwë = Telvo  
> Fingolfin = Nolofinwë  
> Aredhel = Írissë  
> Lalwen = Lalwendë  
> Turgon = Turukáno  
> Fingon = Findekáno  
> Argon = Arakáno  
> Glorfindel = Laurefindil  
> Ecthelion = Ehtelion  
> Egalmoth = Aikambalotsë

_Menelya, 47 Lairë (29 June)_

\---

“What do you want to do now?”

Languidly, they splayed out together in the grass, both as naked as the day they each had been born, shamelessly bare and completely comfortable each in the other’s arms. A long night of love-play beneath the shimmer of the stars and coated in the gleam of the moon, and then another joining as the light was cresting the horizon, lazy and slow and consuming as they devoured one another’s moans and cries, had both exhausted and sweat-slicked.

But, now, as he lounged in the warm brushes of sunlight that teased their way into the small clearing, as he listened to the sound of the nearby river rumbling ever on and felt his lover’s breath steady against his throat, Turkafinwë thought he had not been so _at peace_ since…

Well, he was not certain that he had _ever_ felt this at peace.

There had been long years in his youth when he had been wild and desperately sought his freedom from one damn end of Valinórë to the other. Even one stretch of months where he had failed to return home, making himself welcome in the Woods of Oromë amongst the divine hunters and flower-maidens.

Those few months were the closest he could recall to this feeling. No ever-present knocking in the back of his mind, responsibilities demanding, family calling for obedience or Oaths begging for blood. The voices in the back of his mind were silent.

And then he spoke, breaking what had been a night of speechless mating. No need had there been for words between him and his lover after a point, for they had felt twined together in body and in spirit, each perfectly content to read the longing and desire of the other from their eyes and their body language. Even when they were simply lying together in the golden glow between bouts of bliss, he had kept his lips sealed and his voice silenced.

Unfortunately, as he had learned over his many long years of frustration and disappointment, all good things had to come to an end. If he had the choice, he would have fallen into this wordless harmony and heaven and never bothered to crawl his way back out again, but such was not the way of the world. Even he knew that. Knew it too well.

Knew it as that slimy voice in the back of his head that never shut up.

So, he broke the silence.

“What do _you_ want to do?” she asked him, sitting up to look at his face, laying draped across his chest, her breasts to his bare, scarred skin. Her fingertips traced the mark where he had been skewered upon Dior’s blade, following the dip and curve of the ragged flesh.

She had a mark of her own, vicious and black, etched forever into her precious white skin. Last night, he had traced the lines of it with his lips, that place where she had been run through and poisoned. It was such a tiny thing, a mere scrape that bloomed over her side, curling around her ribcage. If the weapon had been untainted, it was a wound that a warrior would fight through to the end of battle and stitch it its wake.

Few other scars did she bear compared to his war-torn form. The contrast of her softness to the rough patches on his own body left him shivering. Had they not spent themselves entirely not but an hour earlier, he wondered that he might roll her over and make love to her again.

But they really _should_ speak.

“Your family seeks your whereabouts,” he said quietly, stroking his fingers up the curve of her waist and back down to tease her hipbone. “But I am not here to return you to them against your will, lossë. I am here only for you.”

He did not have to explain more than that. Not really. The moment he appeared in the forest, the moment she caught the glisten of his eyes through the dim of the thicket, she must have known that he hunted her but for his own desires and naught else. No pawn was he, not of his own family or of Nolofinwë’s. Nor did he really understand why he had sought her out except that it had felt right in the wake of their single night together, and his spirit had called for his obedience in this matter.

Above all else, that was what he had always followed whenever he could be free of outside obligation. It was what always led him back to the wilderness where he felt free. To the wide-open plains of the world that extended ever on, to the forests untouched before by the feet of travelers, to the quiet places that had never known the sound of voices speaking in tongues.

Now, it was drawing him to _her._ Something it had never done before. Not even Lúthien, for all her beauty, had inspired this sort of drive, for he had only lusted after her beauty and the power she might have offered him and his brothers.

Love, he did not call this, for he was not certain. But it was something other than lust.

“So, ask me not what I wish to do,” he added. “I am already where I am supposed to be. Where we go next matters not because I will remain where I am called to be so long as you agree to take me with you.”

Eru, it took a miraculous feat indeed to raise a blush upon Írissë’s cheeks, but blush she did at that, though it was accompanied by a smile upon her kiss-darkened lips even as she looked shyly away from her cousin’s steadfast gaze. “No one has said anything quite that profound to me since the days when Eöl still tried to woo his way into my good favor,” she told him, catching his hand with her own and weaving their fingers playfully. Hers slender and elegant against his own, long and marked with all manner of scars.

“You said my father searches for me?” she asked then, her smile dimming slightly.

“Naturally,” he answered, seeing no reason to hide that fact. “You have your parents and your brothers in quite a state. It is only sensible that they would be concerned for their missing family member, think you not?”

“Worried because I am a helpless woman, more like,” she said with a snort, reaching over his chest to rudely pluck up a few blades of perfectly innocent grass. “I have always been capable of taking well enough care of myself, and every one of them knows that. I know how to survive out here better than any of them!”

He let out a low huff of laughter. “Ai, Írissë, I think it has nothing at all to do with whether they believe you can survive out here on your own.”

“Is Atar going on about marriage, then?” she asked sharply. “Is he going to demand that I wed the very moment I set foot back in civilization? Because, if that is his design, I shall just never set foot back in Tirion again! And to hell with court!”

Personally, Turkafinwë could not agree more. In many ways—an innumerable amount of ways—he agreed wholeheartedly. Long had he wished to abandon any semblance of any life but this. Hang his father. Hang his bloodline. Hang his status and his duties and his responsibilities. And the damn etiquette and the ridiculous court dancing and the all the rest of the senseless drivel and ridiculousness that was all pieced and shoved and crushed together to form this mockery of a way of life called “polite society”. There was nothing polite at all about court. It just hid all its ugliness beneath pretty lies.

He had hated it from the very moment his father had first forced him to dress in finery and be toted about like a shiny bauble for inspection. It had been his bane all his life. There had been a time when he had even contemplated disappearing entirely, going nameless and faceless and never calling the name Fëanárion his own.

But…

Then and now, he still felt loyalty. He still remembered how it felt to have Curufinwë at his back, eyes wild and smile broad and toothy as they cut down foes and guarded one another to the very end. He still remembered how it felt to know that, for all that he teased and tormented poor Morifinwë, his younger brother still checked to see that he was in one piece after every battle and breathed a sigh of relief each time he was mostly whole. He still remembered how it felt to have Nelyafinwë hold his child-self close in an embrace and tell him that all was well, drying his tears of frustration after another row with his father ended in screaming.

No matter how senselessly cruel he became in his boredom and his madness, no matter how unhinged his mind became as he was sucked under by all the death and all the hatred, no matter how awful he treated them or how much disregard for their feelings and wellbeing he showed, his brothers had ever been at his back.

He could not leave them. He could not in the Years of the Trees, when the only love he had known where their embraces and soft lullabies in the dark. He could not in the Hither Lands, when they were all that gave him direction and purpose in an otherwise purposeless and dying prison of a world. And he could not leave them now, after everything was over, because they had earned that much from him at least.

Still, they knew him well. They could live without his presence for some time. They might even be glad for a hiatus from his particular brand of affection, for he knew that he had been as unbearable in the past days as he had been in some of the darker times abroad, taking out his agitation upon them in the form of harsh and cutting words.

But he wondered if Írissë was the same.

“Could you truly leave it all behind forever?” he asked solemnly, playing with the ends of her tangled, dark hair. “Your mother and father? Your life in Tirion? Your brothers?”

For long moments of contemplation, she was quiet. And then spoke, her voice so soft he almost lost it beneath the sound of the river just behind the trees. “I want so much to say ‘yes’, but I doubt it. I am made for wandering, for going where my heart desires and when it desires, and for doing what it desires when it desires, but it always seems to lead me back home again at the end of the long years of wanderlust and adventure. When I left Ondolindë, I was certain that there was no power in Eä or beyond the Doors of Night that could make me wish to go back. Yet, my son was barely into adulthood when I felt the call to return, and from within myself rather than from any great power without! My own heart called to see my home again. But, more so than that, to feel the warmth of Turukáno’s arms around me. To hear his voice and know that he had missed me as I missed him.”

She let out a sigh, leaning down to press her cheek to his skin. “I do not want them upset, but I also am not ready to go back to the prison of Tirion, just as it took so long to desire a return to the prison of Ondolindë. It is not that I _never_ wish to return, but I…”

Much like him, he supposed, she looked upon places and saw walls and fences keeping her in rather than safety and defenses keeping all else out. “Where do you want to go, then, if not back to Tirion?”

“I had thought to travel north into the mountains to find you,” she explained then with a quirky little grin, “But, since you found me instead, perhaps elsewhere?”

Though he could still have taken her up the mountain paths to the home he and his brothers made for themselves in isolation, for the time being, he knew, she would not be content with lingering up in the mountains with her cousins. Perhaps, after a few weeks’ time, he might suggest they retreat to the little Fëanárion stronghold in the foothills of the Pelóri. Until then, he had some familiar old haunts that he would not mind visiting, should her reaction be favorable.

“It is hard to say where I might or might not be welcome, but I have not seen the forests and woods inland for a very long time. If you have no particular desire to travel any which way, perhaps we might start there?”

This time, she did laugh, giving him such a knowing look. “You want to go and visit the Woods of Oromë! I guess we had better turn south rather than continue northwards, then!”

_Well, at least she seems amiable to the idea._

“It is somewhere to start. It may be that I am ousted from such holy woods immediately, but there is no sense in bemoaning failure until an attempt at reconciliation has been made in the first place.” He did rather wonder if Oromë would still welcome him as an old friend or if the Vala would shun him and bid him leave that place which had once felt more like a home to him than had his parents’ house. Few things could make him nervous, but the idea of losing access to that which he so fondly remembered—the forest in which he had learned to hunt, learned the way of the sacred hunters to treat the land well and take only what they needed, and in which he had learned to speak to the birds and the beasts as if of their own tongues—was a jarring one. It might truly make him sorrowful to be banished henceforth.

But he had not been banished yet. Avoiding it out of potential for heartache was not in his nature to do. And, he found that he rather liked the idea of bringing Írissë there. That he rather hoped she might find the same peace beneath the summer boughs of the deciduous trees, in the quiet presence of the fauna and the persistent but subtle cycle of the forest life, that he had once known in his time of greatest unbalance and frustration.

And there was something else. Something else that he scarcely dared contemplate.

Long had he the desire to seek out Oromë again, to speak to the one who had been his mentor and taught him many of the skills that had, more than once, salvaged his life and the lives of his brothers. It was an urge he could not quite describe or understand, for it was not like the loyalty he felt for his brothers at all.

Did he want to thank Oromë? Turkafinwë did not think that seemed right. He was not one to give trite verbal thanks anyway, always more interested in _showing_ his thanks through actions than expressing them emptily through words.

And why would he have the urge to bring Írissë with him, then, if all he desired was to give his gratitude? She was no bauble to show off! Yet, the desire was still undeniably there. To have her with him, to show her something (some _place_ ) he considered precious, to show Oromë something (some _one_ ) he considered equally as precious. It was nothing at all to do with how much he desired to have more sexual intercourse with her, because he was not unfamiliar with his own biological urges, but something else entirely.

If he did not know better, he might have thought—

“Well, we had best get a move on, unless you plan to couple again here before we go.” Írissë stood, her tangled hair thrown over one shoulder, ridden with leaves and little bits of riverbank sand that she combed out with her fingers. Which, of course, left her whole naked body completely displayed for his viewing pleasure as he sat up. It certainly distracted from looking for his scattered clothes.

“Later,” he said reluctantly. “We should travel quickly and lightly to avoid detection. The longer we linger in a single location, the more likely it is that your brothers, no matter their level of ineptitude, will catch us.”

“I suppose I shall clean up and dress.” With no shame whatsoever, she reached down to smear at the glistening, half-dried residue of their coupling between her thighs. “Like this, I will make an absolute mess of my clothes. I only have the one pair of trousers.”

He rather liked seeing the evidence of their joining on her body, and part of him rather hoped that she would keep it upon her skin, decorating her with his claim, for as long as possible. But, from his few experiences (as a young male) with semen and clothes, he knew that that ended in a lot of staining and resultant scrubbing. With a sigh, he also stood, looking down at his sweat-streaked form. There was no small amount of mess at his groin either. “Shall I join you in the river, lossë, or would that be counterproductive to your getting clean?”

_It most definitely will be counterproductive to either of us getting clean. Or leaving in a timely fashion._

Giggling, she tossed her hair over her shoulder and strolled towards the river, almost certainly letting her hips sway seductively before his eyes with intent. “Do you think you could stand to wait by the trees and keep watch while I bathe?”

“As though I need to be standing around like a statue frozen in the woods to hear if we are being snuck up upon.” He trotted after her. “Lead the way, dear cousin.”

“You just would not be able to keep your hands to yourself,” she teased.

He reached out and pinched at her bottom, laughingly dodging out of the way when she gasped and tried to return the favor. Playfully, they chased one another into the shallows of the slow-moving river water, kicking up all matter of silt and splashing like children.

And he stopped thinking again about all those problems that so plagued the more complicated reality beyond these trees. This was the most lighthearted he had been in millennia, untroubled by bloody Oaths, unbothered by looming wars, unconcerned with the safety and wellbeing of himself and his own kin. There was _time_ to play in the water, to reach out and catch Írissë in his arms and press kisses all along her shoulders while she laughed, and to laugh at her in return as he shoved her into the water, and she rose to the surface soaked and shouting for revenge with a smile upon her face.

It felt all too tantalizingly much like being _free._

And part of him prayed that it would never come to an end. Foolish and naïve thought that might have been.

_All good things come to a close._

\---

There was a Fëanárion on his doorstep.

Powerful was the urge to slam the door shut in his nephew’s face. Powerful indeed.

It was only because he was not quite certain of the involvement of the rest of Fëanáro’s brood that he did not take his fury out upon his nephew then and there. It would have been all too easy to hiss out words just as cold and cutting as the winds of the Helcaraxë to send the boy shooting off back to the little mountain stronghold with nothing but curses towards the House of Nolofinwë spitting from his lips, but he rather had something that he wanted to discuss, and he did not want to step of Nelyafinwë’s toes when there was every chance that the Fëanárioni were his best (if not only) route to finding his missing daughter.

It was, therefore, with a sort of distasteful resignation that he allowed his nephew into his home and did not give in to the urge to punch the younger man in the face. “What do you want, Curufinwë?”

“Nelyafinwë sent me… in a manner of speaking.” The younger male winced. “He sent me here as _punishment,_ just to clarify.”

 _So, he did_ not _know about Curufinwë’s little bit of secret-keeping._

“And what does your punishment entail that I have to suffer through your presence?” Nolofinwë asked with no small amount of disdain. It was completely logical for him to take his nephew to his study and have a glass of decently strong alcohol without offering his _guest_ any despite how it was too early in the morning for drinking. “What do you need?”

“Well, the bulk of my punishment is to take place later tonight, unless you are willing to step outside sooner than that so that we have an audience. I do not think Nelyafinwë will consider my apology to be _public_ if I give it while we are holed away here in your study.”

Curufinwë sounded so profoundly disgusted by the idea of handing over an apology that Nolofinwë could not help but laugh under his breath for all that he felt little humor at the assertion in his heart. The boy sounded so terribly like his father, talking straight from ill memories of days when he had daily battles with his older sibling, verbal blows exchanged instead of sword-strikes. The poor thing was so _put out_ at the idea of swallowing his pride for anyone or anything, so _annoyed_ at being forced into a tight spot, just the very same as his father would have been.

“And what makes you think I will accept an apology from you no matter who is watching?” Nolofinwë asked sharply, taking a gulp of his hard liquor and enjoying how it burned on the way down.

“He said not that you had to accept the apology, just that I had to give it,” his nephew muttered, lips curled into a sneer.

“So, why are you here?” Nolofinwë asked again.

“Because of Turkafinwë, and for no bloody reason other than that.”

Curiously, Nolofinwë turned to look at his nephew, whose eyes were averted downwards and to the side, arms crossed and jaw set. “What about Turkafinwë?”

“You know, I had rather thought what he had with Írissë was a little bit of fun on his part,” Curufinwë said, and the dismissal in his tone most definitely had Nolofinwë’s teeth grinding, for how _dare_ that snot speak in such a way about his daughter! But then Curufinwë let out a sigh. “But I think he may actually be in love with her.”

“In love?” Nolofinwë had seen Nelyafinwë with Istelindë, knew that the Fëanárioni (at least some of them) were capable of genuine affection. But Turkafinwë?

“Well, more than in lust, in any case.” A look of consternation crossed his features; Nolofinwë recognized it as an expression he had seen on his older brother’s face. “I want to know what your plans are when they come back.”

“They?” Nolofinwë set his glass down. “You think Írissë and Turkafinwë will be together?”

“Turkafinwë disappeared less than an hour after I told him where Írissë was staying, so I have no doubt that he went after her for one reason or another,” Curufinwë explained, sounding almost sulky. “He was furious that I had kept my knowledge from him to start with—I had not thought he would care much, that he knew Írissë could damn well take care of herself, but he was growing anxious enough for concern—and did not come in to the fire that night nor appear at breakfast the next morning.”

“And that makes you think he cares for her?”

“If he had not cared for her, he would not have been angry about the withheld information.” Curufinwë sounded absolutely certain of that. “He does not care for people without cause, and certainly not someone outside the family, nor any woman he has ever had liaisons with. Never has before. This is a first.”

“And, so, here you are, asking me what I will do with the pair of them when they return back to civilization, as though I have any power over your brother and what he does.” Nolofinwë scoffed at the mere thought. Turkafinwë was even more like to Fëanáro than Curufinwë was, even more untamable and uncontrollable.

“You do have power over what Írissë does, no matter that she thinks otherwise.” They stared at each other, both solemn-faced. “Will you force her to marry someone else?”

“I ought to,” Nolofinwë said mulishly but without heat.

“ _Will_ you?” Curufinwë asked, chin jutting out furiously as he ground his teeth.

But, of course, Nolofinwë did not have the heart for that. Not to force Írissë into a marriage that would kill her spirit. He never had before, and so he had never tried, not with the first man she had liaised with nor any other. She was his beloved daughter, so much like his beloved baby sister that he knew he would do almost anything to see her happy.

“No,” he murmured. “No, I will not.”

“What _are_ you going to do then? It is no secret now that she has _been with_ my brother. What with how she suddenly disappeared from court immediately afterwards…”

Nolofinwë was more than aware of what was being bandied about at court, and it was doing nothing more so than making him more nervous and unsettled than he had been before. Rumors had gone straight from discussing what Nolofinwë was going to do about his daughter’s public indiscretions with Turkafinwë to suggesting that she had been banished from the family in shame. For the same reason as her aunt had been. The idiots of court only _thought_ that the royal family was out of earshot of their theories and whispers and derisive comments.

Even if she came back now, Írissë would not be welcomed back unless she was married. That much was plain as day.

Either she married and was welcomed back to Tirion, or she was ostracized from court (and, likely, from the city) in utter shame. And, yet, Nolofinwë could still not imagine trying to force a marriage upon her. “The decision is up to her, I suppose. My preference would be for her to marry, either Turkafinwë or someone else, but…”

Well, Írissë was a stubborn woman. Perhaps more stubborn than any of her brothers. Perhaps even more stubborn than her father.

_Eru, she reminds me so much of Lalwendë…_

“Listen, Curufinwë,” he said, taking another rather large sip of his drink, “Do me a favor and I shall publicly _forgive you_ for your insult against my House.”

“What sort of favor?”

_Naturally, one cannot expect a Fëanárion not to be shrewd. Fëanáro would never have hastily accepted a deal either._

“Help my sons track down your brother and my daughter,” he suggested, gulping down another drought, “And convince your brother to marry Írissë. After that, you can have my _public_ forgiveness. Until then, bother not with the apology. I shall make certain we are not in the same place at the same time while in public.”

When he met those eyes again, they were filled with hatred. “I can see why Atar has always told Amillë he would not mind skinning you,” his nephew commented. “I suppose, I have no choice but to comply with your little _favor_ then. I am halfway inclined to think you and Nelyafinwë corroborated on this to teach me a lesson, but there is simply no way even he could have predicted this outcome.”

Nolofinwë snorted and pulled out another crystal glass. “A drink, nephew?”

The look Curufinwë gave him could have killed for how venomous it was. “That would be excellent, Uncle Nolofinwë. Undoubtedly, I shall need it to put up with extra time spent in the presence of your sons.”

“The sooner Turkafinwë and Írissë are found, the sooner you get to give your apology,” he teased, pouring his nephew some alcohol.

Curufinwë downed it in one go. “Lindalórë will be so disappointed that she has to wait to witness my humiliation. She was rather looking forward to my planned performance this evening, I think.”

“So sorry to disappoint.” Nolofinwë offered a sharp smile.

“No, you are most certainly not,” Curufinwë snapped in return. “When do we start?”

“Immediately,” the older man purred. “Let us break our fast properly—my wife is still abed, but I am certain she will be delighted to have a visitor—and then we can go and fetch my sons. We will have work to do.”

It did not fix everything, but Nolofinwë found that he was quite pleased that he had not slammed the door in his nephew’s face.

Curufinwë’s look of utter fury was almost worth all the trouble.

\---

When Lindalórë heard about it, she laughed at him for a good ten minutes.

“I am not going to have a husband by the time this is over,” she exclaimed, adding insult to injury. “If Turukáno does not manage to drive you to killing someone—or does not kill you in return—Turkafinwë is going to do you in when you catch up to him with an unwanted posse of Nolofinwioni on your tail.”

“Do not be melodramatic,” Curufinwë scoffed, hating how his cheeks had been blazing nonstop for about three hours now. Ever since he had gone to talk to his uncle—out of the damn goodness of his heart, for all the good that did him in the end!—he was struggling against the feeling of near-constant mortification. Nolofinwë had handily walked him right into a trap because he had revealed his hand too soon, and now he was stuck hunting down Turkafinwë, which was what he had wanted to avoid doing right from the beginning. “No one is going to be killing anyone. We will find Turkafinwë and then we will go our separate ways.”

“You will _not_ find Turkafinwë.” She flicked his forehead. “He is three times the tracker you are and always has been. Even if you could follow any trail he leaves—and he could leave no trail at all if he does not want to be found—you will not catch up to him.”

“He cannot run forever in Valinórë.”

“He once disappeared for six months as a boy—before he even had any real skill as a hunter or a tracker—and neither you nor your father nor any one of your brothers had even the faintest idea where he was until he came home and _told_ you where he had gone!” She rolled her eyes. “So, am I going to be stuck here waiting for you to return, then? It is going to be a decade before I get to have you to myself again.”

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Curufinwë wondered why he had even bothered with going out of his way to do something decent for a change. He should have just taken off on his own looking for Turkafinwë instead of wasting a full day here, being pecked at by his uncle during breakfast, waiting on his cousins to pull themselves together for a hunt, and falling even further behind his brother’s trail. Then, he would not have had to subject himself to Nolofinwë’s smug little smirks or sit around anticipating all that extra, unpleasant time soon to be spent in the presence of cousin Turukáno.

 _This is all for Turkafinwë’s sake,_ he reminded himself blandly. _Let it never be said that I did not have his back._

“I had no intention of denying you my service and attentions, my lady,” he answered. “I am no less disappointed with the outcome than you. But, since you will apparently not have your husband around to bully and tease for a while, is there anything you want from me before I go? Requests? Demands?”

“Only that you hurry back,” she said, leaning over to kiss his left cheek. “And bring me back a gift, vennonya.”

They were out in public, out on a bench in the gardens, so there would be no _intimate_ goodbyes, much to his disappointment. Still, Lindalórë placed a hand upon his thigh, leaning close, brushing her lips against the corner of his, enveloping him all in her sweet, sweet aroma. And then her lips traced against the shell of his ear. “When you return, I have a welcome home gift of a different sort in mind.”

He shuddered all down the length of his spine, feeling the burn from this morning start up again in the pit of his belly. “Do you?”

“I imagine my patience will be running short by then.” She patted his thigh twice, far too near his crotch for polite society, and ended the gesture with a chaste kiss on the other cheek. “Shall I send Aikambalotsë along as well? To keep you safe from Turukáno? You could use some allies amongst all the men of the House of Nolofinwë.”

“Your brother is hardly what I would call an ally.” Indeed, Curufinwë knew that his wife’s brother was not exactly working _against_ him, but he did not think that her brother was going to work _with_ him either. One incidence of Aikambalotsë _not_ tattling about their sneaking around did not mean he was on _their side._ Just that he was not entirely _on the other side._

Lindalórë stood, offering her hand. And he dared not refuse it, clasping it tightly in his own as she tugged him deeper into the gardens. “He might be more of an ally than you would think, melda vennonya.”

“I will not hold my breath.” He pulled her close, relishing her presence.

“You know, I do think Turkafinwë and Írissë would appreciate what you did,” she added, leaning her head against his shoulder. “Even after all this time, you still are looking out for them. As much as I hate to admit it, Írissë will be in quite a pinch when she comes home.”

_If she comes home._

“It is not your fault.” He raised their conjoined hands, kissing hers.

“It was not my idea for Írissë to run off and disappear, but I gave her the means.” Lindalórë still sounded sick at heart. “I underestimated Írissë. Really, I should not have been such a naïve idiot about her, knowing what I do about her favorite way of dealing with restlessness. Aikambalotsë is my brother, for the Valar’s sake! I knew the story about her wandering off into the twilight and getting lost! Lost! More like lost on purpose! And now I have contributed not only to her disappearance but also to her ruin!”

“It is certainly not your fault,” he insisted, tried to ignore the tiny bit of panic raising the hairs on the back of his neck as he sensed her upset. “We will find her. Everything will be well.”

Her green eyes were damp, but she did not cry. And he felt a little ashamed because he knew she mostly held back for him. Or, rather, out of fear of his reaction should she weep. “I… It is okay for you to be upset.”

“Ah, Curufinwë… Atarinkë… I have already cried enough about this matter.” She kissed his cheek again. “I am tired. Please, take me home. Do not bother with the sneaking. If Atar and Amillë want to yell at me for spending time with my husband before he takes off into the wilderness for a month, let them!”

She started to walk away, but Curufinwë was a stubborn creature. Born and bred to sink his teeth into his target and hang on until he had no teeth left to hold with. “I meant it,” he said, squeezing her hand tightly. Perhaps a little too tightly. “I meant it, Lindalórë. I was… What I said before… I was awful. I know I was, and you have _every right_ to hold that against me for as long as you like. To the End of All Things if you desire. But I meant what I said. You do not have to run away or hide when you are upset… when you cry. Not from me. It does not make you weak.”

He could sense the tears near the surface, could see the way they gathered upon her eyelashes like tiny diamonds. “Are you really going to make me cry in public?”

“You can cry whenever and wherever you like,” he muttered stubbornly. “And all over me, if you want to. I just wanted you to know.”

At that moment, he felt terribly like to a young boy, eyes suddenly fixated on his feet with raw fascination as they kicked and scuffed the grass. He was waiting for her to say something—anything, even if it was the vitriol and scorn he deserved to hear—rather than continuing on without addressing the problem.

Instead of yelling or a slap or her storming away in a huff, she merely stroked his cheek, drew his eyes up to meet her own. “You really are more of a sweetheart than anyone gives you credit for, Curufinwë. It is half the reason that I married you.”

His return smile was brittle. “What about the other half?”

“That is for me to know and you to only guess at,” she answered. “Now, come along. Nolofinwë will be looking for you soon, so I would like to have my last few minutes with you before he drags you off on this crazy quest to find Turkafinwë and Írissë.”

“If that is what you want,” he breathed against her palm, holding it to his lips, “How could I refuse?”

_I could never refuse you anything. I owe you the world._

Her forgiveness, he found, was beyond any price. He would gladly pay for that in whatever currency she asked. And, if that currency was his time and his love, he would do it gladly until the end of time.

_My perfect, glorious wife, I owe you everything._

\---

At the end of the long-winded and unappreciated lecturing on propriety, reputation and the evils of the Fëanárioni, Lindalórë found that her older brother was waiting in the parlor with tea. For once, she blessed his presence under her breath rather than cursing it. Even when his first words were “You could have at least tried to be subtle.”

“I should not have to be subtle about spending time with my own husband,” she snapped back without any real bite, plopping herself ungracefully upon the sofa across from Aikambalotsë and helping herself to a cup of steaming hot tea. Chamomile. Even just breathing in the scent was soothing, and the warmth it inspired in her belly countered, if poorly, the ache of loneliness already setting into her chest when she thought too long on the fact that her husband was going to be wandering off for who knew how long on a wild goose chase searching for his wayward brother and cousin.

It was ridiculous, but, even in this short amount of time, she had become rather accustomed to the idea of having Curufinwë near. For hundreds of years, she had sat alone in her parents’ house wondering (guiltily, angrily, furiously) if he was even still alive, where he might be, if he was well, if he was hurt, if he _needed_ her and she _was not there,_ and now…

She was not ready for that again. Not even in the short term. She wanted him close. Nearby. Safe. Where she could reach out and touch. Assure herself of his wellbeing.

It seemed that, even now, she could not get what she desired.

_We made a mistake. Now we are being punished for it. He and I._

“Prince Nolofinwë has more or less coerced him into joining in on the hunt for Princess Írissë,” she said with no small amount of bitterness—and concern. “He is going off alone with a whole posse of Nolofinwioni.”

“I had heard about it,” her brother admitted, if diffidently.

Which she found rather odd. Suspicion alighted her narrowed eyes as she frowned at him across the tea table. “What do you mean, you have heard about it?”

Almost guiltily, he glanced away from her, as though meeting her eyes might give too much information away. Because it probably would, she realized. “Think about it, nésa. There are only three men who have any real expertise—if you want to call it that—in tracking Princess Írissë through the wilds, and all three of them are reborn here in Valinórë. Not that we did a very good job of it, but we managed to keep up with her until she decided to enter a forest enchanted against unwanted visitors.”

“Turukáno asked you—and Ehtelion and Laurefindil—along?” She was not certain whether to be surprised or horrified by that. “And you turned him down?”

“Of course, I turned him down!” Aikambalotsë gave her that _look,_ the “Why are you being such a silly woman?” look that constantly made her want to slap him right across his cheek. Preferably while wearing a large, pointy, jewel-encrusted ring. “I have absolutely no desire to rekindle friendship with any of the men of the House of Nolofinwë or any of his old _friends_ raised up to positions of lordship through nepotism or favoritism.”

“As if your position in Ondolindë was not the result of favoritism!” She could not help but roll her eyes at that. Typical man, trying to pretend that their wealth and prestige in Valinórë had anything to do with it! The only reason the House of Helyanwë was established in Ondolindë was due to the friendship between Aikambalotsë and Turukáno inspired by a coalition against the recklessness of their sisters, and everyone knew it. 

Still, none of that was truly important. Instead, Lindalórë focused sharply in on her prey. If she played this well, perhaps she could at least have a little compromise, something to soothe her nerves while her husband wandered off into the wilds alone with his known enemies. “If I asked you, would you go with?”

“Pardon me?” He blinked dumbly down at her set features.

“I said, if I asked you, would you go with?” she repeated. “Curufinwë is going to be stranded on his own with only his cousins and his cousin’s friends and allies for company for the foreseeable future. I am slightly worried that I may not _have_ a husband when all is said and done, and I thought, if Curufinwë had an ally…”

“I am not quite certain I could be considered an ally just because I have decided to take a neutral stance on all this second courting business,” he scrambled to assert, raising his hands up as if to quell her haste or shield himself from her zeal.

“You and I both know exactly when you stopped being neutral about this,” Lindalórë countered, thinking back to the previous day. Aikambalotsë had caught her both sneaking out _and_ sneaking in, and he had done nothing to bring her mischief and disobedience to a halt even knowing that her father was very much against her fraternization with her spouse. “Would you not do it if I asked you?”

“I may not be standing in the way of your rekindling your love with him, but Curufinwë and I are _not_ friends,” her brother insisted. “The forces led by his brother slaughtered my people as surely as Turukáno’s foolishness condemned them! What love have I for the House of Fëanáro that you think I would ally myself with them against the House of Nolofinwë?”

“I care little for you allying with the House of Fëanáro,” she interrupted, and truthfully at that. “I care about you allying with my _husband._ Because he is _mine_ and for no other reason than loyalty to your little sister. I want you to ally with _Curufinwë.”_

“To do one is to do the other,” Aikambalotsë asserted stubbornly.

“No, it is not.” She let out a deep, fatigued sigh, ruing the stubbornness of men. “I am worried about my husband and would feel better if you were there to watch him. Is that such a terrible thing for a wife to feel?”

“He can take care of himself,” her brother then insisted. “Besides, this is Valinórë! Nothing terrible is going to happen if he wanders off into the woods for a few weeks.”

“You have no way of guaranteeing that!”

And he did not. They both knew that much, and embarrassment came upon her brother’s face as he noted the naivety of his own argument, staining his cheeks. This land being holy and peaceful had not stopped the First Kinslaying from flaying open the docks of Alqualondë and bathing them in the blood of hundreds. Besides that, Lindalórë trusted not Turukáno or any other enemy of her husband to watch his back, to keep him secure.

Was it so terrible that she wanted him not to be alone? For, she would not be allowed to go forth at his side. This was the next best thing!

“Would you go forth and keep an eye on him at least? Please?”

She did have the advantage here of being her brother’s beloved baby sister, and she used it fully, encouraging him with her biggest, saddest eyes. In the long years before the Darkening, this tactic had worked wonders on the men in her life.

And it _did_ loosen her brother’s defenses. “Lindalórë…”

“You do not have to make friendly with him,” she insisted. “I simply would feel better having someone _I_ trust guarding my husband’s back. He means the world to me, and I would not see him come to harm. If I could have gone myself and been by his side, I would have done so without hesitation, but…”

Well, both of them knew better than that.

Finally, after long moments of silent struggle in which one sibling gave her best teary-eyed stare and the other clenched his jaw hard enough to make the veins of his neck stand out, her brother surrendered with shoulders slumped. His sigh sounded like something that might befall the lips of a man going off to a battle from whence he would never return for the odds against his survival. “This is going to be uncomfortable. A stronger man would not let his sister talk him into such nonsense!”

“A weaker man would tarnish the trust his sister has in him by letting her down.” She reached out to grab his head, pulled him down so that she could kiss his cheeks. “Whatever else you believe, do know that this means much to me.”

“That sounds nice now, but I have a feeling it will do little to console me when I am dealing with both Turukáno Nolofinwion and Curufinwë Fëanárion at the same time.” With that, he downed his cup of tea in a single draught. When it was empty, he gave the cup a dark look, as though it were at fault for containing a calming tea rather than a heady and rich wine. “I had best go and ready myself. I do believe the plan is to begin the hunt immediately.”

“Then you had best get going,” she said, doing her best (and failing) to keep her satisfaction out of her voice.

(And her relief. She failed at that, too.)

Setting his cup down, Aikambalotsë stood, pausing only to give her a kiss on the cheek on his way to the door. “You owe me for this.”

“A good big brother would do as such for his beloved baby sister out of the goodness of his heart,” she said, crossing her legs and sipping her tea nonchalantly.

To which he snorted loudly and left the room.

Which left Lindalórë lone with a cup of tea and only her thoughts for company. Sighing, she looked down at the golden-brown liquid, swirling it slightly in the cup of her hands. “Curufinwë is going to be furious,” she said to herself, knowing it to be true.

Somehow, though, she failed feel guilty over the potential suffering of either her brother or her husband.

After all, this neatly tied together (almost) everything she wanted with a nice, satiny, metaphorical bow. Her brother out of her hair, her husband with an ally at his back, and her mistake being corrected almost without her having to lift a finger. And, she had to admit with a tiny secret smile, there was a little bit of punishment for Curufinwë thrown in.

 _Not that he is not going to be rewarded upon his return,_ she thought to herself, absentmindedly tracing a finger down her throat, over her pulse and across her collarbone, shamelessly imagining his lips in place of her touch.

Mostly, she had forgiven him already for everything. He was like that, worming his way under her defenses, leaving her wondering how she could ever have been angry with him in the first place when he was the only person who could really make her smile or laugh through her trials and sorrows. Damn him, but he had that way about him that just left her breathless and helpless in his wake.

So much did she long to have him once more by her side—not as a mere suitor but as her husband in truth—that she was tempted to simply defy her parents and run away with the merry band of hunters in search of her wayward friend and brother-in-law.

But she could be patient for just a little while longer. It was not ideal, but she would just have to live with it.

Lindalórë sighed and set her cup down.

One could not always have _everything_ they wanted without hardship or struggle. And they did say that patience was a virtue.

They simply forgot to mention how much it ached and burned.

\---

Unsurprisingly, Curufinwë wanted to turn tail and flee almost as soon as he was within proximity of his uppity Nolofinwion cousins. It started, as it always did, with Findekáno giving him a broad, wholly fake smile as he held out his arms wide open. “Ah, Curufinwë, long has it been since we have spoken cousin!”

As he had purposefully gone out of his way to avoid the eldest of Nolofinwë’s sons at the Festival, Curufinwë had rather hoped to maintain their lack of interaction and conversation. Clearly, that was not to be, as he was forced to stiffly stand through an awkward embrace, a pat on the shoulder and a wet kiss on the cheek. Poor (two-faced, falsely valiant) Findekáno already smelled of drink, though he was neither shouting nor wobbling on his feet yet, so he could not have been very deep into his cups despite it being mid-afternoon. Usually he was well and truly gone already by his time of day.

“Greetings,” he muttered, hating the feigned gladness woven into the very fabric of Findekáno’s nature.

Over his eldest cousin’s shoulder were, of course, the other two. Arakáno was there, looking far too much like a doppelganger of Nolofinwë for comfort and smiling awkwardly. The pair of them, Curufinwë and Arakáno, were of similar age and stricken with similar curses of looks, but that had done nothing to bring them together before the Darkening, and his slightly younger cousin had not survived a single battle past the crossing of Helcaraxë, never meeting his Fëanárion cousins again at all during Exile. 

And then there was Turukáno.

The middle son had the stuffiest temperament, cold and sucked dry of all fun and frivolity. In the days of old, the Fëanárioni had rued his presence at parties and family gatherings, anticipating his straight-laced protests to every bit of mischief, pranking and trickery they played to avoid the brain-melting boredom of courtly parties and functions.

He had only gotten worse with age.

More outspoken in his opinions. Bitterer in his words an ideas. His rage might as well have been forged from the ice and the biting winds of the Helcaraxë. Curufinwë was unsurprised to see that Turukáno alighted his presence with a look full of broken glass and dipped in poison. It might have struck a lesser man down where he stood.

Flanking the middle son on one side was the golden-haired Laurefindil, Elenwë’s older brother, looking as Vanyarin as a man could come, and on the other was Ehtelion, the no-name bastard child who earned his way into legend by slaying three Valaraukar and drowning in a fountain. The three had been close friends and companions since childhood, and they continued to present a united front now.

_This is going to be awful._

“Are we ready to depart then?” Findekáno asked, sounding far too joyful and optimistic for a man whose sister had been missing for more than a week and who was about to wander off into the wilds with a handful of men who all hated one another and might try to strangle each other in their sleep.

“I do believe I was invited along as well,” a final voice interrupted.

Curufinwë felt his heart sink down into his belly as he turned to stare at the final member of their hunt. Tall, green-eyed and sharp-featured as ever. The look on his brother-in-law’s face was entirely sour.

When Lindalórë had suggested sending her brother along to watch his back, he had been certain she was joking.

 _No,_ he thought faintly. _She is simply out to torment me._

Because the only way this whole expedition could have been made worse was by the addition of Aikambalotsë Helyanwen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:
> 
> lossë (Q) = white blossom (or snow)  
> Ai (Q) = exclamation  
> Atar (Q) = Father  
> Ondolindë (Q) = Gondolin  
> Vala (Q, s) = one of the Valar  
> Fëanárioni (Q, p) = sons of Fëanáro  
> Amillë (Q) = Mother  
> vennonya (Q) = my husband  
> melda (Q) = dear/beloved  
> nésa (Q) = sister  
> Valaraukar (Q, p) = Balrogs  
> Helyanwen = of the Heavenly Arch


	40. Interlude: Of Three Brothers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And, of course, their Brides. Because this is a romance, and where would the menfolk be without their ladies?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is the Valentine's Day Interlude, my friends. It is rather long, but it's actually three separate shorter stories happening around the same time as where this story currently is in the plot, but it's focused entirely on three couples we don't get to see often (or at all) because I felt like it. It's basically _all sex_ , so, have some smut, silliness, angst and general fluff and romance all stirred together.
> 
> Warnings: sex (obviously), including fancy sex positions, consensual rough sex, pregnant sex, technically public indecency, voyeurism, clothed sex, spontaneous sex, oral sex, prudishness (overcome), angst and heartbreak, flower language
> 
> Fingolfin = Nolofinwë = Arakáno  
> Finarfin = Arafinwë

#### Absurdity

  
A Tale of Anairë and Nolofinwë and Public Indecency

\---

She had him right where she wanted him. 

Lazily, he leaned his head back into the cushion of her breasts where she stood at his back, almost purring at the dig of her fingers into the stiff and knotted muscle of his shoulders. Against the backdrop of the evening sky slowly fading to a peaceful gray were the sounds of the night slowly emerging to mingle with the sweet scent of roses like a thick and sultry perfume upon the air. They were surrounded on all sides in lush pinks and vibrant corals and deep, deep red blooms, giving the deceptive feeling of being hidden away from all the world in a sea of color and incense.

“Nolofinwë,” she breathed, leaning down such that her honeyed scent overtook the floral aroma that hovered ever over the public gardens as the thick curtain of her dark hair spilled down over his shoulder, a dark waterfall of silk. “Nolofinwë, I want to try something.”

“Hm?” Languidly, he stretched his neck and turned his head to look up at her from where he sat upon an admittedly somewhat uncomfortable stone bench. The coolness and hardness beneath his bum were certainly more than balanced out, though, by the soothing touch of her hands and the sound of her voice wrapping around him in the quiet and the pale, starry gleam of her eyes breaking through the growing shadows when night began to fall about them as a thick blanket.

One of her hands left his shoulder, instead stroking through his loose, dark hair, nails teasing over his scalp as she combed through the locks. Like a large and particularly pleased jungle cat, he let out a sound somewhere between a rumbling purr and a sigh, going limp and unresisting beneath her attentions.

“I want to make love.”

It was something they had done a thousand and many more times, so often that they knew each the other’s body better than their own. Blinking a bit stupidly up at her, he tried to figure out how this was a groundbreaking new thing that she wanted to try. It took him an embarrassingly long moment to remember that they were outdoors. Not even outdoors in their own private garden (which had seen just as much intimate use as every other room in their shared home), and not in the restricted palace gardens where none but servants tread and knew when to make themselves scarce, but out in public where any nameless public citizen could walk on by of their own accord and desire at any time unfettered. No fences and no walls. The gardens of Tirion belonged to all who lived within the city.

“Here?” he asked, blinking again.

“Is that such a strange request?” she asked, and he shuddered when her hands found the back of his neck, thumbs massaging in satisfying circles until he felt boneless even though she was touching him in such a vulnerable place and in such a way as he would never allow another living being. “I thought it might be fun and exciting. And this is a quiet time of day for traversing the gardens. No one has wondered by for more than an hour.”

“But someone _could!”_ he sputtered, both desperately aroused by her sudden forwardness (thinking of taking her right over the damn bench he was currently seated upon) and, also, completely mortified because Princes simply _did not_ fornicate with their wives out in public hidden between the rosebushes like common beasts or lusty felines! What if someone just so happened to randomly wonder by and _see?_

“It will be fun,” she insisted, and her coy smile most definitely bolstered the growing erection making itself painfully known between his thighs. “I even have a new position in mind. We could do it right here in the grass under the fullness of the moon and the resplendent stars.”

One would have thought, after being alive for thousands and thousands of years—after being with his wife for most of those thousands and thousands of years—they would have done something truly risqué and indecent out in public before, or even something simply quick and uncouth, but the most publicly they had done anything of a sexual nature was out in the woods behind Fëanáro’s country estate on a visit, or maybe in one of the restricted palace libraries or parlors where only the servants might stumble upon them and discreetly close the door rather than interrupt. Well, and there was one cleaning cupboard at an inn in Valmar, but that was neither here nor there. Never had they made love somewhere where _anyone_ could just wander on by!

Nolofinwë’s inner Prince—born and raised as a prim and proper gentleman by his strict Vanyarin mother and his old-fashioned Noldorin father—was absolutely scandalized at her suggestion. The shadow form of that righteous being, something that lurked and smoldered in the hidden and secret places of his icy spirit, was all too happy to imagine it in spite of the mortification spreading across his face in the form of a pink blush.

It was all too happy to stoke his desires, to picture the forbidden. To imagine the excitement. The anticipation. The rush of adrenaline along with all the endorphins. The possibility of being caught. The delight at getting away with it.

(And, secretly, even if they _were_ seen, the satisfaction of knowing that Anairë was his and his alone, unquestionably, and that their quiet watcher would know it, too.)

Naturally, in the great tug of war between these two contradictory pieces of Nolofinwë Finwion, the ridiculously wild side that was ever swayed to all manner of absurdity by his beautiful wife (around whose little finger he was tightly and securely wrapped) won out in the end. Somehow, it always did.

“Very well,” he agreed huskily, and he stood up from the lonely bench to tower over her petite form. “On the grass?”

Her hands reached up and curled around his neck, nails biting into his nape. “Right here,” she insisted, “Amongst the roses.”

They kissed, and her lips were a familiar cushion of softness, a gate that opened beneath his insistent advances and allowed him to fall into the warmth and flavor of her mouth and swallow down her answering moan. Without waiting (because, hells, if they were going to spontaneously copulate in a public setting beneath the stars they should probably not linger too long on the kissing and the petting before getting to the main course) he lifted her up against his chest and took them both to the ground. Gently, he laid her back upon the lawn before pulling at the ties of his own trousers with one hand and trying his best to find his way through the ocean of her skirts with the other.

Laughing, she spread her knees and did her best to assist him in getting to exactly where she wanted him to be. Only when his fingers found the heated wetness of her core did her giggles turn into something breathy and sweet and entirely tempting that he wanted to lick away with his tongue and swallow down like the finest of delicacies.

“How did you want to do this?” he asked, tempted to just scooch between her now-widespread legs, to smooth his hands over her silken stockings and curl them under her knees such that he could hold her open to make way for his hips.

“Here, come here…” She set about trying to direct him into position, maneuvering one of his legs over hers on one side (which, he felt, put his cock at an undesirably elevated level in comparison with her warm, honeyed core) and then folded her own over his on the other side. “Bend your knee, right foot on the ground…”

“I do not think that boots work that way, aini,” he argued, and nearly got a face-full of her slipper-clad foot for his troubles as she tried to hoist it up onto the broad square of his shoulder. Grabbing about her right calf with one hand, he assisted in securing it (tossing her slipper off somewhere into the darkness in retaliation) and shivered when he felt her toes briefly tangling in and tugging at his hair. It was completely ridiculous, and he was slipping backwards on the grass despite his efforts to keep his upper body properly upright, and she was laughing as he cursed quietly into the dusk.

“Are you certain this is right?” He felt more like they were a tangle of limbs bound and twisted about one another than anything else (though, there was a certain charm to that, as well, for she was all about him, and he adored having her so close they may as well have been one rather than two) with their groins lined up but her pushed up skirts falling every which way. He had not enough hands to steady her leg while holding the heavy fabric out of the way and still, also, to hold himself up and reach down to steer himself properly into her heat.

It would have been more annoying and distressing to be so unable to get himself inside her where he now desperately needed to be, perhaps, if she had not blown him a kiss (because neither of them could lean in far enough like this to kiss one another upon the lips without a feat of inhuman flexibility) and teased his hip and side with her left foot while she reached down to join them together.

It was awkward and took three tries, and he could not do anything more than rock upwards into her velvety softness, gasping as they finally joined together and then releasing a deep, uncensored noise of pleasure. How was it that no one heard as they groaned in tandem even in this expansive maze of a garden?

And now she was lifting herself up and arching—and, damn it all, why did he not have an extra hand to reach out and get her thrice-be-damned bodice out of the way? Her breasts would have been pressed right up towards the sky like a feast laid out beneath his salivating palate!—and driving herself down on him in slow, sleek motions, like a cat stretching and quivering. Only, it was not just her slender, willowy form through which that shudder passed, but her inner walls, also, that shivered all around him in the process.

“Just let me do all the work this once,” she whispered into the darkness, and he found his eyes fluttering shut as they rolled up towards the stars overhead. His toes curled in the depths of his boots as heat spiraled straight down to where they were joined.

Not even had he wanted to could he have followed that instruction. It was an instinctive thing, that primal part of every male and female to mate and bring pleasure to the self and the partner, that had him rolling his hips against her downstroke. There was no heavy, fast thrusting, no rushing to the tempting paradise resting at the end of the journey, but just as much enjoyment in getting there as they had taken in strolling the gardens and massaging one another’s shoulders and looking up at the stars in quiet admiration. Except, now, even as they were joined into One, Nolofinwë was having trouble controlling his breathing and wished very much that he could swipe the stray dark hairs sticking to his cheek and brow away but was too distracted to even begin to figure out how to do that without falling backwards and ruining the careful choreography of their joining.

Enthusiastically, she returned his affection with her own, rolling down onto his hips with resonating, singing moans that were carried off into the night, prettier than any songbird. The angle must, indeed, have been most pleasing for her, because she was pressing almost her full weight down upon him, taking him deep with each downward stroke, building tension in the heated coil that was taut and cruelly ready to spring in the pit of his belly.

Panting, he made the mistake of thoughtlessly trying to reach out for her hip, to pull her down harder upon his length and achieve even greater depth, forgetting momentarily that he rather needed that hand to keep himself from tumbling backwards.

Which is exactly what he did on her next downward stroke. With a shout, he found himself falling to land on his back. Which was fine, except that she followed where they were joined, wrenching one of his legs up high into the air, tossed over the one she had splayed in the grass at his side. Meanwhile, his head and shoulder had dragged her other foot back, and now she was straddled over him uncomfortably while he was knotted underneath in a shape his body found most offensive. The pair both winced sharply.

“Hold on…” Actually, at the moment, he decided that he felt rather like she had him clamped between her legs but not at all in the way she normally would, not with one leg tucked under his right thigh and the other digging sharply into that spot between his neck and left shoulder. And, somehow, they were still engaged, and he was not so certain that he liked that given her precarious balancing act half-turned sideways. “Hold on, let me get your foot…”

For a few long moments, they struggled to untangle their bodies (her damn skirts did nothing to help the matter, he was all too happy to point out) and she giggled when he wrapped his hand about her foot and smoothed his thumb up the ticklish underside. As he managed to get both of her legs on one side of his body at least, her thighs pressed closed, and she squeezed tight around him, and _Eru_ that was _very nice_ and he may have made a sound not to dissimilar from something that might croak its way out of a dying animal, and…

And she was laughing at him. And he was laughing back at her. Hopefully, no one was watching, because they both probably looked like absolute idiots who did not understand the proper limb placement for intercourse and were tumbling all about in the grass getting caught in their clothes and in each other. Carefully, still chortling, they pulled apart.

And, even though their failed attempt at coitus resulted in him slipping out of her and wincing at the bite of cool night air on his slicked organ, he still felt a helpless smile on his features.

No one watching this would have believed that the pair were not silly young lovers experimenting with all manner of unnecessarily complicated positions but, rather, parents four times over who had been married for millennia and had just decided to christen the public rose gardens for no good reason. Nolofinwë did not think they had quite so thoroughly wrecked their own copulation in a very long time. Centuries, at least. Not since falling over in that blasted cleaning cupboard and taking more than half the cleaning supplies down with them.

“Well,” she said, collapsing to lie on her back in the grass at his side, their fingers dancing together and twining. “That was nice while it lasted.”

“We are hardly finished,” he countered, rolling onto his knees and over the top of his wife, whose skirts were still pushed up and bunched about her slender waist. “Maybe something more conventional would be best while clothed, though?”

“Maybe,” she agreed with a lighthearted giggle. And, this time, he _did_ slip his hands beneath her knees and open up her legs like the cover of a book, shimmying between. Her hand on his sex was Eru-sent, giving him three quick strokes with just the right amount of twist and pressure (just to help him recover from the silliness of their failed experiment) before directing him straight back to where they both wanted him to be. Even through their little stumble, his ardor had barely decreased at all, and he took to the new position with alacrity. The sound of her soft, blissful cry as he entered her again and put some of his weight behind his deep, slow thrust was enough to have his hips stuttering.

With his whole body pressed above hers, he now could bury his face against her throat and curl over her and he rocked into the cradle of her hips. Nibbling his way up to her earlobe, he enjoyed with half-hooded eyes the way her loose hair splayed across the grass as spilled ink and felt so impossibly soft where it fluttered against his cheek like little moth’s kisses.

“Arakáno,” she breathed out, arching her throat to give him more access to the white expanse when he moved to nip at her pulse. “Yes… more of that, ammelda! More!”

All too happy to oblige, he obeyed the guidance of her fingers tangling in his dark hair, holding his head in place, and proceeded to suck a line of little red bruises up the side of her neck. Enthusiastically did her inner muscles tighten with each accompanying tiny shock of pain and pressure, with each lightning strike of bliss following in their wake, quivering as she pressed down to meet the rhythm of his hips.

They were being loud—even his groans, once low and breathy, were gaining depth and resonance as he felt his end approaching—but he did not really care anymore. Let anyone come and see them thus! Let anyone come and see how much he loved his wife and how much she loved him in return! Let them see the way her back began to arch and her mouth parted open with her quick gasping breaths and her head was thrown back in absolute pleasure and know that she was _his_ and he was giving her this paradise! Let them—

Let them—

“A-Aini,” he moaned out. “Do you need—? What do you want?”

“Deeper,” she groaned in response, and one of her hands left his hair, stroked a long line down his back and side, and then slipped between them. The very moment she touched herself intimately, he knew, because her thighs tightened where they had come to wrap about his waist as if to pull him in deeper, and her inner glove shuddered about him in a slick, mind-rending wave. Helplessly, his fingers curled into the grass as he shook. “Deeper, please, Arakáno…”

Now, he did not have much in the way of sense to do anything more than rock himself harder into her, face buried in the crook of her neck, all surrounded by the almond-sweet scent tempered with the warm fragrance of honey and rose. Nothing in all Eä could possibly have smelled more enticing or divine than she did in that moment.

Her hand coiled and yanked in his hair. “Yes, like that! Like that! O, Arakáno, just like that, ammelda, just like that…”

 _Eru, she is close._ She always babbled between her little, birdlike, ringing cries whenever she was close. And just knowing she was close had _him_ close, and he rather desperately clung to the knife’s edge of that oncoming wave of overwhelming light and pleasure because he was absolutely determined that, after he had been such an inconsiderable husband these past few days, he was not going to have his pleasure until after he had her coming apart around him in those delightful hot waves while she squirmed and writhed in his arms, and…

And…

And there was her guttural cry, a sound anyone else might have associated with pain but which had lightning shooting down his back a split second even before he felt her pull tight and convulse around his painful hardness. Her legs wrapped about him so tightly that he could do nothing but grind into her, trembling, digging his nails into the poor, undeserving grass as he followed her right up to that edge and over it into golden light.

And they were there together, whole and lost somewhere far away from the dark public gardens for long moments, both still shuddering and panting into the night. Slowly, they floated down as One and split back into two. Afterwards, it was as if all strength had drained from his limbs, and Nolofinwë laid himself over his wife as a blanket, head pillowed (as it had been when all this began) upon the softness of her breasts.

Beneath him, she let out a contented sigh.

“Well, vessenya,” he murmured against her skin, “Was that bit of fun everything you had hoped for?”

“And more,” she teased. “You feel so much lighter now, vennonya. A little bit of absurdity is good for the spirit every once in a while, Nolofinwë.”

Somewhere off to their right, there was something that sounded as a cross between a gasp and the squeak of a mouse, and the skittering of fleeing feet trailed off into the night.

The pair, entwined and warm and not feeling the least bit like moving, let alone pursuing some poor, hapless voyeur who had not realized they were spying upon a royal couple, each turned to stare at the rosebushes with raised brows. And then, quietly, they dissolved into laughter, stroking each other’s sides and faces as their bodies vibrated with merriment.

Not for a long time had Nolofinwë felt quite this relaxed. Quite this free of burden.

“I suppose,” he admitted, “You are right.”

Lifting his head, he received her answering kiss. And, for that moment, at least, all felt absolutely right in the world.

\---

#### Nostalgia

  
A Tale of Nerdanel and Fëanáro from the Long-Distant Past

\---

It was his face. Again.

Sitting before her worktable, Nerdanel let out a long sigh. It was late in the afternoon already, the angle of the sunlight spilling it low and tinted orange and gold. It burned against the orchid set into the black shadow of the corner of the room, half-hidden from sight, and cut across the room to form a large block of blinding light against the far wall. It also streaked across her creation, half-complete beneath her diffident fingers.

There were days when this happened. When every little thing that her hands tried to sculpt, as her mind wandered aimlessly through the annals of time and meandered through daydreams of faraway places, morphed into this same haunting visage. After so long, though, she had rather hoped that he would stop coming back to interrupt the flow of her intuitive inspiration. That he might just deign to, for once in his miserable existence (or non-existence), leave her alone to her quiet suffering.

_You loved him. Of course, he is never going to just go away. He was never the sort of man to give up without a fight, was he?_

With a sigh, she stared at the half-formed face. Stroked her fingertip over the familiar sharpness of a brow, over the high and angular cheekbone, over the half of a smirk curled up at the corner of his lovely mouth. All the while, her dispassionate gaze took him in, measured the likeness as a critic might examine the work of another artist.

Or so she would have it appear to anyone who wondered by and peered in the slightly cracked door to watch her at work.

Inside was a different matter. Inside, was where the truth lay. Inside, she wanted to sob or sigh or scream in frustration at the sharp stab and twist of her heart. Inside, she longed to wrap her arms around herself as her spirit shivered.

_He was so warm behind her._

_“Are you feeling better, nárinya?” For once, his voice was not caught between absolute arrogance and seductive hypnosis. Instead, it was shockingly gentle and quiet, barely brushing against her skin as he spoke._

_Which, for the sake of his continued ability to sire children, was probably wise. Nerdanel had spent most of that morning, beginning in the early hours, kneeling over a bucket losing her dinner from last night and wishing that she had never allowed him anywhere near her vagina. When the “morning” sickness finally let up, she just wanted to go back to bed, still feeling a little queasy and a little jittery in her limbs._

_She let out a ragged sigh. “No, not really.”_

_“Is there nothing I can do to assist you?” His arms wrapped about her where she laid limply on her side like a rotting dead animal (and feeling about as well as one, too), one powerful arm slipping beneath her head as a cushion and the other sliding around her waist, hand skirting over the growing swell of her middle. As it cupped beneath their unborn child, massaging against the soreness of her skin and muscle beneath, she let out yet another sigh._

_“This is all your fault to begin with,” she accused, voice trembling. “I am fat, tired and have been throwing up all morning!”_

_Maybe it was the hormones. Most probably it was the hormones. But she felt herself beginning to blubber, tears building up behind her eyes. It was pathetic and unnecessarily emotional and everything he hated. She could not quite understand why her annoyance had so suddenly dissolved into feeling just absolutely awful, but it had! And, now, all she really wanted to do was curl up and bawl._

_“Nerdanel?” Fëanáro sounded now actually out of his depth, nuzzling up against her neck as he slotted in all the way from back to feet against her. “Melmë?”_

_“Go away,” she moaned, hiding her face. “How can you even want to be lying here with me like this? I am grossly covered in sweat and my ankles are swollen and my breath probably smells like half-digested roast and greens!”_

_Nerdanel was more than aware of the fact that she was not really a match for her husband in terms of pure attractiveness. Fëanáro was the sort of man who was beautiful and charismatic enough—with his classically handsome and elegant face and form not to mention a voice that would make a Vala weep—to seduce even the most gorgeous women with little more than a glance. And she was just some frizzy-haired blacksmith’s daughter with an ugly red blush who would have been entirely plain and unnoticeably amongst a sea of other average women were it not for the auburn of her hair. Why he had chosen_ her _she could never quite understand, but most especially not now that she was not_ only _not the prettiest girl around, but was also bloated to approximately the size of a whale, was never in the mood for intercourse and was sweating like a pig and probably smelled disgusting after emptying her stomach for hours on end._

_“Do not be absurd,” he countered, sitting up enough that he could look down at her from over her shoulder, which she hunched in further in an attempt to hide from his white-gray eyes. She did not want to even look at his smug, lovely face right now!_

_Except, the expression it was wearing was not at all the familiar one of a man who thought he knew everything and that the world should bow before his feet in supplication. Brow furrowed down in confusion (When was Fëanáro_ ever _confused?) and mouth pinched into a little frown, he looked entirely unlike himself. “Nárinya, none of those things are your fault, and none of them in the least make you less desirable and wonderful and beautiful.”_

_“Desirable,” she scoffed, rolling onto her back just enough to look up at him. Her tangled hair was spread out beneath her. “I do not feel anything of the sort.”_

_Of course, he would take that as encouragement to change her mind._

_“Do I need to prove it to you?” he asked then, though he did not make his bone-melting seductive face, the one that usually had her knees turning to water. Instead, his eyelashes were fluttering gently, his lips parting ever so slightly to draw her gaze, and his hand came up to stroke over her cheek, to cup her chin, to stroke his thumb across her pouting lower lip. “Should I demonstrate for you that I speak nothing but the truth, melmë?”_

_There was a temptation to roll away and give him the cold shoulder, because he so often managed to cajole and convince her into sexual intercourse even when she did not really feel like it. But this did not stink of that sort of cunning. It was one of those brief moments in which his intentions felt genuine and pure._

_Slowly, languidly, he kissed her. Not his usual all-encompassing swallowing of her will to resist. Just soft and chaste and tender and everything he usually was not._

_And it left her breathless as he pulled away. “Nerdanel?”_

_“Okay,” she whispered._

_His smile was wide but not sharp. Slowly, he moved to cradle her head and shoulders with one arm, that hand finding its way to her breast and massaging the aching swell gently rather than grabbing or squeezing, the other circling around to stroke down her body through her thin nightgown, tracing over her ribs and over the roundness of her hip to the outside of her thigh. “Let me show you how perfect I find you,” he crooned against her ear, voice carrying that hint of magic that could bend anyone to his will, his breath hot against her ear as he kissed the tip of it and traced his way down. In his arms, she shivered._

_Rare was it that he focused so solely on her, for he was the sort of lover whose passion burned hot and swift on most days, always eager and always teasing her fast into wetness and slipping inside of her immediately in one long stroke. But not today._

_Today he took his time._

_He took his time touching her breasts through the fabric of her gown while he nuzzled her cheek and kissed a line from her brow down to the tip of her nose, thumbing her extra sensitive, swollen nipples into hardness. He took his time tracing lines over her swollen belly while he kissed beneath her ear and nibbled his way down the edge of her jaw, worshipping the roundness of her middle with his broad hand, seeking movement through the skin though Nerdanel knew their son (she was certain it must be a boy, for a girl could not be nearly so troublesome) was resting. He took his time even teasing the fabric of her gown up over her hip, dancing his fingertips like little brushstrokes over the soft skin at her hipbone until it tingled, until she moaned and leaned her head back at the first stirring of heat between her thighs that she had felt for more than a fortnight._

_“Everything about you is perfection,” he told her, voice breathy and slightly hoarse, sounding raw with emotion more so than she had ever heard him except when he had asked for her hand while kneeling at her feet. His hand slipped under her knee, lifted it just enough to squeeze one of his own between, his other leg stretched out along her second until their feet (his hot to her chilly) brushed against one another. All he would need to do is shift just a little and the burning, hard length of him would slip right between her folds with ease. She could feel it throbbing and full against her buttocks even now._

_But he waited._

_Instead, his hand was drifting along her inner thigh, connecting each freckle upon her skin with invisible lines, higher and higher towards the dark curls that guarded her sex. The touches would have tickled were it not for the heat beginning to boil under her skin, the blood drawing near to the surface as her nerves sizzled and fired frantically with excitement wherever her heavy, dark blush traveled across her otherwise white skin. Above, his mouth was at her shoulder, kissing her beauty marks in slow, savoring motions to mirror his hand’s tender traversing below._

_“Perfection,” he crooned again. “I adore everything about you, ancalima nárinya. Every freckle that alights your skin begs to be kissed. Every tremble of your limbs makes my breath hitch. If you asked, I would lie here and worship you with my mouth all day. All you need do is say the word and I will obey…”_

_A generous offer, and one that made her feel a little uneasy even now. No matter the pretty words he said, no matter how he delighted in touching her middle or kissing the freckles for which she had been so cruelly teased as a girl, she still felt gross and heavy in all the wrong places. She did not want him to see her thusly._

_Staying half-twisted onto her side, she reached down and guided his hand up to the apex of her thighs. “Touch me, Fëanáro,” she pleaded quietly, knowing it would distract him from further devotionals to her supposed great beauty._

_“If that is what you desire,” he breathed against her skin. And his fingers delved, parting over the petals of her intimate flower with familiar ease, knowing, somehow, just how to stroke his thumb across her swollen pearl to make her hips writhe and press back into his bulk and his warmth and the promise of his sex just out of reach. Without even trying, it seemed, he touched and teased her expertly until she felt the slick stickiness of her arousal seeping down over her thigh in a glistening trail upon her skin, wet upon his hand that stroked down the center of her sex from just above her throbbing clitoris to just below her welcoming entrance._

_Ever so slowly, and so much more gently than he usually would, he eased himself into her, supporting her uplifted leg with the firmness of his own thigh between hers. Languishing, she laid still as he moved them both on the soft sheets, as he fused them together at their cores and filled her up deep and full and brushed against that spot inside her that made her belly tighten and her spine sing with bliss. Moaning into his mouth, she reached up to touch him wherever she might reach, eager to feel the way his shoulder rippled, the way his jaw flexed with the effort of staying silent, the way his eyelashes brushed across her knuckles as she stroked his perfect cheek._

_For a long while, there was just them entwined as One being together, and Nerdanel wondered that all the times they enmeshed did not feel quite so intimate as this. It was not that flash-fire haste to reach the end that so often consumed them both and burned them to ashes when they fell together over the edge. It was not even a fire, for all that her husband ever blazed and burned just beneath his skin where he pressed up against her back, where his thigh rested between her legs, where his hand cupped her breast._

_Just warm and soft. Just loving and sweet. When his hand moved to rest on her belly, when she felt the faint stirring of their child beneath his touch, she almost wept in earnest. A few crystalline drops escaped._

_But he caught those few tears with his lips._

_“By Eru, I do not have words to explain to you,” he whispered to her, “How absolutely perfect you truly are, Nerdanel. How you make me feel things that no one else could ever stir in my spirit. How you make me feel whole and shower me in your softness and your love, so forgiving and so gentle. How you wrap your cool spirit all about me when I want to scream and soothe everything away back into blessed silence…”_

_He kissed her again, interrupting his own stream of consciousness. They both came away panting, lips glistening with the taste each of the other, and Nerdanel dared to look into his eyes as they burned so hot and bright that they could have been stars refracting through diamond but so close that she could reach out and touch their holy light and hold it in her palms. How, she wondered, how could this perfect, beautiful, powerful being ever have seen something so equally amazing and breathtaking in her?_

_Behind her, she felt the telltale stiffening of his body, the jerkiness to his formerly smooth and supple movements. The hand upon her belly slid down between her legs to ease over her slick folds, to entice her to orgasm even as his eyes squeezed shut and he panted out his last long moments of the climb against her neck._

_And, for her part, she felt the little whimpers in the back of her throat turning to soft, airy cries, splitting through the afternoon rays spinning and weaving across the walls and the floor through the lace curtains. In her belly, the heat was opening and rising and filling her with bubbles of that same golden light until she thought she might float with her ecstasy. It took barely a few brushes of his fingers over her clitoris for her to let out a sobbing cry and pull taut about his sex inside her, for the light to consume her sight and steal away all breath in her lungs. And it was only his arms around her and his warmth inside her she could feel. Only the sound of him breathing her name as he jerked and came within her that she could hear._

_And then the stroking of his hands upon her brought her back down to earth. For once, not in a rush to go somewhere else, not distracted by thoughts of projects or happenings at court or things needing to be gotten done, her husband laid behind her on the bed and purred with his pleasure against the back of her shoulder._

_He slowly eased from her, pulling her gown back down to keep her warm, and spooned up against her back, warmer than any hearth fire. Against the back of her neck, he pressed little tickling kisses._

_“Do you feel better?” he asked quietly, arms squeezing about her in a comforting and cradling embrace._

_Indeed, she felt much better. The queasiness in her belly was gone entirely, and the warm, glowing feeling of satisfying copulation rested heavy in her bones, keeping her weighted down to the mattress. Warmth, comfort and an ease to her suffering all contributed to the feeling of sleepiness that settled in along with her yawn._

_“Much,” she murmured, cuddling back into his chest._

_“Much, hm?” She felt him kiss her shoulders and the back of her neck again, and his broad hand, rough with calluses from his work in the forge, smoothed down the curve of her waist to her hip. “How about you get some rest, vessenya? I know it has been a trying morning, and you deserve some relaxation.”_

_“Just do not move,” she murmured, almost melting when he obeyed and stayed abed with her, hand moving to stroke across their unborn son again. “You are perfect as well, vennonya. I am sure you hear it many times a day, but you are.”_

_“Not half so perfect as you,” he answered immediately, voice teasing but also carrying a hint of something dark underneath._

_“Truly, you are,” she insisted, lifting his hand from her belly to press a kiss to his knuckles._

_“If you insist,” he acquiesced. “Now sleep, melmë.”_

_How could she resist when he had that spark of enchantment back in his voice, like a whisper of ancient power that she found irresistible and impossible to ignore. As though speaking the words themselves was enough to bring the blanket of tiredness fully down upon her, to ease her into the cloudy comfort of dreams, she felt her eyes drooping, her gaze going distant as the room faded bit by bit into a tessellation of light._

_And she thought she heard him sigh._

_“If only you could understand,” she thought she heard him say, “That you are too good for me in every way. If only I could find a way to make you see how much I love you…”_

_But she heard nothing more. When she next awoke, the room was illuminated only by a faint silvery light. At their bedside, a purple orchid sat watching over them, a gift from him that she had carefully tended all throughout their courtship and kept close, for she thought of the darkening of his eyes in lust and love with fondness every time she saw it. For his part, he was still at her back with sleep, hand resting across her swollen belly, snoring quietly into the wildness of her russet curls, and his warmth was enough to drive away the chill of the night even though their sheets and blankets rested uselessly at the end of their marriage bed._

_Carefully, she reached down to put one of her hands over his. Though he was asleep and did not feel it, she did not think she dreamed that their son gave a little nudge against their clasped hands before settling once more._

_Her mind turned to the last words he had spoken. More of a hazy afterimage of reality than the lovemaking that had come before, so tender and so soft and so everything she ever imagined their love could be._

_And she wondered if she had not dreamed that last bit after all._

Beneath her hand, she felt the wet chill of the sculptor’s clay. Not the burning warmth of skin. Not the sharp hardness of bone. Not the softness of his lips nor the heat of his breath on her palm as she was kissed. The eyes that looked back at her were blank and lifeless, and they carried none of his resplendent glow, none of his impossible, untamable inner fire. It was a cold, false mockery of everything that he had ever been in life, just like the memory was a cold and distant flicker of the love and joy she had once felt.

 _It is just the nostalgia,_ she thought to herself, stroking that cheek one last time. _Just a little bit of unwelcome nostalgia._

And then she grasped the malleable softness of the clay and squeezed it into an unrecognizable lump once again. Giving an annoyed huff, she abandoned it upon her worktable, deciding she was well and truly finished attempting to be useful this day. She doubted _he_ would leave her alone long enough for anything else to leap forth and take form beneath her restless palms.

She wanted to hate him for it. For everything. Truly, she did. Wanted it so badly that she hated herself for the sin of being unable to muster hatred for him in her breast.

Quietly, she packed her things, washed her hands, and departed her workshop. Not once did she glance at the small, sad orchid lingering in the corner, dull purple with withering blooms and brown creeping down the stem, now visible as the sunlight faded into dusky gray. In a whim of fancy she had bought it, bringing it here thinking it might bring forth sweeter thoughts, but that was obviously a mistake.

Purposefully, she forgot to water it. The sooner it died, the sooner she no longer needed to think of it again. Of _him_ again.

The sooner it would all go away.

(If only it were that simple.)

\---

#### Catharsis

  
A Tale of Eärwen and Arafinwë and the Interrupted Work Schedule

\---

To say that he was tense would be an understatement.

Much was happening these days in the Court of Tirion. Brutal crimes being investigated. Festivals just around the corner needing to be planned. Not to mention a formal visit to the city from Eärwen’s brother (planned this time, thank Eru!) was upon them now that their families were back on friendly terms. And, for the King of the Noldor, so many happenings always made for more work. More missives. More treating. More audiences. More papers to be approved and signed. Just more of everything that haunted a regent’s long and dreary duty-laden days. And more of everything that came with his duties and responsibilities meant less of his time could be devoted to everything else.

Like sleep, for example. What he would not have given for another two or three hours of rest! And, mayhap, a cup of lavender or chamomile tea besides!

But his advisers and councilors had his entire day planned out and handed over to his head-of-household, and it was orchestrated almost to the quill-stroke! Never mind that his hand was starting to smart and the open window was looking a more and more tempting target for willful defenestration of all writing utensils by the second!

Almost scowling as he heard the door to his study open _yet again,_ he schooled his features firmly into a blankly pleasant demeanor and looked up, expecting a servant reminding him gently but firmly that so-and-so wanted to talk to him in ten minutes about monetary appropriation for this-or-that project, or he had a meeting to attend in a quarter hour with a demanding courtier or lord, or it was time to prepare for afternoon tea with such-and-such councilor who had something important to speak about or some such other nonsense. Instead of a manservant or the head-of-household, however, he blinked in slight surprise at seeing his wife.

Well, he could see most of her upper face, at least, over the top of the massive vase full of orange, purple and red tulips she was carrying cradled in her arms. It was positively huge and so bright and eye-catching that he could hardly look away.

Humming as she went about her business, Eärwen crossed the room and set her lovely burden down on an empty table below the row of windows on the far wall from the door, and their bright colors were turned almost blinding beneath the touch of Anar’s rays. “What think you of the flowers, Arafinwë?”

Blankly, he stared at her. “Are you… meant to be in here at this time of day?”

She crossed her arms (under her breasts, he could not help but note, pushing them up such that her cleavage was proudly presented above the lace of the neckline of her gown) and sent him a _look._ “Is that any way to speak to your wife?”

“Of course, not! I was merely inquiring because I have a rather busy schedule today and I was not expecting—”

“Your busy schedule can wait,” she said, walking towards him briskly.

“Pardon?”

“You could do with a break from all this,” she waved her hand through the air in an abstract manner, “Fluff and posturing. You have been locked up in this office for _four days straight_ and barely sleeping!”

“I am _busy,”_ he insisted, feeling a hint of annoyance creeping back in now that the surprise of her appearance had faded.

“You are stressed, and I do not like it,” she added, circling around the desk in a way that reminded him far too much of a cat skirting about the hiding place of an unsuspecting mouse. “Move over.”

“These things must get done, and they are my respo— Eärwen?” He had been expecting her to try and steal his quill, or maybe snatch his papers, not drop to her knees and crawl under the desk, knocking over a small pile of correspondence and a paperweight onto the floor in the process without even a backwards glance as the latter gave a loud thud and rolled some feet away. “Eärwen, what are you—?”

And _then_ there was a knock at the door. _Bloody great, just what I needed._ It took every bit of etiquette training and perseverance he possessed not to loudly groan in frustration. “Enter,” he called out, voice singing with that same pleasant tone it always carried.

Even as his manservant entered, his wife was pushing his knees open, fingers mischievously tickling their way up his inner thighs as she nuzzled at his crotch. His smile went stiff about the edges as he met the man’s gaze, steadfastly pretending that he _could not_ feel his wife’s lips through the fabric of his leggings and that he _was not_ getting swiftly and painfully hard beneath her ministrations.

“What is it?” he asked, proud that he kept his voice from wavering precariously even as Eärwen managed to get the laces undone and was reaching inside, her cool hand sliding against his lower belly and down.

“I heard a rather loud noise and thought I would come make certain all was well.” Normally, Arafinwë would commend his manservant—they had been what could passingly be called friends for quite a long time and he appreciated the regard for his safety—but this was one of those instances where he would have preferred that a blind eye had been turned.

“As you can s- _see,”_ he said, shuddering as his wife’s hand curled around him and pulled his half-hard sex free of the fabric barring her way, “It was merely a paperweight I knocked over as I was reaching for another letter. Nothing to concern yourself over.”

Never mind that it was still sitting in the middle of the rug still. Normally, he would have just gotten up to get it himself. Instead, he was glued to his seat.

“Ah.” Gray eyes swiveled from the innocent paperweight on the floor to look back towards his face, and Arafinwë wondered if he was really hiding the fact that his wife’s lips had just wrapped around the head of his cock (that he was fully erect and feeling a little dizzy and, also, mildly embarrassed) as well as he thought he was. Probably not, judging by the skeptical look. “I shall just leave you be, your Majesty.”

Arafinwë did not attempt to speak as the servant fled the room. Looking down at his wife in the midst of releasing a half-stifled groan, he spotted the tail end of her skirts peeking out from around the desk like a shimmering white beacon of troublemaking.

_Well, perhaps they will leave me be for a while now that every person in the household will know shortly that my wife is here with me hiding under the desk._

“I should be getting work done,” he ruminated half-heartedly, one hand creeping down to tangle in his wife’s silvery hair while the other quickly set down his quill lest he leave splotches all over his paperwork. A particularly clever twirl of her tongue along the underside of his sex, accompanied by the hollowing of her cheeks, had him proving his own point when his remaining hand slammed down onto the desk in response to the jolt of white-hot pleasure shooting up his spine to flash behind his eyes.

Indeed, no one came running at the loud thump this time.

Briefly, she pulled away, her reddened lips wet with saliva and shimmering as she laid little kisses along the veins of his erection, teasing up and down the side along the slight curve. “Leave the work for later,” she husked out, one hand gripping him at his hilt and the other cupping his sac. “Your lady wife demands your attention for the foreseeable future.”

And then she swallowed him down, and he wondered that he did not combust or otherwise expire right on the spot. Every bone in his body might as well have turned to jelly for how much resistance he could muster against his wife’s advances.

With a feeble groan, his head fell back against the cushioned chair and his hips arched upwards helplessly. Only for her hands to curl around his hips and push him back down until his ass kissed his seat once more. “Naughty, naughty,” she teased in that devilish sing-song voice of hers. “No moving. You are here for my enjoyment right now, aurenya. So, let me enjoy you at my leisure.”

“Eärwen,” he moaned out, shuddering when her mouth returned to slowly, sensuously wrap around his length, taking him in and in and _in_ until he was bathed in her warmth again. With the effort of staying still—of letting her bob her head and suck and take him in and out at her own pace and under her own power—did his muscles tremble and burn. Each downward stroke left him jerking and twitching uncomfortably, one hand tightening in her hair and the other clasping about the armrest of his chair until it creaked from the strain. Strain his poor clenched jaw and his harshly furrowed brow shared.

Her hands mapped his thighs, his testes, his cock, even sliding back to stroke at his flanks possessively as she took him deep, as he nudged against the back of her throat. His breath caught in anticipation, his eyes glimmering down at her like half-hidden sapphire gems laced at the edges with the dark blond of his lashes.

She pulled halfway off, and he could see her wicked smile curl sharply upwards at the corners of her mouth before she took him almost all the way down to the root. Helplessly gasping, his whole body just shivered and vibrated as though run through with a current. It might as well have been for how the aching too-much champagne-bubbling pleasure curled in his belly, for how his eyes flashed with sparks of light as the tightness of her throat encased him and squeezed and rippled.

And he could see her, how her eyes were languid and dark with desire, how her hair was curled in silvery waves about his hand, how her own hands eagerly pushed his legs further apart as she greedily swallowed about his spear and reveled in his helplessness as he squirmed. At the sound of his soft, guttural noise of shocked need, satisfaction bloomed in those stormy depths.

She took him down the last inch and buried her nose in the dusting of dark blond hair at the base of his sex. If the sight had not almost done him in, the knowledge that she was breathing in his musk and the smell of his arousal and doing it so willingly and lustily would have certainly helped him along to his pleasant demise. As it was, he felt the flush travel down his body, felt his belly trembling with the first ripples of orgasm, was powerless against the cry being ripped violently out of his throat…

And, at the last minute, she pulled back and left him cold and shaking and sprawled back against his chair, gasping as though he had run all day and all night. Anyone who walked in now need not look beneath the edge of the desk at his revealed cock, standing straight up and pointing towards her upturned face and teasing, kittenish smirk, to know what had been going on down there in the shadows where only he could see his wife kneeling. Even lowered thusly to worship at his feet, she looked like a temptress or a goddess.

In that moment, he felt the stresses formerly embedded in his muscles now filling his limbs with strength and the restless need to move, to grab, to pull her forth.

“Tease,” he accused, reaching out to capture her in his hands and letting out a little growl as she slipped by his fingers and out from under the desk. “Come back here and finish what you have started, isilmenya!”

“Catch me first,” she demanded, circling around the desk as he stood, darting just out of his reach as he made a grab for her, twirling on light feet with her white dress spinning all about and her hair disheveled and loose. And she was every bit as slippery as the moonlight for which he named her, laughing gaily as he chased her about the small study (forgetting all about the fact that his pants were open and anyone who stepped in and saw this would get quite the eyeful of their sovereign) trying to lay hands upon her and pull her close.

Finally, wound tightly with his frustration and pent-up stress and all the recent problems that had built up as knots and kinks in his muscles and aches in his bones, he caught her and swept her gasping form right off her feet. Almost savagely, he deposited her upon his desk, stopping only to shove everything in the way _out_ of the way, which really meant that papers, ink and an entire jar of quills ended up scattered (or splashed) all over the desk and the floor.

Triumphantly, he pinned her in place, upper body down, breasts flat to the wooden surface, as he leaned over her like a predator leans over its prey. “Now that I have you, thou troublemaker, what shall I do with you, I wonder?”

He knew her body language well enough to see that she shuddered and know it meant good things, that her rear lifted as she stood on tiptoe, offering and tantalizing. “What do you think you should do to punish this wayward temptress, aurenya?”

It was a close thing, but he managed to get her skirts pulled up and across her back and her undergarments down to her knees without tearing any fabric. He would have to have been a thousand times saintlier than he was in truth to resist grasping the lovely, round globes of her buttocks, squeezing them and measuring their shape and softness with his palms. “I think,” he said, voice low and rough, “That I should ravage you senseless, isilmenya. Right here across my desk. Until you cannot even walk.”

From where she looked up over her shoulder, he could see that her pupils drew even wider at the show of strength and possessiveness, at the deep rumble of his normally so pleasant and genial voice. When he moved to kick her ankles wider apart, he met no resistance. When he reached between her thighs, he found that she was already so slick that his fingers slipped and rolled across her clit and sank deep into her inner heat with ease.

And, by the Valar, he _lived_ for that sound that she made. High-pitched, needy, whining. For the arch of her back as she pressed her sex back and out to greet his touch.

“Hurry,” she called quietly, “Your lady wife is waiting!”

Much more roughly than he might usually, he pulled his fingers free and used them to slick his organ. Then, lining them up, he pushed into her in one long thrust, not stopping until he was root-deep. Reveling in the way her inner muscles gripped and squeezed. Almost dying at the wail of pleasure she gave as she gripped the edge of the desk and writhed.

Gripping her hips tightly, he pounded into her with little mercy. The swift, hard strokes shook her body beneath him, left her quivering and gasping with her cheek against the desk, holding on for dear sanity as he used his leverage upon her waist to pull her back into the forward piston of his hips. Now, there was no pretense of being either quiet or subtle in their joining, for she let out a high, lovely cry on every third or forth deep push into her depths, and he echoed her sounds with his own blessings and devotions of her name to the sky.

Everything about her, from the blushing shade of her bottom to the way it jiggled slightly as his hips met her flanks to the spill of her silver hair and the arch of her brow in bliss, all of it had the heat building and building in his gut. The more heat, the more speed, the more power behind each new drive forward.

Their sounds were loud and wet. Through it all, he heard the desk scrape over the rug, heard things upon it falling over, some rolling off the edges.

“Eärwen,” he snarled out, leaning over her and reaching to grasp at her shoulders, using the change in angle to make her nearly scream out his name in return as he hit even deeper and rubbed up against her inner spot.

“Perfect, j-just like that, A-Arafinwë,” she stuttered out between her singing moans. “Ai, vennonya, aurenya, you feel so _g-good!_ I am so _full_ with you!”

 _Not yet, you are not!_ In the back of his throat, his own shout of orgasm was building, each squeeze of her inner walls, each lovely sound that departed her lips, they all dragged him closer and closer to the fall. Until, as he had been before, when she knelt at his feet with her mouth upon his sex, he was teetering right on that edge. _I will fill you up, indeed, with my spend, and then we will be… we will be…_

“Arafinwë!” She went rigid beneath his body, shaking all over as she unraveled at the seams in his arms.

Keeping a bruising grip upon her, he rammed himself home twice more—almost proud at how she released a sharp cry with each and how the desk jerked and creaked beneath the power of his wild movements—and then felt himself spend. His shout was wrenched out of him with such strength that it felt like it might have ripped out a piece of his being along with it as it flew out into the room, announcing loud and clear for anyone within the palace walls exactly what their King and Queen were getting up to at this very moment. 

Or, rather, what they had just _finished_ getting up to. Because, as his voice died down into rough gasps against the back of Eärwen’s neck, he only managed another weak thrust or two, trembling and quaking his way through the mind-bending, toe-curling bliss of their copulation, before his muscles went to jelly and he had to lower himself upon her back. Even as he slipped out of her, she was moaning softly still.

“I think I am going to fall over,” he confessed, half-joking but also half-serious, because his knees were shaking. Not only had their rough lovemaking sucked out all his energy (and he was half-convinced she had pulled out half his soul and taken it for her own as well) but he left him feeling exceptionally lazy and in need of a good, long nap.

“We cannot be having that,” she answered, pushing upwards on her elbows. On wobbly legs, the pair skirted around the thoroughly mess-covered desk and made for the single loveseat beneath the window, blanketed in afternoon sunlight.

Arafinwë laid himself down, having just enough sense to at least tuck himself back into his leggings, though he could not be bothered to lace them. And then his beautiful wife spilled her body all across his chest, tangling up their legs as she curled to fit herself atop him. Neither of them was the least bit concerned with how her skirts rode up to her knees as she straddled him and laid her head over his heart.

Beneath her touch, the organ was only just beginning to slow back to its normal pace. Her fingers traced over the definition of his chest through his tunic and undershirt, skirting across his collarbone. “How do you feel now, vennonya? Better?”

“Like you have taken all of me for yourself and more,” he commented, leaning his head back and letting his eyes lose focus. “You always seem to know just what I need.”

“After all this time, you still let yourself get so overworked and overstressed,” she chastised lightly. “I would that our love, both physical and spiritual, could serve as a catharsis to soothe away all the troubles which would bring you sorrow and pain, Arafinwë.”

“It does all that and more,” he assured her, stroking his thumb across her cheekbone, brushing the pad across her eyebrow. “ _You_ do all that and more. I do not know what I would ever do without you, Eärwen.”

“You would still be sitting in that chair with an achy wrist, diligently signing paper after paper while a headache builds under the bridge of your nose, for one,” she teased, sitting up and crossing her arms upon his upper chest to support her torso. Had they not just had a very satisfying round of intercourse indeed, he might have had a starker reaction to seeing her breasts being so enticingly displayed than the mere glimmer of arousal that dared rear its head through the long and relaxing haze of the afterglow.

“There is that,” he agreed, leaning down to share a kiss with her. Slow and deep. “You are not sore? I was not too rough?”

“It was just the perfect amount of roughness,” she purred. “Sometimes, it is rather nice to enjoy the full strength and passion of my otherwise gentle and thoughtful husband. Even if it takes so much effort to rile you into such a state.”

“Is that so?” he asked teasingly, cupping her cheek fondly.

“It is,” she answered, nuzzling his palm. “And now, I think I would like to use my husband as a pillow while I nap in the sunshine like a contented cat. What say you to that?”

“I say you should have exactly what you wish, vessenya. What kind of awful husband would I be to deny you such a boon?”

“An awful, awful one.” She cuddled down, nestling herself into the contours of his body with familiar ease, no matter that they were squished together on this tiny piece of furniture and both of them would probably awaken with achy muscles and sore necks.

“I love you, Arafinwë,” she added. “I just want you to be joyful and happy.”

“You know I love you in return,” he answered. “All the more because you seek to look after me, fool that I am.”

“Perhaps,” she murmured sleepily. “Now, quiet. Nap, remember?”

He let out a hum of agreement, leaning his head back against the arm of the loveseat and allowing himself to drift to the rhythm of her deepening breaths echoing in his ears.

And, if anyone stumbled in upon them and saw them curled up together in the sunshine, they had the good sense to leave the pair well enough alone. They were smiling far too peacefully in the midst of their reverie to be disturbed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:
> 
> aini (Q) = fem. angelic being (angel)/goddess  
> ammelda (Q) = dearest (one)  
> vessenya (Q) = my wife  
> vennonya (Q) = my husband  
> nárinya (Q) = my fire/my flame  
> melmë (Q) = love  
> ancalima (Q) = brightest  
> Anar (Q) = the Sun  
> aurenya (Q) = my sunlight  
> isilmenya (Q) = my moonlight  
> Ai (Q) = exclamation
> 
> \---
> 
> Flower symbolism:
> 
> Red rose = I love you, courage, passion, lust, true love  
> Pink rose = grace, desire, passion, joy, energy  
> Coral/orange rose = you fascinate me, happiness, desire, passion  
> Purple orchid = respect, loyalty, admiration, dignified beauty, uniqueness  
> Red tulip = declaration of love, passion, desire, perfect love, undying love  
> Orange tulip = understanding, appreciation, truest love  
> Purple tulip = royalty, undying love


	41. Wearing Lilacs and Keeping Secrets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In some cases only assisting accidentally in the keeping of secrets, more like...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: family politics, flower language, cultural differences, past violence mentioned, semi-graphic imagining of inflicting harm/torture, fighting/arguments, mention of rape (thwarted, in this case), keeping secrets
> 
> Maedhros = Maitimo = Nelyafinwë = Nelyo  
> Maglor = Makalaurë = Kanafinwë = Káno  
> Celegorm = Tyelkormo = Tyelko = Turkafinwë = Turko  
> Caranthir = Carnistir = Morifinwë = Moryo  
> Curufin = Atarinkë = Curufinwë = Curvo  
> Amrod = Ambarussa = Pityafinwë = Pityo  
> Amras = Umbarto = Telufinwë = Telvo  
> Finrod = Artafindë = Findaráto  
> Turgon = Turukáno  
> Finarfin = Arafinwë  
> Fingolfin = Nolofinwë  
> Fingon = Findekáno

_Valanya, 48 Lairë (30 June)_

\---

When Morifinwë rode out of Valmar, he had lilac braided into his hair, set like a crown about his head but more precious than any silly, stately circlet of gold or silver or copper. He must have looked strange, perhaps even mad, dressed as a common man of the countryside, dark-haired and all in deerskins, flowers about his head, but he could not bring himself overmuch to care for the absurdity of it all nor disdain the beauty of his gift. Instead, he reached up to brush at the small blossoms with his fingertips.

_As it would happen, he did not get to braid Eruanna’s hair with lilac. Because it was a gift to him from her, it was his head it ought to bless, or so she explained._

_“Typically,” Eruanna told him, “One would wait until a little later in courtship to braid flowers into the other’s hair. But, since you will be going back home for a while, I did not desire to wait. Besides…” She let out a giggle. “You have already braided my hair.”_

_When he had done it, braiding a single rose behind his beloved’s left ear, he had not realized that the Vanyar considered such contact forward. Incredibly forward._

_Then again, he thought he understood it better now._

_Braiding his brothers’ hair or having his braided in return, swift and clinical with sharp strokes and painful tugs, was nothing alike to this. He was sat in the grass like a boy, one knee folded upwards, letting someone who was not his kin sit in the trusted position at his back for the first time in hundreds of years, still as a statue while she dragged the bristles of a brush through his long, unbound hair until he started to shudder minutely from the faint pleasure, from the shocking intimacy of it._

_The scent of oil hit the air, swarm and thick, and her anointed hands began to stroke through his loose locks, fingers plucking delicately at the hair near his temples, parting it and pulling it back. And then another strand. And then another. Dampening each with oil and then picking a small bough of flowers from his collection to weave into the dark locks._

_“What do they mean?” he asked quietly and with no small amount of embarrassment now that they were alone, or as alone as they could get while supervised in the gardens._

_“They are an assertion of the first feelings of love,” she whispered in return. “And you will wear them upon your crown, and everyone who sees them, and who sees the crest of my House upon you, shall know that you have the favor of a lady of the House of Meneldëa.”_

_The crest was a pendant, one she had given him to claim him as her own, one that would mark him as taken as surely as the lilac braided into his hair. Even then, it laid heavily against his sternum over his clothing, twined gold and silver set with the deepest sapphire. Sky and stars, a depiction of the heavens. He would have to bring or send her something to wear, something of his own House that would speak of his claim upon her in return now that he had her father’s (grudging) permission to continue their courtship given that it was carried out appropriately and under the watchful eyes of chaperones and peoples of court._

_Breathing deeply of the scent of her gifted bouquet, all resting heavily in his arms, sweet with heady summer and the color of pale purple, he closed his eyes. “Ought I to return the favor immediately and find you some flowers to state my feelings, or is that a mission I should undertake upon my return?”_

_“Not yet,” she said quietly. “You will still send messages to me, yes? I know you cannot be expected to stay here forever, that you must go home to your family for a time, but you will still answer my words with words of your own?”_

_Delicately, she fingered another small bunch of lilac blossoms, rolled their stem betwixt her fingers before setting it to his hair._

_“Of course,” he murmured._

_It seemed an age had passed where he knew nothing but the smell of lilac, the warmth of sunshine and the feeling of her fingers gently brushing over his scalp, weaving his dark hair. He could have sat there forever and been content, eyes slipping shut, for he needed not the beauty of the gardens to supplement the peaceful rhythm of her hands at work._

_Until, finally, after a small eternity and yet all too soon, she finished. Her hands pulled back the whole of his hair, thick and heavy and dark as his bloodline, and bound it at his nape with an intricate knot. “There,” she murmured. “Finished.”_

_Slowly, he turned to look up at her, struck dumb by the sun-kissed glow of her skin, all burnished with a pale pink shimmer, and her eyes glowing as the light struck them and refracted through the blue. At that moment, he could not have thought of a single thing to say, but he was not certain that any words were necessary as their eyes met._

_Her fingers reached out, brushing against his cheeks. Under the staunch gaze of her family—her sister lingering nearby, pretending so neither see nor hear but watching nevertheless—she leaned down and kissed his brow._

_“Carnistir,” she murmured. “I shall miss you. Return to me soon.”_

_Silently, he caught her hands with his own, drew them up to his lips and kissed each of them in turn, breathing in her natural scent and the headiness of sacred oil and flowers._

Even now, as he left behind the golden city of the Vanyar, he breathed in the scent of lilac and felt the ghost of her fingers upon his cheeks, thumbs sweeping across the darkened circles of sleeplessness beneath his starkly green eyes. His eyes slipped shut, the clack of hooves upon the street echoing in his ears, mingling with the sounds of dozens of voices going about their daily lives all around. And he felt… strangely peaceful.

Ah, yes, he planned to return to her. As soon as he could.

But, first, he had to figure out this Vanyarin courting business. Barely did he know how to court and romance women of the Noldor in whose society he had grown and been raised. Nothing did he know of the unspoken rituals and rules that riddled the Court of Valmar nor their laws and customs for romancing and marriage, and he would be bitterly disappointed to stumble and ruin this courtship through his own ignorance and ineptitude. Already, he had had no idea that he should have brought with him a symbol of his House to mark his potential bride, nor had he known anything at all about the flowers that seemed to be used to communicate all manner of intimate messages.

Well, some of those messages were conveyed just fine without secret meaning. Others, though (and he thought of the trumpet-like yellow flowers here, which had so delighted Eruanna for reasons he knew not) he would need some assistance to understand.

His first business would be to return home with news. His second, to ask Nelyafinwë if they had anything appropriate which he could gift Eruanna that was of their House or if there would need to be an expedition to the cold and abandoned vaults of Formenos to search for an appropriate piece. Morifinwë was under no illusion that he had the skill to forge something exemplary—or even adequate—with his own clumsy hands. But something of great value and beauty that had been forged by the hands of his father, the most skilled jewel-smith to have walked amongst the Eruhíni, given freely…

If nothing else, after all this time, at least his father’s magnificent skill would be useful for something other than tormenting his sons.

After that, he was a bit at a loss. In days of old, his first thought would have been to ask cousin Artafindë for assistance, for the eldest son of Arafinwë had successfully courted a Vanyarin lady. One who had stayed loyal and faithful to him for all the long years of Exile, who had waited for him and married him upon his return. But…

No matter how well he thought he hid his nervous gestures or his sleepless nights, Artafindë was not so comfortable with nor fond of his Fëanárion cousins as he would like to portray to avoid family dissonance. More than perhaps anyone else, Morifinwë could understand how long-term exposure to Curufinwë and Turkafinwë could make a man wary of anything and everything related to the House of Fëanáro, for those two exemplified in spades all the worst traits passed down through their line.

And, well, he did not think it worth even contemplating asking Turukáno.

Which left Uncle Arafinwë, who had spent time in the Vanyarin court alongside his mother and older sister. Even the thought of that, though, had him stifling back a long-suffering groan. It was not that he found Arafinwë particularly offensive—not in the way he found Nolofinwë and all his male offspring to carry about a metaphorical foul odor of condescension and betrayal—just that he was not the sort of man to enjoy pleasant but meaningless conversation and tranquil tea parties the way his uncle seemed to.

 _Is that, too, a Vanyarin pursuit?_ He could not help but wonder at that with no small amount of trepidation. _Or is that simply a habit specific to Arafinwë?_

One way or another, he was going to have to suffer through instruction.

 _Eruanna is worth it._ He brushed his fingers against the flowers again, and again, gently to avoid crushing or harming the pale purple petals. They brought a gentle upturn to his lips. _It will be worth the trouble._

It had been worth all the trouble and heartache already. The sleepless nights and the hazy days of distraction. The terror rushing through his veins and the bitter disappointment that had nearly overtaken him in his despair at being sent away. After all that, he was hardly going to give in and let it all die now.

He doubted he could at this point.

_I am well and truly lost. If Turkafinwë makes good fun of me and my suffering for the next two centuries, I will have earned it!_

And he did not even care.

\---

There was a messenger mid-afternoon. Their poor cousin Artafindë again.

The golden-haired Prince glanced around as he was guided inside, taking in the plentiful blankets and quilts upon which Istelindë had worked on diligently in her spare time, as well as the new rug by the door in a rich red hue and the first tapestry-in-progress in the corner half-finished but promising. “This place has certainly grown livelier since last I set foot in the hall. Istelindë is doing good here. And not just for the décor, I would wager.”

“Not just for the décor, indeed,” Nelyafinwë agreed, following his cousin inside, setting an example by peeling off his boots and leaving them upon the new rug before the door. “I shall find you some drink. Undoubtedly, you are here on business for your father.”

“And Uncle Nolofinwë, shockingly,” Artafindë replied, sounding not in the least bit shocked despite his assertion.

Istelindë was out in the yard for the moment, and, electing not to disturb her work for a simple task, Nelyafinwë helped himself to wine and glasses, pouring generously for each himself and his cousin in turn. Rather than using the kitchen table to hold their discussion, which was laden already with all sorts of cooking stuffs and herbs in preparation for commencement of preparing the evening meal, they retreated out to the living area before the smoldering hearth.

“One letter for your wife,” Artafindë began, and the letter was obviously written in Uncle Arafinwë’s hand. He knew the pair, Istelindë and his uncle, were conspiring with each other in all this matchmaking business, and Nelyafinwë was going to keep his nose well and truly out of it and let them do the heavy lifting. At least for now.

“And, one letter for you,” his cousin added, pulling out a second.

It was not very heavy for all that the parchment was thick and well-made betwixt the rub of his fingers, obviously from his uncle’s personal stationary. Nelyafinwë pulled a small knife from his sleeve and sliced open the envelope, unveiling the short missive.

His eyes scanned the words briskly. And he could not help his own snort of laughter.

“Sweet Eru,” he said, tossing it down upon the armrest. “Well, I suppose I shall have to inform my wife not to worry about Curufinwë being back anytime soon.”

“Why not?”

Istelindë appeared in the doorway, clean and dry clothes folded in a basket and balanced on her hip as she swung the door closed in her wake. Immediately distracted by everything about her, from her graceful, bare feet dancing across the hardwood floor and her slender ankles peeking out from beneath her gown to the way her arms flexed beneath the weight of her burden and as she reached up to unpin her pale curls, Nelyafinwë felt dazed. She shook her hair loose, and it spilled down all around her face and shoulders in waves that he wished he could stroke through with his hand to feel their softness.

“Greetings, cousin Findaráto,” she said, setting the basket down beside the door before approaching. And Nelyafinwë took no small amount of pleasure in how she immediately went to sit upon his lap, reaching playfully over him to pluck at the letter he had left lying innocently upon the armrest.

Her eyes widened as she read it.

“Is Prince Nolofinwë serious?” she asked, waving the letter through the air.

Artafindë and Nelyafinwë exchanged _looks._ “I have never known Uncle Nolofinwë to _not_ be entirely serious,” the eldest Fëanárion said, wondering if he had ever heard his uncle either joke or laugh. “I have to say, though, that his addition to Curufinwë’s punishment is most ingenious, if a bit cruel.”

“Cruel?” she burst out. “He and cousin Turukáno will have torn each other’s throats out long before they find hide or hair of Tyelkormo!”

Nelyafinwë let out another soft laugh, affectionately kissing his wife’s neck. “It is kind of you to be concerned about him, vessenya, dearest Princess, but Curufinwë is a grown man and more than capable of dealing with adversity. Besides, it will do him some good to have to behave himself around his cousins.”

“And you are not at all concerned about his cousins behaving around him? They do not exactly like him in return,” she pointed out.

“If Findekáno is going to be there—which, apparently, he is, if all this is truthful—then I am not too concerned.” He might not have the same close, almost intimate, friendship with Nolofinwë’s eldest that they had once shared, but he still trusted his cousin implicitly. When push came to shove, Findekáno could be counted upon to intervene. “In any case, part of all this going to the Festival business was to do with getting my brothers out of this ridiculous mountain stronghold and re-forging broken bonds with our relatives, was that not so? This is an ideal opportunity for them—him and Nolofinwë’s sons—to learn how to get along with one another. No disapproving supervision from myself or Nolofinwë will hinder them when they are out in the middle of nowhere shooting verbal arrows at each other until they finally, perchance, learn to get along well enough to function together on the hunt.”

In truth, he sincerely doubted that much actual bonding was going to take place, cousinly or otherwise. Curufinwë was bitterly difficult to get along with even for those who knew him well and tolerated his flaws with either loving acceptance or an equal amount of belligerence. It was one thing for Nelyafinwë and the other older brothers to look the other way when their sibling became particularly sardonic and snarly, acting out cruelly in defense of himself and his own—Nelyafinwë had changed his little brother’s nappies and caught him painting on their father’s study wall as a toddler, had seen him through every crying or screaming fit at the hands of their father’s perfectionist ways, and he loved his little brother as he might a child of his own, as he loved them all—but it was quite something else for their cousins to give Curufinwë the same forgiving treatment.

Still, it might very well teach Curufinwë to take more care with his words. A month or two on a quest chasing fairy-dust through the wilds—away from his beloved wife who anyone with eyes could tell he was painfully mooning after all over again like a dark ghost of the young boy he had once been—while Turkafinwë ran amok and played them all for fools, as undoubtedly he would, might leave Curufinwë more willing to make good with the extended family. And it would make certain he would not be breaking any more promises to Nelyafinwë for the sake of petty vengeance.

_As if I did not know that more than half the reason they all hate Nolofinwë and his ilk is because of how our uncle and cousins have treated me._

Istelindë seemed only vaguely convinced by his argument, letting out a thoughtful hum to go with her tiny frown. And he adored her for that, because he knew that she worried for his brothers. As though they were her very own. Eru, he loved her more than he could say, not only for how she treated him despite the shadows that lingered behind his eyes and the marks scattered all over his tattered spirit, but for how kindly and sweetly she treated those few that he loved more than anything in all Eä.

But she did not know Curufinwë as well as he did. She underestimated his little brother. Underestimated both his cunning and his ability to deal with hostility in turn. Curufinwë gave as good as he got, and hurting his feelings was neigh on impossible.

More likely than not, Curufinwë would find a way to come out on top of all this in the end. And be all the more insufferable for it. Just like their infuriating sire would have done. It was one of those sets of cursed traits that the fifth brother epitomized and cultivated to a frightening degree. Luck and cunning.

“Truly, worry not about Curufinwë,” he reassured, leaning up to kiss her lightly upon her lips. “At least he is out and about.”

“I suppose that is true.” Istelindë returned his kiss before looking towards the second letter. “Is that for me?”

“From Uncle Arafinwë.” He watched with a smirk of amusement as she immediately grasped the second envelope with a sound of delight and fled with it into the kitchen like a small, beautiful, pale dragon guarding a precious little treasure. Had he not known that the pair of them were in cahoots over getting all his little brothers married off and living happily in their rebirth, he might have been jealous.

“They are frighteningly alike,” Artafindë commented as she disappeared from sight. “Aikanáro had mentioned it, but I had not realized it was so stark. Atar will be glad to have another hopeless meddler and matchmaker in the family. None of his children turned out to have the same nosy spirit as he.”

“At least he is good-intentioned.” _Unlike some people,_ they were likely both thinking.

“At least he is that,” Artafindë agreed, “If also often annoying in his own well-meaning way. You know, he has Aikanáro and I working on investigating all that ridiculousness with those three courtiers who were attacked on the night of the Festival. Those three nitwits are rather adamant about keeping quiet, hiding something illegal or otherwise illicit that got them into this situation in the first place most probably, and it is making my life difficult. Their attacker must have been utterly terrifying to have them all shocked and cowed into silence.”

“Indeed,” Nelyafinwë agreed hesitantly. “So, I suppose my brothers and I are suspects in this little investigation of yours.”

Artafindë snorted almost derisively. “Well, everyone knows that you were holed up with your wife the whole night. Newlywed.”

If that was an attempt to embarrass, it was rather a failure. Nelyafinwë, to the contrary, was not in the least bit ashamed of his behavior. Rather, he grinned broadly in response, all teeth and pride, leaning back into his armchair with no small amount of satisfaction thrumming through his blood as he recalled that night and many since. “Well, no one can blame me for that. You are a married man, so you have surely been in my shoes before.”

“I will not deny that.” Artafindë nodded slightly. “To be frank with you, I cannot think of why any of your brothers would want to harm three random courtiers when you have been isolated out here for so long. It seems more likely that someone used your presence at the Festival as an excuse to carry out a crime they had already planned. Perhaps pure convenience.”

Nelyafinwë, for all his good mood incited by memories of taking his beautiful wife to bed (or upon a good number of other surfaces within and without the house), felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand. Something about what Artafindë said, something about the way he had said it, something about the whole situation, was not to Nelyafinwë’s liking. Nor did he like the fact that the busy sounds of cooking, scraping and chopping from the kitchen had silenced. Istelindë was listening at the door.

“It would be most convenient to blame one of us,” Nelyafinwë agreed, testing the waters of the conversation but with a toe rather than saying anything of his unwarranted bad feeling.

“You are hardly the only dangerous Exiles of the Hither Lands to be reborn here,” Artafindë continued, though the air between them had grown a bit strained. His golden-haired cousin finished his glass of wine. “In any case, I would not worry about it too much. I simply thought I should warn you, given that your wife and brothers have been in and out of town again so soon. Rumors can be a nasty thing, inciting other unpleasantness and hasty action without proper forethought.”

If anyone knew that, it was Artafindë. His hold on the kingship of Nargothrond had been crushed through the use of vile rumor and slander and other methods of abusing a quicksilver tongue. Mere words, indeed, could be dangerous. Mere ideas, unkind or unjust, could easily birth unwarranted action.

“They can indeed at that.” It was hard to tell whether his cousin was telling him as a warning to take care or intentionally to unsettle him and try to garner information. Knowing the intelligence of the Crown Prince, it could have been either. Or both.

“I shall show myself out, then,” his cousin concluded, standing and making for the door. “I am certain you have business to tend to before dinnertime.”

Standing in turn, Nelyafinwë followed Artafindë to the door. It would have been nice, indeed, to see Arafinwë’s eldest go, for something about the interaction—and about Artafindë’s stiffness surrounding the whole business—was unlikeable. It certainly left him wondering whether Artafindë really _did not_ think one of the Fëanárioni might be responsible after all. He certainly was not willing to hold his breath that there was no suspicion directed towards his family, nor to put too much faith in his too-honorable and too-straitlaced cousin’s good will.

But that went both ways, he supposed. If none of them were guilty, Artafindë would make a stand to support them, even though he did not like any of them overmuch. If one of them _was_ guilty, however, he could expect Artafindë to battle tooth and nail to see justice done against his cousins rather than maintain a front of loyalty within the family, as any Fëanárion would have expected from one of their own. If Nelyafinwë had been certain of the innocence of each brother in turn, it might have been easier to dismiss the thoughts creeping in like a dark shadow upon his mind, and he would have besides liked to believe none of his brother’s capable of such senseless violence and endangerment of the family, but…

 _Well, a man cannot see his brothers slaughter and murder in the cold blood and have such faith._ Compared with some of the things he had seen and done—things that he had seen his brother’s do—a little nonlethal beating was a tame thing.

It was also a tame thing that could put an early end to all attempts at reintegrating back into society. At salvaging his little brothers.

And that would be inconvenient and detrimental.

Maybe, Artafindë realized that. Or, maybe, he realized that moving in on any Fëanárion’s plans could lead to serious consequences and was testing the waters. A Fëanárion incited to guard his brothers’ backs could do much worse than anything that had been done to those three witless, unimportant courtiers.

There was little else that could push Nelyafinwë to dangerous lengths than protecting his own, after all. And anyone who knew him also knew that.

Still, he offered his cousin a harsh smile. “Do feel welcome anytime, Artafindë.”

“My thanks.”

Just as Artafindë reached for the door, it popped open, a towering, dark silhouette appearing to fill the entirety of the doorframe.

Morifinwë. Just a hair shorter than Nelyafinwë, freckle-faced, green-eyed and dark-haired, looking his usually scowling, ill-tempered self as he stomped into the room and wiped his boots on the rug. Still, there were purple flowers braided into his hair, which was tied back, the tail trailing down over his right shoulder. He was otherwise dressed in nothing out of the ordinary, except for a large, round pendant resting dead center upon his chest, attached to a slender chain that flickered in the sunlight with gold and silver sheen.

For a few long moments, there was silence.

And then Artafindë sucked in a sharp breath. “You have actually done it,” he said, sounding genuinely stunned. Something about the image must have struck him sharply, must have told him more than it told Nelyafinwë, in some secret language of the Vanyar. “You have convinced that girl’s father to allow you to court her!”

Morifinwë’s cheeks flushed, deep and red, but his brief smile was sharp with satisfaction. He swept past them in a flurry of lilac-scented air and the smell of sweat and mountain grass. “Indeed, cousin, I have.”

And was that not just the biggest surprise of the afternoon?

Nelyafinwë, seeing the resultant dumbstruck look upon sly and nonchalant Artafindë’s lovely face felt rather proud.

\---

It was much later, when Artafindë was gone, that Morifinwë brought up the challenges he faced. The flowers he had reluctantly removed from his hair, and he had placed them upon the kitchen table and tied them together with a small ribbon, a token snuck to him from Eruanna. Now, he was fiddling nervously with the pendant that hung heavy about his neck, twisting it around, flipping it through his fingers.

“I need to ask for help,” he admitted.

They were all gathered after dinner. The twins were quieter than usual, a silence heavy between them as they stared at the fire dancing away in the hearth, and Kanafinwë was still hiding out in the garden, his golden voice drifting in upon the breeze in little passionate waves of silvery light and sapphire eyes, wistful.

“What sort of help do you need?” Istelindë responded almost eagerly, leaning forward. She was excited, Morifinwë knew, to pick at his brain for all manner of details. At dinner, she had managed to wheedle some hesitant words from his tight lips, though only those few that described his meeting Eruanna in the greenhouses and the day spent together chaperoned in the gardens, and even those intentionally innocuous descriptions left him stuttering and blushing and dropping food all over the place for half the meal. He dared not go into further detail, speaking about the way he admired Eruanna’s high color, her natural scent, the feeling of her fingers in his mane, the way she smiled in excitement when she saw his face, or the tension between them as she held up a rose for him to…

_Now may not be the best time for thinking of such things._

Nervously, Morifinwë glanced between his older brother and his brother’s wife. “One of the early courting gestures involves the man and woman exchanging identifying tokens of value. Trinkets that lay claim upon the wearer, that represent the House of their suitor.” He fondled the pendant again, holding it up far enough to look at the image it depicted. A moonless sky speckled in stars of gold and silver light. He knew from staring up at the night sky for far too many years that the pattern scattered over the dark jeweled surface was accurate, a miniature depiction of Varda’s dome. For something so tiny, it was shockingly intricate, a piece that must have taken a considerable amount of sweat and blood of some poor craftsman to make. The stylized weaving, curving and curling lines felt cool beneath the pads of his fingers.

“You need a family heirloom,” Nelyafinwë concluded, eyes watching as Morifinwë nervously played with the pendant from Eruanna. Gritting his teeth, he stilled his restless hands against their unseemly fidgeting.

“More or less,” he admitted, folding them instead, curling his fingers together into knots to keep them still.

“And other gifts, I suppose,” his older brother said knowingly. “You will want to impress your girl and her well-off family.”

“I am not exactly overflowing in talent for craftsmanship, not like Curufinwë,” the fourth brother pointed out, hating the way his voice, though spike-encrusted and defensive, was tainted with shame, wavering with his lack of confidence. “I have no craft with which to make fabulous gifts and nothing to offer in the way of my own wealth.”

“You have more to offer than you think,” Nelyafinwë said sharply, almost as if he were chastising his brother for cursing as well as correcting a mistaken belief. Morifinwë stared into those silver-white eyes with confusion, for it was not often that his oldest sibling was so frank, and he was not quite certain he understood. “But, yes, we can arrange for something. In the next few days, we shall go to Formenos and see what can be found. I have some ideas.”

Slowly, Morifinwë nodded, though he did have some wonder for what his brother might be thinking. “I also might need some instruction in Vanyarin courting and… and flower language…” The last was said at almost a whisper.

Had Turkafinwë been there, almost certainly would he have said something mocking, something that would make Morifinwë want to crawl into a burrow somewhere and hide away in the nonjudgmental safety of darkness for the rest of his days. But Istelindë lent him a brilliant smile, and Nelyafinwë reached out to give his shoulder a firm squeeze.

“There is definitely a copy of a dictionary of flowers somewhere in the old house. Curufinwë used it when he was courting Lindalórë,” Nelyafinwë said, his voice developing a strangely faraway fog of thought.

It seemed like pure fantasy that Curufinwë would ever do such a thing as read about flower language, let alone use that knowledge to impress while courting a woman as wild and adventurous and as sometimes unwomanly as Lindalórë. She did not seem like the sort to really appreciate the delicacy of flowers and hair-braiding and secret messages like a giggling young maiden of court, though Morifinwë acknowledged that he would hardly know all the preferences and intricacies of his brother’s wife or their intimate interactions. Besides that, though, the archaic code had been less used in the Noldorin courts than it once was already by the time the Fëanárioni had blossomed into young men interested in courting young ladies, so he was a bit surprised. “You are not just making that up?”

“It was supposed to be a secret,” Nelyafinwë murmured almost conspiratorially, “But, seeing as he is going to tease you mercilessly the next time he sees you, I thought it fair you had a little bit of ammunition with which to fight back.”

Morifinwë was not quite certain what to say.

And then Istelindë leaned down and kissed his cheek. “Let me help with the rest. We will figure out the ins and outs of this Vanyarin courting business!”

He blinked, a little overwhelmed by her sheer enthusiasm. “From whom?”

She looked upon him as though he were being daft. Maybe he was being so. He said, “Are you speaking of Uncle Arafinwë? Because I doubt that either Artafindë or Turukáno would be willing to help a Fëanárion with such a task. Neither of them is exactly what I would call on friendly or cousinly terms with us.”

“No, silly!” She let out a bit of a giggle, her cheeks going pink with delight. “We shall ask Lady Elenwë and Lady Amarië! Who better to teach you how to behave in the Court of Valmar than the ladies born to it and raised in it?”

It was a bit embarrassing, in retrospect, that it had not occurred to Morifinwë to ask the _women_ of the family for guidance. “Neither Turukáno nor Artafindë will let me within fifty paces of their wives unaccompanied either.” And he could very well understand that sentiment and did not hold it against either of them, for they loved their wives and wanted to keep their dearest loves safe. For all that Turukáno was a stick-in-the-mud and a seeming cold-blooded and heartless bastard, and for all that Artafindë was too false in his cordial smiles for comfort, none could begrudge them that they were faithful and committed spouses.

“That is why I will be going with you,” his sister-in-law teased. “I think you will find that we women stick together.”

Speechless, Morifinwë wondered if he had a say in any of this at all.

Over her shoulder, he met Nelyafinwë’s gaze, and his older brother sent him a sly look, lips quirking into something just shy of a fond smile. _What can one do against such an overwhelming force?_ Those words passed silently between them. _There is no point in fighting her now, once she has established her hold upon you._

“If you think that they will assist,” he agreed quietly, “I would most appreciate your guidance in this, sister Istelindë.”

“I will be most happy to give it,” she answered, smiling broadly.

For the first time in a long while—maybe in forever—Morifinwë wondered that he felt like he had his parents at his back, or something very like to them. It was the strangest thing, like seeing double and, at the same time, glimpsing a side of light and a side of shadow reflected upon one another. And it left his throat feeling tight and choked. Looking down at the lilac bundle he had tied, he stroked the petals again with his fingertips and hated how red his cheeks turned beneath their knowing eyes.

“Worry about it more in the morning,” his older brother soothed. “We will figure everything out, Moryo. If this means so much to you, we will support you fully.”

“Yes, of course, hanno.”

And he most definitely managed not to cry. Just barely.

\---

The tension broke between them when, finally, they were alone and out of earshot of undesirable listeners. Telufinwë had sensed the confrontation approaching, had been lying wait for the explosion of temper, was preparing for the shower of emotional shrapnel when Pityafinwë had surreptitiously pulled him away just after Istelindë and Nelyafinwë had retired to bed for the night. As they passed outside and far away from the main house, clearly with the intent of having a private conversation, his suspicion that his brother might have figured out his little secret grew, though he knew not how it might have been revealed. They continued until they stood alone in the farthest out barn from the house with nothing but the night-song for company, and Telufinwë eyed his twin speculatively, patience running thin.

“You are incredibly lucky that Morifinwë came along and distracted both our older brother and our cousin. Think you not that otherwise Nelyafinwë would not have had some suspicion alight his mind?”

Telufinwë shot his older brother (by a mere handful of minutes) a dark grimace.

As though he were not aware of the close shave. The twins had seen the arrival of their golden-maned cousin as he trotted up the stretch of dirt path through the woods, cloaked in pale blue and white. Naturally, they had gone to eavesdrop upon the conversation between their eldest brother and Arafinwë’s eldest son, lingering just outside the cracked-open kitchen door in the yard behind the house with Kanafinwë watching on disapprovingly.

“How?” he breathed.

He had not realized at first that Pityafinwë _knew_ about his vicious escapades. He was not _surprised,_ but he was a little annoyed with himself that he had missed the sharp looks directed his way all afternoon and into the evening yesterday.

“I went to the Healing House,” Pityafinwë explained. “The three men you brutalized are still there, recovering under the care of the healers. They had chosen to remain silent about their attacker—no doubt your doing, for I am certain that you can be every bit as ruthless as our father had been in his darkest days and found a way to silence their tongues—but one of them saw me. The look on his face…”

While Pityafinwë shared not his scars, they were otherwise almost identical. The shock of seeing their attacker in the flesh must have sent one or all the victims into near-paroxysms of terror. And, of course, his brother was not an unobservant man. He would have seen that something was out of place in the eyes, in the frozen features stricken with primal fear, and would have come almost immediately to the conclusion that this reaction was no mere wariness of the Fëanárioni and their reputation for bloodshed and cruelty.

“I said nothing to anyone about it,” his older brother quickly added, “And I will not say anything to anyone either. But I will ask why you did it, for you do not do things without just cause, and certainly not violence.”

Telufinwë swallowed sharply down the dark beast of fury that lingered, unsated, hungering in the back of his mind. What he had done to those three men was but a _taste_ of what he might have dealt, what he _wanted_ to rain down upon them for their sins, and so much less than they _deserved._ Would that he could go back and strip them of their skin and their flesh piece by piece! Would that he could have found somewhere quiet to make them scream and flail beneath his knife for endless hours!

But this was Valinórë, a land where even the smallest amount of violence was considered rare. In the Hither Lands, perhaps, one could have carried out such cruel (but justified) acts without consequence and the people, used to war and moral grayness, might look the other way if three rapists were viciously tortured and vivisected. Not so here. Telufinwë had known there was a possibility of being caught, and that committing an act of outright Kinslaying (rather than just brutal assault) in the Undying Lands might get him literally thrown out into the wastes beyond the Pelóri. Him and all his kin.

So, he had done the next best thing. Tortured the offenders to teach them a lesson about stealing favors from a woman without her consent. Terrified them into obedience with the knowledge that, should they fall into their old ways, Telufinwë would not be so _kind_ twice. Stricken them into silence with the threat of exposing their ways and destroying their reputations and lives irrevocably, for a rapist would be no better loved here than a Kinslayer.

“What did they do to infuriate you so?” his older brother asked insistently. “What did they do that was worth risking the safety and wellbeing of our family? Of yourself?”

“They… will not speak.” _So, what does it matter why?_

“You cannot know that that will not change!” Pityafinwë burst out, almost in a flurry of rage. His hands were clawed as they grabbed at Telufinwë’s tunic, as they yanked him around so that they were face to face, eye to eye, each glaring harshly into the other’s equally stubborn gaze. “What inspired this level of _foolishness,_ Telvo? Could you not have, for once in your life, abstained?”

The younger twin bared his teeth, snarling in an equal fit of fury. And, for once, he did not feel his heart quailing, though he recognized the look in his brother’s eyes. And, in seeing it, his blood ran cold and left him shuddering where he stood.

_Atar. They are Atar’s eyes._

His stomach twisted into knots until he wondered if he might vomit right onto the toes of their boots. Yet, once again, he felt that ancient fire burning, heat rising up in his breast. That same feeling that had driven him _that night,_ cursed and black and filled with hatred and madness, until he could not stand still for the itching beneath his flesh, could not hold his tongue for the words that screamed to pour forth, could not turn his back and pretend all was well, silenced out of nothing more than fear of his father’s wrath.

Once, he had been this dauntless creature. For an age of the world, it had rested in the back of his mind, meek and quelled by the memory of flames crawling across his skin until he could think of nothing but finding a way to make the pain _end._

But this… He could not just roll over and _allow_ it!

“I could not,” he rasped out.

“Why?” Pityafinwë shook him. Literally shook him in vexed anger almost until his clenched teeth rattled in his skull. “Why, Telvo?”

He shook his head. He could not. _He could not!_

“I can see that look on your face,” his brother then spat, releasing him and storming around him, voice made from thunder and eyes filled with lightning whipping across a darkened gray-green sky. “You wear that same look, that one you had on _that night_ when you went to face down Atar alone even though I asked you to stay away and let him have his way! You look just like him! With that same fey gleam in his eyes!”

If there was anything that any Fëanárion hated, it was to be compared to their father. It was like a damned _curse!_

“They _deserved it!”_ he hissed out, shoving Pityafinwë back.

“Curse you, Telvo! Fucking fine, have it your way, foolish little brother!” His older brother snarled and stamped about in a circle muttering swears beneath his breath, an angry predator whose prey had just managed to scurry out of reach. Frustration was in every stiff line and harsh movement of his body. And, beneath the rage flashing like dying stars in his eyes, fear was a stark creature hiding in the blackness.

And Telufinwë gave a shuddering breath, heartbeat calming, eyes every so briefly slipping shut against the stark sight.

_I understand._

As much as he wished Pityafinwë would not, he understood that his older brother was upset because he had endangered himself, more so, perhaps, than he was angry at the endangerment of the rest of the family. There were countless times when Telufinwë had taken advantage of that very weakness in his twin—Pityafinwë’s unholy urge to protect his baby brother’s brittle spirit from all harm—and had stepped back and let his older brother take the lead, stumbling through the darkness of life’s tribulations, blind as Telufinwë but mustering his courage to continue on because the younger twin did not have the fortitude of heart to press forward first, unprotected, after he had been destroyed. Pityafinwë went forth like a damn sacrificial lamb because Telufinwë could not risk the pain of being torn asunder. Not again.

Not until now. For the first time since that night, he felt the urge to step forward alone. No Pityafinwë speaking his words in his stead from those forbidding lips. No Pityafinwë standing before him like a shield to drive away unfriendly eyes.

Reaching out, he caught his brother’s shoulder.

“Sorry,” he whispered, and watched as the fury drained away to something that was tired and haggard with grief and worry. All the lightning flashed right out of his eyes, and they were only dark, the shade cast upon evergreens in the shadow of dark clouds. A side of his brother that no one else was ever allowed to see, because a son of Fëanáro did not show weakness before the eyes of another. Not before anyone. Not ever.

“No, no, do not apologize, I lost my temper.” Pityafinwë tried to brush it away. Tried to foist the blame upon himself, like he _always did._

Telufinwë hated it. He needed it to stop. He needed Pityafinwë to understand that this had been _his choice,_ and that his brother did _not_ need to protect him from making his own decisions. That the consequences were Telufinwë’s alone.

“They…” He licked his lips against speaking it aloud. “They attacked a woman, Pityo. I found them about to…”

And he could not stand back and watch. Could not turn a blind eye and walk away. No more than he could have on that awful night when fire had consumed his body and burned away his spirit to ashes, leaving a shade of the great man he might have become. No more could he have watched his father throw away Nolofinwë’s brotherhood as though it were worthless trash without speaking out, for their uncle had been faithful and true to his vows. No more could he have turned a blind eye to the suffering of their kinsman left behind to starve or freeze for the crime of inciting Fëanáro’s paranoia, for they had done nothing to earn such cruelty.

He would never have been able to sleep soundly again. He would never have forgiven himself for turning away.

 _I would rather this fate than that._ He looked down at his ruined hands, squeezed them into taut fists until the discolored flesh about his knuckles bled to bone white, and watched how they shook so violently despite his attempts to keep them still under his own will. _I would rather be left like this, physically deformed and scarred, than have my spirit bear the mutilation and the impure marks of betrayal._

“They were going to rape her, Pityo. I had to.”

His brother swallowed sharply, green eyes looking away at whatever it was—be it desperation or stubbornness or righteousness—that he saw in Telufinwë’s gaze. “She is the dancer, that girl from yesterday. That was how she knew about _those three men.”_

Telufinwë gave a sharp nod. “I am not sorry.”

And, with a sigh, Pityafinwë raked his fingers through his fiery hair, pulling at the curls and tangles with his fingertips. “Eru, what a mess!”

The pair stood together, staring. Neither really knew what to do or say in those long moments, both stricken each with the painful knowledge of the other’s suffering. Each wanting to help the other but neither knowing _how._ Just as Pityafinwë had never quite known how to soothe Telufinwë’s inner turmoil—his nightmares or his unmanageable terror or his muteness—Telufinwë had no idea how to drive away his brother’s demons. How to make them stop haunting those glimmering green eyes.

“Do we tell Nelyafinwë?” he asked then quietly. Even knowing that, should they reveal the truth, their older brother would be so far beyond absolutely livid that he might just threaten a reprise of Fëanáro’s burning of his own son at Losgar. Certainly, his rage would be so much worse than anything Curufinwë’s pettiness could incite. The tantrum their eldest brother threw would make yesterday’s little shouting spree look positively cheery.

“No,” Pityafinwë immediately answered. “The fewer who know, the safer you are from discovery. Bad enough that the girl knows—I am assuming that she knows. She would have to be an absolute imbecile not to have pieced it all together.”

Telufinwë nodded silently.

“Right, wonderful…” The sardonic note reentered that voice. And Telufinwë was almost relieved to hear the prickly shield arising once more to hide away the sad, exhausted creature hiding in the deepest parts of his brother’s psyche. “She knows not to speak of it to anyone?”

Again, he nodded.

“I suppose there is naught to be done, then, except to take care,” Pityafinwë decided with a resigned sigh. “We go back to the house and pretend that his conversation never happened.”

If nothing else, they were loyal to one another in that way. He could trust Pityafinwë to keep the secret. Once again, slipping out of the shadows to protect his brash and reckless younger sibling. As he had always done.

“If I am caught, I will confess,” Telufinwë added, voice so quiet it was nearly inaudible.

“But—”

“No,” he interrupted. “Do not.” 

_If I am caught, I will face the consequences of my actions alone. Neither you nor any other Fëanárion were involved._

“Stubborn,” Pityafinwë grouched with a snort and a helpless curve of the hard line of his pursed lips. “You are so impossibly stubborn, hanno, Telvo. It makes me think so very much of our father. And, yet, you could not be less like him if you tried. Is that odd to think?”

Telufinwë shook his head, offering a bitter smile in return.

_Often, Pityafinwë, do I think the same of you. Only, I think of Amillë instead. That you are so much alike to her, and yet nothing like her at all. You have always been here when I needed you most, and you have always sacrificed to keep me happy. I both love you dearly and hate you desperately for it._

And his heart would ache down to the core of his spirit when he thought it. Every time. For it could not have been a sadder thing to think.

“Come,” Pityafinwë said then, knowing he would get no more verbal replies this night. “Let us go back to the house before Nelyafinwë—or anyone else—gets suspicious.”

_Agreed._

They slipped out into the night, creeping upon silent hunter’s feet back to the main house. And, as they went inside and left their boots beside the door, going to curl up near to the soothing heat of the fire, it was as if they had never left. Yet, Telufinwë found himself looking into the flames and helplessly smiling.

The tension in his shoulders was gone. How strange.

Pityafinwë let hummed a soft melody at his side. Slowly, he closed his eyes against the brightness of the world.

\---

Silence echoed harshly through the night, a wide and gaping abyss where his voice had before filled its emptiness with light teasing like a fog against the edges of the mind. Instead of singing, he had followed his younger brothers foolishly, thinking to discover what had them both in such a state for the last day or so. Kanafinwë released a sharp breath and wished he had kept to himself in the gardens.

_But I know now. I suppose there is nothing for it._

He might have gone on to say something. To Nelyafinwë. To Arafinwë. It would have been the right thing to do.

People often thought him the kindest of the brothers. The softest at heart, and, consequentially, also the one with the moral compass, the one who cared for conventional right and wrong, the one who wanted to mitigate all conflict. They would have expected him to say something, to do the right thing.

But he did not bother. Loyalty was a strange thing like that.

_I will say nothing._

And he returned to his spot in the gardens, face giving away nothing. And no one seemed to notice, when his soft baritone began again, that it trembled with trepidation for just a moment and then ran clear and golden through the night in a quiet lullaby.

_It is better to just forget that I ever heard._

And Kanafinwë turned his mind away and thought of other things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:
> 
> Eruhíni (Q, p) = children of Eru  
> vessenya (Q) = my wife  
> Fëanárioni (Q, p) = sons of Fëanáro  
> hanno (Q) = brother (informal)  
> Atar (Q) = Father  
> Amillë (Q) = Mother


	42. All Of My Memories Keep You Near

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A visit to the infamous Formenos to gather loot...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: gratuitous jewelry/gemstone porn, angst, dysfunctional family, talking about curses/enchantments/purification, past murder, minor blood imagery, a little bit of fantasizing
> 
> Just so you all know, if there's anything I love as much as flowers, it's gemstones. Therefore, there's a bit more gushing over jewelry in this (extremely self indulgent) chapter than intended :3 And a shameless reference to a short story from the Silmarillion Prompts (for a second time--the other was in the Interlude).
> 
> Maedhros = Maitimo = Nelyafinwë = Nelyo  
> Maglor = Makalaurë = Kanafinwë = Káno  
> Celegorm = Tyelkormo = Tyelko = Turkafinwë = Turko  
> Caranthir = Carnistir = Morifinwë = Moryo  
> Curufin = Atarinkë = Curufinwë = Curvo  
> Amrod = Ambarussa = Pityafinwë = Pityo  
> Amras = Umbarto = Telufinwë = Telvo  
> Celebrimbor = Telperinquar

_Elenya, 49 Lairë (1 July)_

\---

Most of the Fëanárioni had little reason or desire a return to the silent and dismal prison that had been Formenos.

Morifinwë was amongst that number.

At least, he had been. Though Nelyafinwë had asked the others if they would like to go—if Kanafinwë had any music or instruments he wished to fetch, or if the twins had any belongings that they wanted to claim—the others had quickly and unhesitatingly declined to return to that place which had been their home in exile before the Exile, trapped in the distant countryside with their wild-tempered sire and their faded and tired mother. Few and far between were any good and green memories of this place, though it had been as opulent and beautiful as any manor belonging to the Crown Prince of the Noldor might be.

Looking upon it, Morifinwë felt a bitter mixture of gladness and hatred churn and mingle in his breast, like mixing oil and water, black ink and sunshine. To taste it would have made his nose wrinkle, for it would have been both sweet and sour, and one could not be separated from the other for appreciation alone.

That was what his memories of this place were. Strange. No light without shadow. No joy without fear or grief. And, to look upon the large, open windows with their delicate, geometric glass patterns, to see the open foyer with the burgundy rugs across marble stone and the deep shade of the wood carved into the twisting railings of the massive staircase, to glance upwards at a crystal-laden chandelier, so intricate and so useless, left him feeling both yearning and repulsion alike. They reminded him immediately of his father.

In fact, he almost cowered as the hall was lit for the first time in centuries. Though it was dusty and faded from glory, his mind still half-expected Fëanáro to appear on that balcony overlooking the foyer, face set in a look of disdained disinterest, eyes piercing like starlight flashing off a silvery blade, looking down at his sons (and his daughter-in-law) with that same look of disapproval and disappointment that ever marked his true thoughts of his family and their failure to live up to his impossible expectations. None of the Fëanárioni were their father in truth, doppelganger and subservient to his will both, and thus all were flawed.

Shuddering, Morifinwë looked away. He _knew_ Fëanáro would not appear. _He knew._ But his heart still raced.

“Did you spend time here as children?” Istelindë was asking, reaching out to touch the abstract carvings in the wood of the doors, their frames, the staircase curling high into the air. He almost reached out to stop her, for it came into his mind that they might be tainted with something of the darkness that lingered in their master’s heart in his final days, or that they might carry some residue of Morgoth, who must have walked through this very room covered in Finwë’s blood in order to rape the Silmarilli. He would have turned to the left and walked just past where she stood.

Morifinwë shuddered again.

“When Atar and Amillë wished to get away from court and the city, we would come here,” Nelyafinwë answered, and his voice carried no hint of whether he hated or loved this place, considered it to be a beloved home or an ancient and unloved prison cell. “We all spent some time here in our youths, as did some of our cousins. When he was young, Findekáno would come here with his father, and he would trail after me through the gardens like a bright-eyed puppy, so happy to have someone to keep him company.”

They had all trailed desperately after Nelyafinwë. Few things about this place were happy or good for Morifinwë, but Nelyafinwë was amongst that few. He smiled slightly to think it, because his brother had played with his young child-self right outside on the lawn, though it had been greener and less overgrown then when the master of the house had lived here, when his army of servants kept his manor pristine. He could almost picture them out there beneath the shade of the towering oak trees in the yard, rough-housing in the grass.

“Come along,” Nelyafinwë then said, beginning to make his way up the staircase. “Let us first find that book for you, Morifinwë, for I believe it to be left amongst Curufinwë’s things in his old chambers. Then we can go down to Atar’s treasury.”

Off to the left. That road taken by Morgoth. The floor, the doors, the gems and jewels, would all have been brushed by that darkest, most evil of spirits.

He tried not to think about it too much.

Istelindë followed her husband, and Morifinwë brought up the rear of their little convoy. Every new sight, every long winding hallway, every patterned rug beneath their feet, every carved doorway and room beyond, brought forth painful and vibrant memories of times before the Exile and the Darkening. He would see a music room, door slightly open to reveal a sad and silent series of harps lying therein, and think of Kanafinwë’s sweet lullabies, envision his brother plucking away, eyes closed and voice humming low and sweet beneath the silvery vibrating tones. He would see a bedroom, left wide open with personal effects lining the dresser, probably still filled with old and ill-fitting clothes, and recall that it had belonged to Turkafinwë, that it had been rarely used but as a place for storage. There was even a small room, like to a parlor, with places to sit and take tea and bread, and it was laden with statuettes and tapestries. He remembered painfully that it had been his mother’s, and that he had gone there as a boy to sit and watch as she worked with her hands in sculpting or in weaving, and he would play with the ends of her long and luscious russet hair, braiding and unbraiding the tail again and again while she hummed with distant eyes and paid him little mind.

And then they came upon the rooms that had belonged to Curufinwë. Nelyafinwë did not hesitate to barge right in. The bed had not been used oft even before the Darkening, not unless Curufinwë deigned visit Formenos with his wife, which was not often. Some of the items therein were his and some were his wife’s, some jeweled sculptures and crystal artworks, abstract and expensive presents exchanged and long forgotten in this old and abandoned room. On the far dresser, there was a portrait of their son, young and still slender with just a hint of fat to his cheeks. Telperinquar had been just a boy still when it was painted.

“It will be here somewhere,” Nelyafinwë murmured, beginning to rifle through drawers. Morifinwë half-expected it to be within the small collection of texts kept on their own little shelf in the corner, but none of those titles spoke of flowers.

Finally, between the three of them, it was discovered in the drawer of the nightstand beside the bed. Along with a few other unmentionable things that had Morifinwë’s cheeks filling out with color. Istelindë giggled as she pulled it out and then closed the rest away, preserving the ancient secrets of his younger brother’s and sister-in-law’s bedroom escapades.

“This should be it,” she said. _“Quetil Lótion. The Language of the Flowers.”_

It was a small thing, well-worn even by elven standards, not kept locked away upon a shelf, protected and untouched through the long ages of the world. The corners were worn, the pages yellowed with age, and there were marked sections, dog-eared corners and even, from what he could see as she opened it and flicked through the pages, no small amount of writing therein. At this distance, he could not make out if it was his brother’s or Lindalórë’s hand.

And then, at the front, there was a pressed flower. A small red tulip.

Reaching out, Nelyafinwë carefully received the book from his wife, sighing to look upon it with no small among of nostalgia. His fingers traced over its cover, brushed across the edges of the pages, as though welcoming an old friend.

“Amillë gifted this to me when I was old enough to begin searching for a wife,” he explained, sounding both fond and sorrowful, though he tried to hide the strange timbre to his otherwise low and raspy voice. “She said I should be wiser and more knowledgeable before beginning a courtship than my impetuous father had been. It is amusing, is it not? I, the oldest, was not the first to need such wisdom. Rather, it was the son most alike to Atar who was the first to court his beloved. So, I gave it to Curufinwë.”

He passed it over to Morifinwë, who opened its cover again. Indeed, there was the red tulip, pressed and dried, hidden between the pages. And a note was crushed between the cover and the flyleaf, the parchment so old that it looked as though it might crumble at the softest of touches. It was written in a hand that Morifinwë scarcely recognized, and it was signed with his mother’s gracefully looping name. With her love.

To his father.

\---  
_To my bold Prince Fëanáro,_

_Pray take more care in which bloom you gift a lady during courtship, for some might deem such vigorous forwardness vulgar. Mayhap, this gift in return might help you choose more wisely in the future to avoid much embarrassment and distress in the object of your affections._

_With my love and regard,_  
Nerdanel  
\---

It was short, barely more than a sentence or two, but it made Morifinwë feel strangely voyeuristic and slightly shocked. He snapped the book closed. “This belonged to Atar.”

“It did,” Nelyafinwë admitted, unsurprised. “Amillë gifted it to him early in their courtship upon realizing he had no knowledge of flower language, and I have been told by her that he made good use of it in his courtship of her afterwards. She was very fond of this book and enjoyed reading the little notes written throughout. Our parents did once love each other, you know. Quite passionately. How did you think the rest of you came about after I was born if not out of their love for one another? Atar had no use for another six sons after the first.”

“That is so very sweet,” Istelindë crooned with a dreamy sigh.

Sweet was not exactly how the fourth brother might have described it. By the time Morifinwë had been old enough to recall much more than vague impressions of the goings on around him, his father had already been treating his mother somewhat shamefully, and she had been meekly allowing it, perhaps just as desperate for Fëanáro’s attention and affection as her children. Little could he picture any interaction between his parents but for that strained and distant form of not-quite-love that had epitomized the later years of their turbulent marriage. Yet, this little book held such a note, a love letter that so boldly scolded the immaculate Crown Prince of the Noldor without hesitation or asking for forgiveness, proof that there had once been more. He could scarcely imagine his father allowing _anyone_ to speak to him in such a manner, let alone to tell him so blatantly that he was wrong! And even less so could he imagine that Fëanáro had taken her words to heart and _obeyed!_

But, of all the women he could have chosen, Fëanáro had married this mouthy blacksmith’s daughter.

Swallowing, he pulled the tiny book close. “I shall take care of it, hanno.”

“I would expect nothing less,” Nelyafinwë said, voice carrying his faith in his siblings easily. “Shall we go now and complete the second part of our quest? I have a few ideas.”

Not well enough did Morifinwë know the ins and outs of Fëanáro’s great treasury of jewelry, gems and other priceless things to have in his mind’s eye any particular pieces that might suit Eruanna’s coloring and personality. Somewhat apprehensive was he of touching anything resting in the vaults below the manor, for they had all been beneath the eyes and the fingers of Morgoth, but there was simply nothing for it.

But they did not immediately go there. Instead, they entered rooms that rarely had Morifinwë seen, and not at all since he had grown to an age in which a man begins to withdraw from his mother and fall under his father’s care foremost.

His mother’s chambers.

Single-mindedly, Nelyafinwë set out amongst her things, finding quickly the box in which she had once kept her most prized jewelry, most of which had been forged beneath his father’s hands in the days of old. Morifinwë half-expected it to be naught but empty velvet hollows lacking all treasure to guard having been emptied by its mistress when she departed, but within it many jewels glittered as it was opened. Things that had once been beloved left behind by their mother, though out of anger or grief Morifinwë could not have said.

“You knew these would be here,” he accused.

“I suspected,” Nelyafinwë corrected, taking the box to the made and untouched bed, setting it out upon the richly-embroidered covers. The trio leaned over the open box, awestruck all at the lovely pieces that Nerdanel had not claimed and taken with her when she abandoned this house entirely and returned to her homelands nearer to the Mansions of Aulë and the abode of her parents. Rings, necklaces, bracelets and other things rested within, tangled about one another and sparkling almost as of their own will.

“Ah!” Nelyafinwë reached in and plucked something from the glowing pile of too-beautiful jewelry, cradling it within his palm. “I thought perhaps you sought items with great meaning to the family. I know little of the customs of the Vanyar when it comes to courting, but it is customary among the Noldor for a man to gift his potential bride many great things before she accepts his suit, and I would see you follow both traditions if you will it. This trinket was a wedding gift from Atar to Amillë, and she wore it when they were married ceremoniously in Tirion before the whole of the Court of Finwë.”

His fingers unfolded to show the other two. The pieces were small, but their size did nothing to diminish the obvious superiority of their make. Two small hairpieces, made from silver and copper entwined, set with jewels in the colors of flame. Ruby and topaz and blazing sunstone, swirling and gleaming proudly in the sunlight streaming through the thin curtains.

Little more could their father have laid claim to their mother than by decorating her brow with flames. The Spirit of Fire had made these with that intent and that intent alone.

Carefully, Morifinwë accepted them, and they seemed to burn upon his skin.

The rest, Nelyafinwë replaced reverently, handling the box as though it were a sacred object and the dresser upon which its dusty shadow sat were a shrine. Istelindë silently followed, her hand touching upon his forearm as he pulled away from the box. Backing out of the room, Morifinwë glimpsed but a single kiss between the pair before he gave Istelindë some privacy to give comfort. Gave his brother, whose eyes had been glimmering with the ill-hidden brightness of tears, some privacy to grieve.

Of them all, perhaps Nelyafinwë alone remembered a time when there had been true joy and love in this household. It was something that Morifinwë could not understand. And he did not pretend to, instead occupying himself with stowing the precious treasures, even though he felt as though he were an inadequate bearer, that they were too resplendent a claim for the mere fourth son and Kinslayer to make upon the crown of Eruanna’s head.

Still, the thought of catching her hair between his fingers, of weaving them into the locks of golden silk, brought heat not only to his face but also to his loins. For the Vanyar, touching and taming another’s hair was the territory only of close family or of lovers, after all. All too easily could he imagine braiding her hair back, seeing the shimmer of fire running through her curls, and giving in to the urge to press his mouth to the hollow beneath her ear, to nip the lobe with his teeth and hear her mewl, to trace the shell up to the tip over which he would brush his lips in the softest of kisses.

They were a long way off from that. Still, he was a mere man, and he could not help but think of such fantasies and wonder if they might unfold in the future. Little could he say for certain so early in the courtship.

Wandering within the endless bounds of his mind, he barely noticed when Nelyafinwë and Istelindë reappeared. Nothing of upset could he read upon his brother’s expressionless, stern face or in his gray eyes, though they were darkened compared to their usual blinding hue. But he did note that the jewelry box was not left behind, held now carefully in the cradle of Istelindë’s arms. “To the treasury,” his brother ordered, sweeping past in a whirlwind of unbound russet curls. “This house grows stifling.”

Morifinwë could not have agreed more with that. He would be glad when they were finished and could leave this place behind. Leave these memories behind.

When they left Formenos and all its treasures to be lost to the annals of time forever.

\---

“Maitimo, are you well?”

His wife’s touch was a gentle balm upon the trembling agony resonating through his spirit. For several minutes, he continued to trace his fingertips back and forth across the embossed silver of his mother’s jewelry box, finding again and again the motif of entwined flames, eyes catching upon the heraldry starkly set out in jewels upon the lid. Another gift that his father had labored over for endless hours and then gifted to his mother.

Being here, in this house, it was… difficult. For many reasons.

Not in the least of which was missing—with no small amount of guilt—both of his parents. Nelyafinwë had been born in this house (as if that would have kept his slightly-too-early-to-have-been-conceived-after-marriage birthing date a secret) and had been raised here, away from the hustle and bustle of courtly life. Memories of childhood were few and far between, but he had been the firstborn son, the apple of his parents’ eye, and he had experienced their love and devotion in ways his siblings could not even begin to imagine. The haziest of his ancient memories spoke of cuddling between his parents in their huge sea of a bed during thunderstorms, of his father picking him up with a broad smile and spinning him through the air until he screamed with laughter, and of his mother sitting upon the edge of his bed, stroking back his wild hair as she tucked him in with a lullaby, his father hovering nearby in the doorway and smiling. All those things they had not had the time nor patience to attend to by the time they began raising their third or fourth child, all those things that Nelyafinwë had made certain to do for his innocent and neglected younger brothers in their stead.

He had no shortage of memories, either, in which his parents were happy _with one another._ Where they cuddled in the evening (admittedly, sometimes with little Nelyafinwë squeezed between them stubbornly) and exchanged lazy kisses, held hands as they wandered through the gardens, and affectionately teased one another with that funny cant to their voices that young Nelyafinwë had not understood until he was fully grown.

Before Kanafinwë had even been born, Nelyafinwë had reached adulthood. There was no haze surrounding the memories of his father and mother while she carried his first little brother. No fog to make him doubt his father’s excitement, the way Fëanáro had knelt before Nerdanel’s rocking chair and laid his head against the swell of her middle, the way he had pressed his lips just below her navel and spoken to the unborn child in his low voice, filled to the brim with love and with light. Sometimes, Nelyafinwë half wondered if Kanafinwë had learned his gift for using his voice with enchantment from listening to their father’s whispers and wordless melodies during gestation.

At the time, he had been a little jealous of having his parents’ heads turned by the new babe. Of all his brothers, he had spent time with Kanafinwë in childhood the very least, watched from a distance as his baby brother was raised rather than taking the reins upon his childhood rearing as he had with many of the others. Then, Fëanáro and Nerdanel had still had their patience and their devotion for the sculpting and forging of a child into someone with a glorious future to match the prettiness of his face and the beauty of his voice.

Looking back, he wished that life had stayed that way. That his parents’ love had endured everlastingly. That they had loved their children all the more for their love of each other rather than resenting their brood for reminding them each of the loss of the other’s regard. More distant might his bonds be with his brothers had his parents’ love remained true, had they not taken to their crafts with reckless abandon to quell the pain of losing each other slowly over time, but it might have been happier for his brothers. 

That was what would have mattered. Nelyafinwë would have been willing, even glad, to be unhappier for the loss of the close bonds of kinship with his siblings in exchange for Kanafinwë missing their father’s dismissal of his craft and Turkafinwë never feeling the need to run away from home, in exchange for Morifinwë never crying beneath their father’s barbed tongue and Curufinwë never buckling beneath their father’s impossible expectations. And the twins… It seemed that had barely experienced more than a passing shade of the parental love that Nelyafinwë so recalled and cherished deep within his spirit, for their birth had been the last gasping, dying breath of the marriage of Fëanáro and Nerdanel. They had never known their parents as anything but two people too busy to spend time with their desperate little sons, two people who did not even really seem to like one another, let alone the seven children they shared between them.

And here he was, getting emotional about all these things that could not be changed! He pulled his hand sharply away from the little box of treasures, little gems that spoke of proof he had not imagined it all. “Fine,” he lied. “I am fine.”

“Come and sit down.” Istelindë’s hands were tiny on his arm, curled in his sleeve, pulling but so lightly that it took no effort at all to resist.

“No, truly, I am… I—”

“Maitimo, please,” she beseeched. And how could he resist that? With a sigh, feeling shockingly fatigued and wondering what had possessed him to come here in the first place, he let her sit him down on his mother’s old bed, let her step between his knees where they hung limply off the mattress, let her raise his head up towards the sky as she raked her fingers through his hair, pushing it back from his face, and then stroked over the sharp lines of his cheekbones with both palms.

Her thumbs stroking the almost aching soreness just beneath his eyes were heaven-sent. Slowly, the lids drifted shut, and the burning he had not even noticed gathering behind his eye sockets then began to dissipate. Her scent was all around him, sweet and pure and so very like to the crisp winds off the sea mixed with sweetness and honey, and it soothed the restlessness away, acted like a balm upon old wounds he had forgotten, buried beneath all the regretful and terrible happenings of Exile.

In comparison to what he had experienced abroad, one would have thought such little aches and pains to be nothing. Yet, thinking of Angamando had not a hope of bringing him to tears the way he came so close thinking of his mother and father. How ridiculous!

“We do not have to linger here long if it makes you so sad, vennonya,” she said with a heart-wrenching timbre to her beautiful voice.

“I came here quite willingly,” he countered. “Besides, we might as well make use of what we have here to help Morifinwë. If not, it will only sit around gathering more dust and more sorrow and more darkness. And I am not sure I could bear to know that that is the case.”

He could not really tell if she understood. “These things that belonged to your mother, you would give them away so easily?”

“Happily,” he said, leaning into her, wrapping his arms around her and pulling her close enough that he could rest his forehead upon her collarbone and sag just a little of his weight into her strange and powerful form of strength. “They need to see happiness and delight and _love_ again. Sitting about here, in this house where my parents stopped loving one another, in this house where my grandfather died, where many of the guards had their blood spilled upon the rugs and the floors, in this house where Morgoth has trod uncensored to rape our family of its treasures and its honor… I would not have anything that once was imbued with love or brightness stay in a place like this.”

“I often wondered why you and your brothers did not return here,” she murmured. “I was being a bit of a dullard, I suppose. I did not think to remember that this was where Finwë Noldóran was killed, nor where the… where the Silmarilli were kept.”

“It is not so much that as it is that this manor used to be a place of bliss,” he told her. “I was raised quite happily here and recall it as a true home, filled with genuine affection. Atar and Amillë loved each other once, and one could see it in all the things that they did during my childhood years. Many of my brothers never knew them when they were still husband and wife in truth, when they still took delight in one another’s presence. Many of my brothers may not remember my father and mother smiling from joy, nor recall a time when this house was not an oppressive prison filled with endless rules and expectations. Not even Kanafinwë. But I do.”

 _And I am saddened to see what it has become. What my parents have become. What_ we, _their hapless sons, have become._

“No point is there in lingering, though.” Little did he wish to pull away from his wife’s softness and warmth, but he did. They should not keep Morifinwë waiting, and the sooner he was out of this house, the happier he would be. “Let us go and find Morifinwë the rest of the treasures he needs for this courting business. If nothing else, I can take pleasure in how galled Atar would be if he knew his hard work and craftsmanship was about to be gifted to a sweet and proper Vanyarin girl. He would have hated it!”

His smile as he said it was brittle, for little real mirth did Nelyafinwë feel when joking about his father. But it was better than crying, and it brought a tremulous answering smile to his wife’s full, pink lips. He stroked a thumb across their petal-softness and wished to kiss them dearly but pulled away instead. The old bedroom belonging to his mother after she moved out of the shared master bedroom with his father was not exactly the sort of location where he wanted to make romantic advances upon his wife. In fact, he was not certain he would want to make advances upon her at all in this house that had belonged to his parents, that was graced with _their_ love and _their_ heartbreak.

They had their own house to christen with their devotion to one another. They had been working on it quite diligently, in fact, he recalled with a slightly truer little grin.

Before they departed, however, Istelindë went to retrieve the shimmering jewelry box. Nelyafinwë had not planned to take it with, respecting his mother’s wishes to leave those treasures behind, but…

“You have more than one little brother out and about courting. It may be useful to have more treasures to choose from when the time comes,” she said in way of an excuse. And he accepted it easily, kissing her cheek.

The pair made their way out of Nerdanel’s rooms, taking the last of Nerdanel’s treasures with them, away from the shadows lingering over the darkened and forever-empty rooms, and the door clicked shut with a finality that made Nelyafinwë’s bones feel cold. He doubted that anyone would ever enter there again.

Morifinwë waited for them in the hallway, perking up at their appearance. 

“To the treasury,” Nelyafinwë said, skirting around his little brother without meeting those verdant eyes. “This house grows stifling.”

Istelindë lingered at his side, grasping his hand with her own as they went. And it helped to calm the feeling of oppressive silence that began to overtake them as they traveled away from the family wing and down into the winding halls beneath the main house. This place still resembled more than anything else a very ornate labyrinth, with the vaults—laden in the most precious treasures of the House of Fëanáro—hidden away somewhere in the middle of the twisting and tangled hallways. Even after such a long time, though, Nelyafinwë almost instinctively remembered which ways to turn, barely hesitating as he led them through the maze and straight to the large, gaping doors.

No one had even closed them. Unlike the pristine front step, which had been scrubbed clean of blood and gore, there were still dark brown stains on the floors and the walls from the guards who had been carelessly slaughtered whilst loyally guarding their Crown Prince’s treasury. At his side, he felt his wife shiver and draw in close, and her warmth and presence in return helped to drive away the strange blackness that seemed to invisibly cake every surface of this little underground fortress, to quell the unease that dripped incessantly down the back of his neck like an icy sweat.

The trio crept inside. Even without the torches lit, many of the gems still glowed faintly through the darkness in an array of colors, old experiments of his father’s prior to the forging of the Silmarilli. Had they seen sunlight, they would glow brightly through the shadow, but they had been jealously locked away before the Darkening and coldly forgotten down here in this dungeon afterwards.

Morifinwë seemed at a loss. “What are we to look for?”

“None of this glowing nonsense,” Nelyafinwë countered, lighting the torches within, watching as the canny design allowed the fire to spread around the room in a ring, lighting up the veritable mountains of gold and gems. Not for anything would he have subjected anyone—let alone a couple sweetly in love—to something that had been beneath his father’s hands in those ancient days when his mind was turned to the Silmarilli and little else, sensing that, through all that starry beauty and glowing loveliness, they were all tainted with bitter rage and stubborn greed and other ill things besides.

They were looking for the older works. Less ostentatious and all the more genuine and pure for it. Even then, anything that had rested within these stone walls would need to be cleansed beneath the sunlight and moonlight, pure energies to drive away the touch of Morgoth that might rest upon them as a toxic dust. Maybe even starlight—for what light did the Eldar hold more in awe than the light of Elentári herself?

If he recalled what he thought he did, the item he was looking for should be in the back, lost amongst the purported “lesser” designs and trinkets forged beneath his father’s steady and remarkable hands. These were things that had meant little to his father in Fëanáro’s last days, old work that was spent, little more than potential metal to be melted down to forge something new and gems that might serve their purpose highlighting and supported a more glorious creation. Unfortunate, for many of these older pieces were lovely in their own right, and Nelyafinwë could remember seeing his mother wear many of them, her hands jingling with bangles reaching up to fiddle at the long necklaces hanging down over her chest or play at the cuffs that surrounded her ears in elegant little golden twists.

The same way Morifinwë was fidgeting with that jeweled talisman around his throat even now, he could not help but think fondly.

Finally, he found the one he searched for. A pendant meant more for one of the sons to wear than for their mother. It was large and round, rather plain compared to some of the later things that had been birthed from Fëanáro’s genius mind. The seven-pointed star, perfectly proportioned, was centered in a ring of glistening adamant, and its arms were formed of all manner of fire-colored gems and alighted even with some shades of jadeite and emerald greens to counter the deep reds and fiery oranges and shockingly bright yellows. Fire colors for their father’s spirit, green to counter with earthy softness and mimic their mother’s eyes, and seven points to represent the seven sons. One of the last works done before his father’s long fall into obsession with the creation of the Silmarilli. At the very center, a large fire opal sat, captured in a net of silver and gold entwined, like a red moon peeking large and bloated to the brim with light, hung low over the black horizon-line and burning through the boughs of trees.

“This,” he said, measuring its weight and shocking heaviness with his hand. “Think you that this will do well enough to represent your claim upon your beloved, hanno, Moryo?”

He held it aloft such that it swung like a pendulum beneath his closed fist, dangling by a long chain. It was meant to fall down to mid-chest upon one of the sons, and he imagined it might fall even past the bosom of a lady to rest upon her solar plexus. Naturally, of course, the chain could be shortened, but he was rather wary to fiddle with any design of Fëanáro’s. Knowing his sire, the number of links used in the damn chain probably held some mysterious numerical or arcane significance that he would never have understood but which would have strengthened the enchantments or intentions surrounding the piece.

Carefully, Morifinwë cupped the pendant within his palm. “I… Yes, yes, I think this is exactly what I was looking for. It would have taken an age of the world to find this myself amongst all the rest of…” His other hand motioned about, face disconcerted at the sheer amount of beautiful treasures and gems hoarded in this dreary and dank place.

“And this is hardly a place to linger,” Nelyafinwë agreed. Even now, he could feel the echo of the presence of Morgoth, an old and sickening counterpart to the slimy feeling ever-resting upon his skin and his spirit from his tenure in Angamando. Only once had he truly come into contact with the Dark Lord—he still had burn scars, dark and round like bruises, on his jaw from where the Black Enemy had touched his bare skin—but once had been more than enough even for a purportedly evil Kinslayer.

Ha! The people of Valinórë could not imagine true evil if Nelyafinwë was that monstrous creature which they used to frighten their children into good behavior and early bedtimes! No matter how brave a man might be, no matter the vows of vengeance and love he had taken, his heart would still and tremble at first sight of the Dark Lord sitting as a small mountain upon a throne of iron spikes, and it would take a monumental effort not to break beneath that terror. Nelyafinwë had barely managed to keep himself from falling apart, like a doll ripping at the seams, under the weight of that presence.

Nothing compared to that was this little bit of residue. But it still left him uncomfortable, and it still began to conjure forth memories of cruel laughter and screams and phantom pains slicing across his skin. Things he would prefer to forget. Things he did not wish to have taint his newly-found happiness.

When he passed over the pendant into his brother’s keeping, he reached out and gripped his wife’s hand again. More than ever before, he needed to feel her presence near, her spirit entwined with his own, right now.

“Is there anything else from here that we need?” Istelindë asked quietly, oddly subdued.

Carefully, he pulled her close, wrapped her up with his body as if that would ward off the nocuous energy infesting the very walls and floors. “There is one last thing I wished to search for. Something that rightfully belongs to _you.”_

“To me?” Istelindë asked in surprise, looking up at his face with her beloved blue eyes wide and confused. “What in this place could possibly belong to me?”

“A wedding gift.” Nelyafinwë had seen it but once, and he had had no part in its design or making, as was tradition. At the time it had been forged, he had never even seen his bride in the flesh, though his father obviously had and had designed the piece to complement her heritage and her coloring. “We never married, and you never received it, but it was completed. It is tradition amongst the Noldor for a groom’s father to gift the bride with a jewel or trinket to be worn upon the day of their ceremonial wedding—and for a bride’s mother to gift the groom similarly—but, naturally, Atar went a little further than the typical father-in-law and was not satisfied at purchasing something. He insisted that he must make it himself, and it should be around here somewhere…”

“I hardly need such a thing,” his dear, sweet, practical wife insisted. “When would I use or wear a bit of jewelry as luxurious as this gift probably is? We live in the mountains!”

But Nelyafinwë scoffed. “It is hardly about whether you wish to wear it. It _belongs to you,_ not to Atar, and it should not sit here in this vault and fade into nothingness. It is the sort of thing that I thought, well…”

When they decided to come to Formenos, where her gift was housed, he had thought of it and wondered how she would look with it upon the crown of her head, clad in a traditional white gown alighted with the bold colors of his house in intricate thread, or clad in nothing at all and spread out across their bedsheets as she writhed beneath his mouth. He had thought of her wearing it if ever they were welcomed enough in Tirion to hold a true ceremony to celebrate their joining amongst their families in joy rather than contention. He may even have wondered if it might be something to pass on to their children—to a future daughter-in-law, if ever they had a son who would go on to be wed. So many of the beautiful things in this place were too ruined to consider passing on or even removing from this creepy old cache of a greedy and long-forgotten Prince, but the few things that were worth taking needed to be taken now.

He doubted he could convince himself to return.

“If anything else there is here that you see and think would suit your girl, you should take it now,” he added, looking over at Morifinwë. “So long as it does not feel too wholly unclean, we can cleanse it of any unsavory energies or enchantments.”

Leaving his little brother to his own devices, he ventured again through the piles and piles of useless pieces that his father had hoarded even unto his last days. He even walked right past the excessively ornate box within which the Silmarilli had been kept locked, though its lock was shattered and hanging off the box by a bit of bent metal. Inside would have been a cushioned velvet throne with three indents upon which the glowing jewels had once sat. In which they would have sat again, had the Fëanárioni been successful in their quest.

 _Better that it ended as it did._ One to the sky, one to the earth and one to the sea. All three well out of reach of any but the Powers of the world, and certainly out of reach of even the strongest and wildest of the Eruhíni. _Better that they are free in the world alighting it than locked away here in this dragon’s hold to poison the minds of all those who are near. ___

__Pushing those thoughts away, he moved on by._ _

__When he finally found it, he breathed a sigh of relief. Reached out to brush the delicate diadem with his fingertips. When he had first seen it all those years ago, he had wondered at its almost simplistic elegance, so unlike the things that his father usually made. Now, though, he could see that it had been symbolic of respect and friendship forged through marriage with the line of Olwë, for it would have fit right in upon the brow of a Princess of Alqualondë with her silvery-white locks and her laughing blue eyes._ _

__“A crown!” she exclaimed, looking around his arm to stare at it as though it might leap up in a flash of quicksilver and attack with sharp, metal needles and miniscule swords of adamant and barrages of tiny, shimmering pearl. Yet, the innocent little thing stayed perfectly still beneath her somewhat horrified gaze._ _

__“Well, we are royalty!” Surely, it was not so strange a thing for a Crown Prince to give the bride of his heir, a woman who might once have been slated to sit upon the throne of the Noldor as their Queen? “And it is just like him to pick a symbol of rulership to forge for his daughter-in-law rather than something sensible like a bracelet or necklace that could be worn often to social events. He was never particularly thoughtful in that way.”_ _

__“But, a crown?” Still hesitant, she reached out to lift it. Naturally, her head must have been measured and Fëanáro must have procured those measurements from her family, because Nelyafinwë could tell just by looking that it would fit her perfectly. Within the cradle of her soft palm, it did not seem so tiny and breakable. No gold was there to be found, but silver-steel waves that glowed beneath the torchlight in shades of the moon, foaming at their crests with pearls that spilled down in little silvery chains, dappled with crystals and diamonds. Had she set it upon her brow, they would have trailed through her hair and glimmered like water droplets in the sunlight. The only color upon it, rare for a piece done beneath Fëanáro’s hand, was in the gem set at the center, a dizzyingly large cornflower blue sapphire that would rest upon the Queen-to-be’s brow as a token of wisdom, truth and powerful intuition._ _

__“Maybe a little impractical for everyday doings,” he joked, “But it would have been yours, so I am giving it to you in Atar’s stead.”_ _

__“If you insist,” she said, accepting the silken cloth in which to wrap her gift. And he did so hope to someday see it upon her brow, if only once. To see his beautiful queen crowned all in silver-steel and pearl and diamond._ _

__But that was for another time and place. No more business had they here._ _

__Backtracking through the gem-encrusted stacks of golden and silver remnants of long-lost days of light, the glowing stones discarded like forgotten mockeries of stars in great piles, they finally ventured back to the wide-open doors of the vaults. Morifinwë was waiting just outside, anxiously stamping his feet upon the dusty, faded carpeting and pacing back and forth a few yards from those places marked with old blood where men had clearly lost their lives. It was unsettling to see, to know that Morgoth had trod this very spot indeed, and Nelyafinwë was glad to be getting well away from this cursed place. Without another word, he slammed shut the doors of those ancient vaults in the wake of their passage and breathed a sigh of relief as the locks clicked in place._ _

__“I have had quite enough of this place,” he said then. “Have you everything you need, Morifinwë?”_ _

__“Most definitely.” His brother cast another wary glance back at the vaults even as they began to move away. “I think I will be happy to never need to venture back inside there again. It makes my skin crawl.”_ _

__“It does,” Istelindë said, staying close and clinging. “Let us go now.”_ _

__“Yes,” Nelyafinwë agreed. “Let us go.”_ _

__They passed back through the labyrinth of hallways, up the stairs to the old manor. Dying sunlight cast orange and yellow fire across the tapestries and paintings in the halls, refracting blindingly through the windows to rain down upon walls long since faded from the touch of Anar’s unforgiving rays. Ignoring the familiar and foreign scent, the glimpses of little bits and pieces of remembrance, the touch of his hand upon the doors that felt so right and so wrong, Nelyafinwë led the march to escape this strange and twisted doppelganger of the home he had once known as his own._ _

__Holding the door, he let his wife and brother pass before him across the threshold, treasures safe in their arms or tucked away in their bags. With a backwards glance, he breathed in the foyer, looked up and imagined the sound of laughter echoing down through the marbled space and the sound of distant music singing from above, and his heart gave one last pang._ _

__And then a hand on his arm. He turned to see his wife at his side. “Maitimo?” Her fingers rested warm upon his forearm, slowly wound their way down and wrapped around that nerveless place where his hand had been lost. But he could still feel the warmth around the dead edges, could still feel the way her fingers squeezed comfortingly. Looking up from where her white skin mixed with the torn and stained scars of his past torments, he met her soft eyes._ _

__“Come away,” she urged gently, and her eyes promised everything that this manor no longer had to offer. All the warmth and all the love. Struck with their resplendence, he allowed her to draw him away._ _

__Not without one last backwards glance, wistful and longing to see something he knew he would not find. But the door had already shut, cold and stately in the dying sunlight. On it, he turned his back, homeward bound, his smiling Istelindë at his side. She laid her lips upon his broken and ruined skin, laughing when he returned her kisses upon her cheeks that now filled with color in the outside warmth._ _

__As clearly did he feel the finality of that closed door at his back as he had felt the foreboding of the Darkening shudder through his soul in the failing days of the Trees, as clearly as he had sensed his demise as he looked down into the abyss of fire at the end of the First Age. A closing and an opening. And he forgot about the phantoms that lingered beyond that door. Truthfully, he had had enough of those memories for the next thousand years._ _

__“Are you ready to go home?” Istelindë asked, her laughter quieting._ _

__And he could not help but press a last chaste kiss against her slightly parted lips just to feel the warmth of her breath and taste her sweetness on his tongue. “I am.”_ _

__It was time to let the past rest and breathe in the future._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:
> 
> Fëanárioni (Q, p) = sons of Fëanáro  
> Silmarilli (Q, p) = the Silmarils  
> Atar (Q) = Father  
> quetil (Q) = language  
> lótion (Q, p) = lóti + -on = of the flowers  
> Amillë (Q) = Mother  
> hanno (Q) = brother  
> vennonya (Q) = my husband  
> Eldar (Q, p) = high-elves  
> Elentári (Q) = Queen of the stars, Varda  
> Eruhíni (Q, p) = children of Eru


	43. Truths Beneath the Rose-Tinted Glass

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Carnistir begins lessons in the courting behaviors of the Vanyar, and Findaráto begins his tentative inquiries into unpleasant matters and does not receive particularly encouraging news...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: dysfunctional family politics, thinking about sex (and not necessarily in a good way), allusions to potential rape/sexual assault, victims forced into silence (b/c politics), uncomfortable questioning (for all parties involved), cultural differences
> 
> Right, so, this chapter is the first of a few of the darker, more serious chapters of this story that are going to be addressing some topics (like rape/sexual assault happening and being covered up by ashamed victims) that may be very uncomfortable and triggering for people. Finrod really has no idea at this point what he's getting into or how to approach it. Please read cautiously at your own discretion.
> 
> Maedhros = Maitimo = Nelyafinwë = Nelyo  
> Maglor = Makalaurë = Kanafinwë = Káno  
> Celegorm = Tyelkormo = Tyelko = Turkafinwë = Turko  
> Caranthir = Carnistir = Morifinwë = Moryo  
> Curufin = Atarinkë = Curufinwë = Curvo  
> Amrod = Ambarussa = Pityafinwë = Pityo  
> Amras = Umbarto = Telufinwë = Telvo  
> Finrod = Findaráto = Artafindë  
> Turgon = Turukáno  
> Aegnor = Aikanáro

_Isilya, 51 Lairë (3 July)_

\---

He did not like it. Not one bit.

When his wife had mentioned this little _gathering_ to be hosted in his townhouse in Tirion, it had sounded rather like the women of the House of Finwë, those whose heritage laid outside that of the strict and craft-oriented Noldor, were coalescing for some well-earned female-only relaxation time. Leary a bit had he been that Istelindë of Alqualondë was amongst the guests, but he was not a man to begrudge a woman comfort and reassurance in others of her sex just because he was not overly fond of her husband.

No one said anything about her bringing company.

Upon opening the door, he had expected Elenwë and Istelindë—either or both—to be waiting on the other side. And both, in fact, were there, like a set of twins in silver and gold, like Anar and Isil, glowing in the early morning light. However, they were just accompanied by a third large, dark, lingering shadow hovering protectively over their shoulders.

At least it was neither Turkafinwë or Curufinwë, or he might have slammed the door right in their faces like an uncouth ruffian. Even then, he doubted he would feel remorseful, for he did not think he could ever have allowed either into his own home no matter if they had been set with the task of guarding Istelindë during her travels or not. That was, he suspected, undoubtedly why poor, fidgeting Morifinwë was being dragged about like a particularly unhappy giant ragdoll. No other reason could Findaráto think of for his male cousin to be forced into attending such a gathering except that he was watching over his sister-in-law in his older brother’s stead and was determined to (or ordered to) let her not out of his sight.

Even though he understood why such stewardship was necessary—no shortage of enemies did the Fëanárioni have lingering in the shadows, and Valinórë had proven of late to be not as safe and secure as one might expect—he _still_ did not like it. At all.

His displeasure probably showed upon his face momentarily. Yet, as always he had before, he hid it well beneath a pleasant smile as he stepped aside to allow the trio into the front hallway. “Amarië is in the parlor waiting already,” he told them, “Down the main hallway and second door to the right.”

The two women chirped their thanks and swept away, leaving him awkwardly standing alone with his half-cousin. Once again, he noted the large, ornate pendant, a woven and jeweled form of heraldry, hanging heavily upon the black-haired Fëanárion’s chest, dark but rich blue against the understated deep brown of his current garb and sprinkled with resplendent little stars of perfectly clear crystal. How Morifinwë had managed to procure permission to court a daughter of the House of Meneldëa, he could only wonder at, for the family was notoriously picky about their spouses. And the Fëanárion was neither devout nor Vanyarin (let alone Minyarin) nor of a particularly handsome pedigree despite his claim to the title Prince.

Seeing the way his cousin was eyeing the pendant, Morifinwë’s nervous fingers grasped it, turning it in circle and twisting the chain, then unspinning it, then twisting it again. “Forgive the intrusion,” Morifinwë said with his eyes averted. “Istelindë did not seem to believe you would be overly bothered as long as she were present, but…”

At the way the dark-haired Fëanárion trailed off, uncertain what to say to lessen the tension boiling through the air and looking so obviously and pathetically uncomfortable, Findaráto just sighed in sudden resigned understanding. So, the gathering had nothing at all to do with women and their secret social rituals as he had originally been led to assume. They were instead working on a new matchmaking project, and Morifinwë was their unfortunate victim. Somehow, he failed to be as surprised as he ought, though it made much sense in retrospect given the token of a Vanyarin lady being cradled between his cousin’s long, callused fingertips.

It could not be denied that Morifinwë was in for an education. Findaráto remembered well courting Amarië—some of the most blissful but frustratingly long months of his young days—stumbling over his own feet trying to figure out why he was being snickered at behind his back while his woman gave him that patient and loving smile that let him know he had made a mistake but she loved him all the more for his social clumsiness. No doubt Morifinwë, who was not even considered particularly graceful in the social doings of his own culture, would be in for a very rough and taxing time trying to court a Vanyarin woman, made even worse by the fact that his suit was to a lady from one of the most prestigious Houses that existed in the Court of Valmar. He would have to learn their ways. And fast.

But, Findaráto reminded himself, this man was a Fëanárion. Never had he met a single one of them that was not a Power of Eä when he wanted something done and done to his liking and nothing less. They were rather notorious for doing whatever it took to get their way no matter the cost to themselves and others. It was what made them so ferociously formidable, so abominably unpredictable, and so excessively dangerous.

Maybe Morifinwë did not know what he was entangling himself in just yet by stepping into the strangely softer and contradictorily less forgiving culture of the Vanyar. But Findaráto did not doubt that, in accepting this courtship, the House of Meneldëa had bitten off more than they could ever hope to chew in return. Neither would be prepared for the other.

Would that he could have been there to watch it unfold.

Unfortunately, he had pressing business here, in Tirion, thanks to his father. 

Even thinking about it darkened his mood, for he had been planning to leave the house and continue with his undesired investigative duties this morn. Now, he would rather have stayed here to keep an eye on the proceedings, for, even as his red-faced cousin was far from the most vicious of nature of all his brothers, Findaráto still disliked the idea of leaving him here with the women. He also knew, however, that Nelyafinwë would never have allowed his precious wife alone with his younger brother if said brother had not his utmost trust in keeping his her safe and treating her well. Mayhap Findaráto was burned by the betrayal and cruelty of his Fëanárion cousins in the past and begrudged to acknowledge it, but he did not for a second think that any one of the seven brothers would intentionally endanger one of their own spouses. If Nelyafinwë was happy to allow this meeting in the presence of his younger brother, Findaráto would be as well, if grudgingly and with no small amount of suspicion.

_Turukáno is going to absolutely throw a fit when he finds out, however._

That was a problem for down the road.

“My pity is yours, cousin,” he offered solemnly with a slight bow of his head. “I shall leave you to the ravenous claws of the matchmaking women and pray you are still in a single piece when I return. I am quite afraid I have other places to be.”

“Wait… You are going to leave me in your house unattended?” Ah, to genuinely surprise a Fëanárion! What a delight! Morifinwë’s eyes were just wide enough that it showed on his otherwise skeptical and suspicious face.

“I mean no offense by this, but you are no Turkafinwë,” Findaráto countered, struggling against the quirk of his lips fighting for freedom.

The beginning of a blush spread rapidly across Morifinwë’s pale skin, like watercolor stained over his cheeks and down his neck, just brushing about the shell of his ears. It negated any of the hardness of the accompanying insulted scowl, giving Findaráto the impression of resigned sulkiness rather than true upset.

“I suppose I should take that as a compliment.” Verdant eyes fluttered for a moment as his cousin exhaled, shoulders slumping slightly. “No point in loitering about out here, I suppose.”

“They will come out to drag you into their domain if you wait too long. The women all get a little strange when it comes to romance,” Findaráto agreed, tentatively giving his cousin a pat on the shoulder. The awkward moment of camaraderie (thankfully) came to a close as Morifinwë shuffled around him and, with a last (rather nervous) glance, disappeared down the corridor in search of his helpers (read: tormentors).

Free now of the last vestiges of distraction from duty, Findaráto departed his house. He and Aikanáro had been making little progress, in no small part due to the reticence of the three victims of the attack, who all still maintained their silence with admirable but annoying stubbornness. They might as well have sewn their lips shut for all the information that Findaráto had been able to drag from their mouths.

However, his brother had shared with him a small but disturbing tidbit of information last night, one that left him unaccountably anxious. Now, he was off to speak to someone in the hopes of gaining some clarification and insight. Rumors could just be gossip made up for entertainment, but if there was a flicker of truth…

\---

_Findaráto waited on his little brother, somewhat annoyed at the lateness of the hour—for he would rather have been home, enjoying dinner with Amarië, and maybe something more in the sanctity and privacy of their bedchambers—but here he was, upholding his word nonetheless. He had agreed to this late-night rendezvous well before realizing just how exhausted he would feel by the end of the day._

I have not been sleeping very well. _He knew that, acknowledged it, and then brushed it aside. This was hardly the first time in his life he had been stricken with nightmares and insomnia. For decades after rebirth, he had struggled with the phantoms haunting his dreams. Eventually, given time and the comfort of his wife’s soothing care and ever-present support, it had gotten better._

And then the Fëanárioni had to come and _ruin_ it…

_Raising a hand, he pinched at the bridge of his nose, rubbing in deep circles just under the corners of his eyes to combat the fatigue-induced headache crawling its way through his skull inch by agonizing inch._

_It was then that the door to the small, private study creaked open. Swiftly, he lowered his hand and raised his head, face falling into that neutrally genial expression that so often he had used to soothe tempers and maintain peaceful conversation even when his inner being was snarling with irritation. The flash of golden-blond hair came first, and then his brother’s familiar features flickered into view of the firelight._

_Except, for the first time in a long while, Aikanáro seemed… brighter. His eyes, so often a dull and depthless blue, as if layered by a glass dome set with sorrow, were almost blazing as though Anar were suddenly set behind their translucent blue. It was so very similar to the strange, alien brightness of a Fëanárion that Findaráto had to fight down a strange, instinctive discomfort. After all, this was his young brother! And Aikanáro had been named for this very fire! Once, seeing such garish brightness in those fell eyes had been completely natural and expected._

_However, that light had not made more than a momentary appearance since Aikanáro’s rebirth, for his younger brother was steeped in his inconsolable longing for his beloved. Nothing had yet inspired such a reaction from his brother—not love, not anger, not fear—until now._

_So, what had happened?_

_Aikanáro almost threw himself down into the neighboring armchair, casting himself fully in the yellow-orange glow of the hearth-fire. “I have heard some rather disturbing things in the past few days,” he said, sounding almost furious about his as-of-yet-unshared news._

_“Rumors only?” Findaráto asked, hoping for better but expecting a confirmation._

_Indeed, Aikanáro nodded, looking no less dissatisfied that he had nothing more to offer. “However, I have a feeling they are not the sort of rumors of which you are thinking, hanno. No silly liaisons or tiffs with married ladies or any of that rot. What I have heard makes me much more unsettled than the normal court shenanigans, for I like not to think much of the idea of it happening here, in Aman.”_

_“Tell me what you have heard.”_

_For a few moments, his brother seemed to struggle with how to begin his explanation. Leaning forward, he set his elbows upon his knees, rubbing his hands harshly over his face with a huffing breath, shoulders rising up and then falling almost despondently. “As you know, I have been going about_ flirting _with a number of unmarried young ladies as of late. After I have had their attention for a night or so, have plied them with a little drink and some light conversation and compliments, I might bring up the rumors regarding our friends in the Healing House and drop a few names. Initially, I expected a great deal of horror and unsettlement amongst the ladies, who are not accustomed to violence perpetrated in their community. So, I was surprised to find that the first girl I spoke to was rather ambivalent to it all. Or, perhaps, even a little vindicated.”_

_“What?” Findaráto leaned back into the cushion of his chair, tapping his fingers against his lower lip._

_“I pressed a little further with her, and she mentioned that girls are encouraged to stay away from certain men,” Aikanáro continued. “Men who are insistent in their attentions but seek not to court or marry the girls they ply with drink and pretty words. The first girl would say little else about it after that.”_

_“And the others?” Findaráto did not at all like the picture that was beginning to take shape before his eyes._

_“Similar things were said by most. One suggested that ‘that sort’ was known to lure women off on their own after too much wine. I hesitated to ask if she had any names of such women, for she seemed uncomfortable when discussing it, and I did not want to upset her or make her too aware that I was fishing for information.”_

_Artafinde was rather uncomfortable just_ thinking _about it, resisting the urge to squirm in his seat. He did not like at all the way it sounded. Which was very much like men seducing and potentially deflowering young women while they were intoxicated, alone and unable to resist or defend themselves. Very much did he not want to jump to any conclusions about such things—perhaps they were misunderstanding, for surely someone would have come forward sooner if such ill things were happening right under the noses of the royal family at court?—but he did not want to discount the possibility of it either. It was not in his nature to turn a blind eye._

_Such, unfortunately, had always been his downfall._

_“I think, perhaps, it would be better if_ you _asked about such things,” Aikanáro added. “The people trust their Crown Prince to defend their honor. Perhaps, if you presented it such that you were there to defend those women, or to find justice for those who might have been harmed, they might be willing to give you names.”_

_More uncomfortable things had Findaráto rarely been tasked with. But he had accepted responsibility for this task despite knowing it would be painful for any victims to speak of and painful to hear about. If it were true, they had a very long list of potential suspects who might have committed this crime and used the presence of the Fëanárioni to cover up their brutal deeds. Depending on what they learned, depending on how these dramatic suppositions had in actuality played out, how serious the situation had become, and how many women were affected, Findaráto shuddered to think how many potentially murderous fathers and brothers might be lurking, waiting for a chance to avenge slighted daughters or sisters._

_Suddenly, it became very obvious that his cousins might have nothing to do with these vicious acts at all. It made him feel a little lightheaded, and he knew the color must have drained from his face thinking upon it. Their task may just have become much, much more taxing but equally that much more important to complete._

_“Do you have someone I should speak with first?” he asked hesitantly._

_Aikanáro’s eyes flashed again, and then narrowed in a way that left not even a speck of his fury to the imagination. “I would speak first to the young Lady Vanimeldë, preferably outside the hearing of her parents at first. Of all the women I spoke with, she seemed to know the most and to be the most resistant to speaking of her knowledge but seemed equally to know the most.”_

_“Do you think…?”_ Do you think that she might have interacted with one of these men personally? That she might have been harmed?

_The questions passed silently through the air between the brothers’ heated gazes. Aikanáro looked away, shoulders shrugging but the furrowing of his brow speaking to his own worries about the matter._

_“I shall call upon her at her parents’ residence sometime this week, then,” the older brother decided in a weary voice, and his headache throbbed once more just behind his eyes, insisting that it was well and truly time to sleep. “Please, continue to seek out any information that you might. Perhaps, if you can stomach to do it, interacting with any known friends, allies or business associates of our three_ friends _might be advisable.”_

_Aikanáro’s nose wrinkled with blatant disgust. “If I must.”_

_“I appreciate your cooperation,” the older brother said, completely ignoring the dirty look he received for his troubles._

_But it only lasted a moment. “Get to the bottom of this, Findaráto,” the younger brother said, voice low and rough, eyes brightening even further, until they were difficult to look upon for their garishness. “If our suspicions prove true, we need to look into this matter more deeply. And not just to discover who might have decided to take the matter of retribution into their own hands.”_

_“Of course.” Findaráto stood, brushing out the wrinkles in his tunic and ignoring the way his knees cracked with slight pain. “We shall meet again soon, then.”_

_“Soon,” his brother agreed._

\---

That had been only two days ago.

Findaráto had, since then, become even more sleepless and short-tempered. Who would not, given the disturbing nature of the ideas alluded to by such rumors?

Perhaps he did not mind having his cousin home with all the women so much after all. Given how apparently surreptitious these ugly and horrid deeds were, rampant and known to the unmarried ladies of court but not spoken of aloud, as though it were some sort of shameful secret, he rather felt better knowing that Amarië and the others were not on their own.

Stupid. His wife could take care of herself, and he was more than aware of that, for she traversed even the busy marketplaces of Tirion with the ease and grace of a lady born to the Noldor for all that her hair was golden and her eyes were cornflower blue. But, instinctively, he could not help but think back to some of the more horrific things he had seen in the Hither Lands, especially the war-torn wastes burned and blackened and overrun with orcs and other evil beings under the guidance of Morgoth and his ilk. Could not help but think of how small she was, how easily he could pick her up and carry her around, and how helpless she would be if he really wanted to force upon her advances she did not desire.

Not that he ever would do such a thing—the very idea made him almost physically ill, and his face probably had taken on a white, pasty hue as he marched resolutely down the streets of Tirion with a plastered smile on his lips—but, still, he could not help but think it. Could not help but then imagine _three_ men of comparable size and strength…

He still felt better, in a way, that she was not alone.

Most likely, it was exactly how Nelyafinwë felt as well, happier sending Morifinwë along with his wife than he would have been sending her by herself into the unknown. And Turukáno, who had not only his wife but also his daughter, would probably feel the same had he known what Findaráto knew. At the tainted knowledge of such foul deeds being perpetrated in this very city he called home, the ground felt now less stable and less certain and less _safe_ than it once had, though it in truth wobbled and trembled not now beneath his feet.

The world aged, and it became a more terrifying and shadowed place with each year that passed, with all the bitterness and the hatred and the suffering that crept and crawled through the cracks of the world.

A chill went down the Crown Prince’s spine as he located the correct house. It was a small townhouse, but properly ornate for a lord’s domain. Lady Vanimeldë’s parents were mere courtiers, and she was a young woman currently lost to Findaráto’s memory amongst the herd of eligible young ladies who spent their time circling the dance floor and trying to capture the attention of their handsome male counterparts.

Carefully, he tapped the door-knocker thrice and waited.

The door was answered by the mother. Very slightly did he recognize her. “My Prince,” she greeted, her face showing surprise as she dropped into an appropriately deep curtsy. “How might I be of service?”

“My lady,” he greeted in return, sketching a prim and proper bow. “I am actually here to speak with your daughter if she is available.”

“My… my daughter?”

“Aye.” Nothing in his voice or manner gave away his true designs, and he gave her that guileless smile that so often put others at ease. That, even now, had the tension seeping out of her shoulders and the disconcerted frown melting from her lips. “I have been making some inquiries to people who might know or know someone who knows the victims of the attacks on Midsummer night. I only wanted to ask her for clarification on something she said to my brother, nothing more. She is not in any trouble.”

Hesitantly, the woman nodded, though her frown was back. “She has nothing at all to do with those three men, certainly not! They are not really the sort a young woman should be spending time with, after all!”

 _Ah, so it is not only something known to the young ladies, but, perhaps, to some of the older generations as well._ Findaráto nodded along politely with her insistence, but he remembered what it was like to be young and to associate with people he ought not and do things that he ought not behind his parents’ backs. He remembered what it was like to be tempted into stupidity, especially by his infernal cousins.

Sometimes, something forbidden could be the most tantalizing prize. And, sometimes, forbidden things were forbidden for a very good reason.

“I am only suggesting that she might know someone who has gone afoul of such characters,” he soothed. “Would you mind terribly if I could speak to her about it? It is rather important, you understand, my lady.”

The woman worried her bottom lip. But, at the end of the day, they both knew that Findaráto was really only asking as a form of pleasantry, gently easing her into the idea instead of forcing his will upon her. It was a technique he had learned from his father, and one many of his cousins would do well to invest in lest they remain blunt, temperamental and bull-headed for the rest of their very long existences.

Which, knowing them, they were stubborn enough to insist upon it.

So, the woman went to fetch her daughter, and Findaráto waited patiently in the small front hallway for their return.

And then they would work through his questions.

He only hoped, at the end of it, the news would be fair. Yet, realist that he was, he dared not hold his breath and hope too hard.

Far too many times in the past had be been disappointed by the truth.

\---

Having been abandoned by his sole male companion, Morifinwë was now viscerally aware of his position as a single man with three ladies for company, all of whom were now looking at him as though he were some bauble or plaything they were eager to make good use of for their entertainment until he was utterly spent—and not use or entertainment or spending in a way any man would think of as being good fun.

“Let us see the pretty jewel your girl has given you,” Amarië first insisted, eagerly scooching to the edge of the loveseat.

Heavily did the pendant hang about his neck, constantly thumping right over his sternum. “Am I meant to take it off to show you, cousin Amarië?”

She and Elenwë twittered at him. “Ai, dear Moryo, you are allowed to take it off and put it on and such things. You are only required to be wearing it out in public and when you are visiting with your girl. Now, let us see then!”

Carefully, wary of the delicacy of the chain, he pulled it over his head and untangled it from his long, loose dark hair. Still, it felt odd and unlikeable, passing it over to the pair of women such that they could gawk and coo over it. Almost immediately, he wanted it back, would have liked to have its comforting weight upon his chest once again.

Both women seemed suitably impressed with it. “You have something of equal value and beauty in return?” Elenwë then asked, passing the jewelry back across the table, carefully avoiding making any contact with his skin in the process.

“We found something in the old vaults at Formenos,” Istelindë explained even as he was putting the chain back around his neck, running his fingers over the soothing bumps and rounded edges of the pendant, measuring its familiar weight in his palm and the coolness of the metal against his fingertips. Only after his hand had catalogued every detail of the piece did he leave it alone, curling the fingers of his left hand instead into the hem of his tunic to keep them occupied while the right hand reached for the pouch on his belt.

Carefully, he spilled the symbolic return gift out onto the table, listening to the heavy clack of it against the glass set within the wooden frame. Even with the lighting dimmed by the curtain, the whole thing nearly glowed for how vividly each jewel sparkled. Undoubtedly, his father had sorted through thousands to pick exactly those with the right clarity, tint and sparkle to match one another. Fëanáro had always been a perfectionist like that, and it showed.

With equal care, Elenwë lifted it into the cup of her hands. “It has been recently cleansed, has it not? It does not carry the years of its use upon it.”

Morifinwë nodded his head. “It was that, or have it carry about the slightest hint of Morgoth’s taint. Besides that, it was forged originally by my father well after his years of bliss had come and gone. We thought it better this way.”

Who knew, otherwise, what kind of dark energies might linger upon it, within the innocuous sparkle of each tiny and perfect gem? Morifinwë was not willing to take any chances. He had seen well enough what kind of horrors and wickedness could be spun into strikingly lovely webs by his father’s pretty words and uncontrollable charisma, as though it had the power to bend minds and shape souls to its whims and will. He would not have something carrying even a hint of his father’s malicious spirit, no matter how beautiful or innocent it might appear, come anywhere near Eruanna.

Realizing that this piece of jewelry had been in the immediate vicinity of both the Dark Lord, Fëanáro and the Silmarilli made one a little more hesitant to touch it. Still, Elenwë only just barely flinched, her fingers briefly tightening and then releasing around the jeweled pendant, which took up her entire palm.

“The seven-pointed star,” Amarië murmured, a little apprehensive of a symbol so openly associated with the cursed House of Fëanáro. “Well, it certainly makes a statement, and it is very beautiful, most definitely expertly formed and decorated. A splendid and impressive token of your affections for her, indeed.”

Morifinwë was no less apprehensive about giving Eruanna something to wear which was so openly (and negatively) associated with his family and their wicked deeds, but it was also the most fitting piece he had found, and it would undoubtedly stake his claim upon her attentions just as thoroughly and openly as she had staked her claim upon him all across his chest (and all the way through his heart). Besides, it was not as if the entirety of the Court of Valmar did not already know who he was after the debacle in the throne room.

Receiving the gift back, he looked down at it glittering in the cup of his palm. “Am I meant to give this in person, or should I send it to Eruanna with all haste as she has already given me the symbol of her family?”

“Ideally, yes, you would give it in person, though, it is not considered to be a ceremonial exchange or anything so formal as that. So long as permission has been given by both sides of the family, the tokens of each House may be exchanged at any time. Given that your courtship has begun, it would be best to send it to her rather than wait until the next time you can physically go to Valmar to visit,” Elenwë answered. “You can send it with some flowers!”

_Flowers… right…_

His face burned, for he had that little book—that incomprehensible book with the love letters of his parents written in the margins, proof of affection that he had never seen with his waking eyes but which once must have existed between Fëanáro and Nerdanel—tucked into his tunic. He had been carrying it about, cracking it open whenever he encountered some flower or another, in an attempt to start memorizing their names and meanings. So far, he was still trying to figure out the difference between buttercups and daffodils, but perhaps it would come with time and experience.

“Is the use of flowers to communicate commonplace there, then? Am I to send a note along with them, or should the message be clear through the use of specific flowers alone?”

He had thought, perhaps, that the tendency to breed expansive and exquisite gardens in Valmar might simply be an aesthetic preference of the Vanyar, and that using flowers to communicate was Eruanna’s personal preference—because it was very obvious to him, a man who had known her for such a short time comparative to their lifespans—that her true love and passion laid with green, growing, flowering things. However, his interaction with Ingwë had indicated that the practice might actually be commonplace, even expected.

As if to confirm his train of thought, both Elenwë and Amarië nodded almost in synchronization with one another. “It is very common for flower language to be used between courting couples to speak of love and… other things…” Amarië explained, and her cheeks developed a soft rosy hue that clarified for Morifinwë perfectly well what those “other things” actually were. To think, that there were flowers for that…

 _I wonder,_ he thought speculatively, fingers itching to pull out the little book of flowers but also hesitant. One could not quite know what his parents may or may not have written in the margins near those sorts of entries.

_Now is not the time for such thoughts!_

“If one is skilled enough, there should be no need for cards to accompany flowers sent,” Elenwë added with a certain amount of surety in her lovely, soft voice, chin dipping sharply. “But you are sending her a courting gift rather than physically delivering it in person, so a note would be acceptable. Your gift will make it clear to all other potential suitors that you are her preferred suitor and currently in the process of courting her traditionally as per the laws of the Vanyar, however, so you should send her something to accompany the gesture which suitably describes your feelings towards her.”

“She sent me home with lilacs in my hair when I left Valmar,” he explained, hoping that might help give them ideas about what to say _back._ But, while they giggled and twittered in apparent glee at the adorableness of the gesture, they seemed to not be overly concerned with composing a message then and there and then allowing him to go off on his own to hunt down the necessary blossoms.

“We shall make a stop to the florist later, and we can help you choose some appropriate blooms for your beautiful girl,” Amarië announced, and all the women bobbed their heads in stern agreement with her declaration. Meanwhile, Morifinwë sank backwards into his seat with no small amount of nervousness. Bad enough that he was cooped up here with three women looking upon him with those vicious, clever blue eyes plotting hours upon hours of torment, but then he would have to go out with them in public to purchase flowers?

 _I suppose I shall simply have to grin and bear the shame,_ he thought morosely, looking down at his hands where they fidgeted and tangled. _The things I am willing to do for love. One must wonder if all men are so affected…_

He did not really recall Nelyafinwë doing anything too bruising to the pride. But, then, his older brother had married Istelindë so swiftly—right under all their noses—that no one quite knew if Nelyafinwë had wooed and plied her with romantic gestures. Somehow, he could not picture his older sibling purchasing flowers—nor the look on the florist’s face had the eldest son of Fëanáro walked into a _flower shop_ of all places looking for a bouquet comprised of romantic gestures—but, then, it could have happened, could it not have?

In any case, they were going to find out what look would cross the florist’s face when a Fëanárion entered their shop just later this day. He sighed just thinking about it and wished that his cheeks would not give away his mortification so easily.

“Now,” Amarië moved on, sweeping the previous subject aside. “We will need to go over everything. General court customs. Traditional dances. Dressing and hair…” Her eyes flickered over Morifinwë, assessing and picking apart his appearance in a way that made him feel like some sort of prized dog on display rather than a man. “Your dark coloring cannot be helped, of course, but your clothing could be less somber. What think you, cousin Istelindë?”

“He does not have much in the way of finery,” she answered. “None of them do, what with living up in the mountains for so long. I can certainly tailor a few things in a short time, but we may have to purchase some of it here…” She worried her lower lip, eyes trailing now across Morifinwë’s face while he sat still and silent and unsure what he should be doing with himself while the womenfolk discussed him as though he were not even there. “Pastels are popular in the Vanyarin court, if I remember it correctly, but they are not really suited to his coloring.”

“Not particularly,” Amarië agreed, with quieter Elenwë nodding her agreement.

“He will just have to stick out a little in bold colors.” They all seemed in agreement with this decision. “Anything lighter than gray will make him look like a phantom.”

Never in his life had Morifinwë played even the slightest bit of a role in choosing clothing colors for himself. Brown and black were suitable for almost everything, and that was primarily what he wore because it was practical. Before the Exile, of course, there had been a small army of tailors and seamstresses that worked for the royal family, and he suspected that his mother had controlled the coloring and style of just about everything her sons donned in public. He wondered, vaguely, if she had done this very same thing with some obscure army of women, discussing the colors and shades that were acceptable with the skin tones and hair colors of each of her seven children.

“No red, either,” Istelindë said, and Morifinwë felt the color in his cheeks darken further, because that had been a rule in his childhood as well. Curufinwë and Kanafinwë, who both were darkly-colored but with fair skin and dainty pink blushes could wear the brilliant ruby reds and scarlets, though it was only preferred by the former. Morifinwë, whose face frequently turned a shade of red which outdid any rich fabric, would have just looked like a tomato with dark hair. “Burgundy, though, could be possible, except that it is dark rather than bold or bright.”

“Maybe not,” Amarië sighed out.

After another ten minutes or so of having absolutely no allowance in deciding what he actually would _like_ to wear, the women moved on.

“What do you know about courting customs of the Vanyar?” It was the first question since they had gotten onto the topic of hair and robe colors that was addressed directly at him, acknowledging that he was, in fact, in the room and could think for himself. Morifinwë blinked for a long moment, drudging up the little he _did_ know and trying to focus on the fact that that little amounted essentially to nothing at all.

“Just that token are exchanged to indicate serious courting is taking place—courting with the intention of marriage at its conclusion,” he added swiftly, “And that flowers are frequently exchanged between couples to share messages, and that braiding hair is far more intimate than I thought it was and I may have already stumbled over that particular rule…”

The trio of females were giggling again. Morifinwë shuddered, shoulders hunching in slightly as his cheeks flared like fiery beacons.

“Braiding of hair is a little intimate for the beginning of courtship,” Amarië agreed, “And I would not suggest doing so in public. But, in private, as long as Lady Eruanna is happy to receive and give such tokens of affection…”

 _So, hair-braiding is allowed._ “I presume there are rules about kissing and hand-holding and… and…” He hated how he stuttered over the thought of any sort of intimate activities.

“In private, hand-holding would be permitted,” Amarië allowed. “Kissing on the cheeks is also acceptable. Kissing on the lips is not, not even in private with a chaperone present. Our people are rather strict about those sorts of things, more so than the Noldor are most certainly. And one would not dare to broach the subject of anything further unless the marriage was absolutely assured, and even then, it would be frowned upon to perform intimate acts before the ceremonial joining.”

Not surprising, either. Disappointing, but not surprising. He would have to sneak kisses from Eruanna’s lips. Compared to what might have happened—sneaking into Valmar after banishment on pain of imprisonment or worse—that seemed but a minor inconvenience and a trifling offense, and one he would not feel at all guilty for committing.

The rest, well…

 _I am not exactly one for frivolous intimacy anyway…_ Never mind that he had certainly been _thinking_ about it—especially after that damn rose in the Meneldëa gardens—and now he was going to think of _that_ every time he saw one of those large, many-layered flowers, most likely regardless of whether it was the exact shade of pink and carried the same lovely, cloying perfume upon its petals as had the one resting in Eruanna’s hands or not.

Swallowing, he pushed thoughts of Eruanna and pink petals away.

“Am I meant to be giving her gifts?” That was a rather important part of Noldorin courting, and he wanted to know if the two overlapped in that manner. In preparation, he had brought home from Formenos a number of trinkets and jewels, many of which had laid collecting dust and negative energy at the bottom of that damn vault for centuries upon centuries but, once cleaned up and purified, would have been worth a fortune each. Money meant little to Morifinwë, but he did understand that displays of wealth and craftsmanship were important for his _own_ people, that such things would have impressed a girl of classic Noldorin stock the same way a colorful male bird’s feathery display might attract a mate.

“Nothing so formal as the rules for Noldorin courting,” Amarië answered, shaking her head slightly. “The Vanyar value meaning in their gifts more so than displays of craftsmanship or of wealth. Knowing what sorts of things your beloved enjoys or needs, what kind of hair ornaments she prefers or what sorts of lace she might like or what sorts of books—if she enjoys reading or studying—she might be lacking, those sorts of things are more in the way of gifts a Vanyarin couple might exchange. Though, jewelry is not discouraged, so long as it carries a personal meaning between the couple.”

It was a bit of a relief that it was not expected that he _make_ gifts during courting. Morifinwë had no craft to his name beyond the craft of making war and dealing out death, for he had had no skill at all in the forge in his youth.

“Naturally,” Elenwë butted in, “She will be trying to figure out what sort of gifts to give you in return. I had it rather simply, for I had known Turukáno all my life—he and Laurefindil were childhood friends—and he was more than happy, for the most part, with books and other items of scholarly pursuit.”

“Findaráto is rather fond of music,” Amarië chimed in, “And certain types of fiction and poetry, though you would think it shameful to admit to what with how he tried to hide having a fondness for romance…”

Once again, Morifinwë shifted uncomfortably as the wives of his cousins started discussing what sorts of gifts they had exchanged with their husbands during courting. There was nothing _particularly_ shameful about enjoying the type of novels that women carried about hidden in their skirts to read when bored or powdering their noses, books that were full of light-hearted and melodramatic romantic gestures—Morifinwë was almost certain that Curufinwë had read a few of them to get some of his more ridiculous ideas about what sorts of adventures women found romantic, for he had stubbornly found a way to spirit Lindalórë from her second-story balcony so that he might escort her to the beach down at the bay and to the lake when the moon was full and to the couple-oriented café on the corner of the main street of Tirion—but it was not the sort of thing a man openly admitted to finding entertaining. Most likely, Artafindë would have been equally discomfited to know that his wife was sharing his personal preferences with an unfamiliar audience consisting of at least one of his dispossessed cousins. Had he such a preference (which he did not) and his brothers had discovered it, they would have teased him mercilessly for centuries.

Suddenly, the background chattering—which he had stubbornly begun to tune out to avoid learning more about Turukáno and Artafindë than he would have liked to know—went silent. All three women were staring at him. “Pardon?” he asked, almost leaning back away from them, like on leaned away from a clump of poison oak or a slathering, mangy dog.

“Well, do you know what sort of things your Eruanna likes?” Elenwë asked with that hint of exasperation that indicated that this was the second time she had asked the question and why had he not been listening the first time?

“A few,” he answered, not really wanting to clarify.

“Like what?” The trio leaned in closer. Morifinwë leaned back further.

“Flowers,” he muttered, averting his eyes. “And other growing things. She spends some of her afternoons working in the greenhouses in Valmar. I know more about the watering habits and phosphate content and acidity of soil of multitudes of flowers than is probably strictly necessary, but she was very happy to explain it all, and I…”

Throughout the explanation, his cheeks just grew hotter. It did not help that he pictured again her flushed face, sweat creeping down over her eyebrow from the heat, her hair sticking to her neck and her cheek, all mussed and glistening. She had looked far too much like a woman might just after making intimate play in bed and now he could not seem to get that image out of his mind, nor the image of the rose petals opening beneath his lips or the wonderings about whether or not the color of her mouth was the same as the color of her…

He coughed, meeting no one’s eyes. His hands pulled sharply at the hem of his tunic.

“Well, it is somewhere to start,” Amarië said thoughtfully. “Now, we should discuss basic court etiquette. It is not all that different from the etiquette at court here, in Tirion, but there are a few minor differences…”

For all that he was happy to be distracted by something suitably non-sensual, Morifinwë still had to stifle the groan that wanted to rise in the back of his throat.

 _Etiquette._ Not something he had ever been accomplished in. Lessons on sitting and walking and posture and forks and the correct side of the plate to put his wineglass after he drank—not to mention the proper way to hold it, which was not the same as the proper way to hold a teacup which was not the same as the proper way to hold a water glass—had been pure torture for young Morifinwë, who would rather have hid in his room like the coward he was and never, ever come out again than face any situation in which he might be judged on eating salad with the wrong fork. It had sounded like a truly horrible fate then, and it still sounded like a particularly creative form of torture now.

He settled in with resignation. No matter how one looked at it, this afternoon was going to be long and taxing.

_But Eruanna is worth the torment. More than worth it._

Just thinking about her brought a slight smile to the corners of his lips despite the conversation, which had, as most etiquette conversations involving him did in their infancy, turned to a scolding about his tendency to fidget. His fingers gave a particularly violent and satisfying tug to the hem of his sleeve.

Then he pulled away from his sleeve with a reluctant, put-upon scoff, pressing his hands down flat on his thighs to keep them from squirming or reaching for a new bauble to use as entertainment for their restlessness.

He felt the stillness beneath his skin like an itch. He pictured his beloved’s smile.

Even in the midst of the unwanted lecture and the subsequent embarrassment that flooded his soul like fire, he felt his heart swell with fondness.

_Eruanna is worth it all._

\---

Lady Vanimeldë was nervous. Findaráto could tell, for all that the young woman had perfect posture, sitting across from him with her back straight and her chin raised and her hands neatly folded in her lap. The perfect picture of a courtly daughter, prim and poised and proper. Except that her gaze was lingering off in space somewhere over his right shoulder.

“Amillë said you had questions for me, Prince Findaráto?” she inquired, her voice soft and breathy and properly deferent.

“Indeed, I do,” he answered, wishing to be almost anywhere else. “You spoke to my brother not but a few days ago, am I correct?”

Her cheeks flushed slightly. “Is this about Prince Aikanáro?”

It was almost sad how hopeful the girl sounded, as though she thought Findaráto might be here inquiring after her as a potential suit to his younger brother. Unfortunately, no woman of Valinórë would ever turn Aikanáro’s head. It came to his mind that it was a little cruel—not only towards Aikanáro, but also towards these young women—that the younger Prince was tasked with flirting and wooing and playing with the feelings of girls he had no intention of courting once he had gleaned all the information they had to share. It was, however, a necessary evil should they wish to get at the root of these strange and unpleasant happenings.

“It is about something you said to him,” Findaráto clarified, a little saddened at how her eyes dimmed with disappointment. Hopefully, not every young woman he spoke with would be so taken with his younger brother.

“What sort of thing?” she asked then, her fingers curling faintly into her skirts, subtly trying to wipe away the sweat that had probably gathered upon her palms.

“He mentioned to you the three men who were attacked on Midsummer.” Leaning ever so slightly forward, Findaráto took in her reaction. The faint widening of her eyes. The loss of the little bit of pink coloring in her cheeks. The way her hands broke their perfectly formed fold to curl into little fists.

Her eyes were the color of the sky at dusk on a stormy day, soft and gentle gray. And they were growing darker, pupils widening, but not out of lust and desire. Coupled with the faint tremor of her hands and the flattened line of her lips, he could only see a thin veneer of composure over a strange sort of instinctual fear. His line of questioning, no matter how safe and how gentle it might seem at first, was already making her uncomfortable. Even frightened.

“What about them?” she asked then. “I know _of_ them, of course, for they are men of court. But they are no one I would have personally associated with. They are not the sort young women should spend time around.”

_And there it is._

“Why not?” he questioned, watching as her shoulders stiffened further, as her eyes averted from his face and glimmered strangely.

“They are not the sort who treat girls well,” she answered shortly.

“Do they treat all women poorly?” He leaned closer, offered her is best sympathetic smile, shoving down the rage that swirled and bubbled in his stomach.

“I…” She swallowed. “My Prince, they are not the sort to woo a girl correctly. That is to say, they are not seeking marriage, but are rather looking for attentions of a different sort. A girl who wants her reputation intact and unquestioned should not spend time alone with such men in dark rooms or gardens. I have never been alone with any of them, but I… I have heard that they can be quite insistent.”

They verbally stumbled over and around the topic at hand in a circuitous dance. “Insistent enough to act against a woman’s will?”

She looked down at the ground. “They are only rumors.”

Clearly, she did not want to broach the subject of what these men might or might not have done to girls or women at court, did not want to cast any accusations, and he could very well understand that. It was a dangerous thing, potentially slandering powerful men, or rightfully accusing them without proof of guilt. This girl was not from any particularly well-off family—lower nobility at best—and could not afford to be marked as a gossiper or an untrustworthy, nosy slanderer.

“Do you know anyone who might have further insights into the matter?” Little more was he likely to learn here if she would not speak plainly of what she had heard. But, perhaps, he could compile a list of other names—other women to speak with who might have seen or heard more, who might have more to say.

Maybe even some who might have experience with one or more of the men in question. Though, Findaráto shuddered to think it and prayed (hopelessly, for he was no naïve and unworldly man) that there were none to be found who had experienced the worst.

“I… might,” she admitted. “But, my Prince, you heard none of it from me! Please!”

“Of course, I will tell no one of our conversation,” he soothed. There was really no reason to implicate his sources. “This secret will be between us alone, dear.”

Some relief shown in her eyes, crackling and burning like little pale embers in the sea of gray. Her breathing slowed as her nervousness abated, and she relaxed back into the cushions of her own chair, as though she were deflated and tired. She looked exactly how he felt every time he thought of the matter at hand and wished he could go home, curl up in bed with his wife, and pretend that none of this was happening at the very center of the beloved city he had always thought of as his home.

Her tongue darted out to lick her lips. “I know a few girls who have… a closer _relationship_ … with some of those men,” she admitted. “You may want to start by talking to…”

By the end of it, he had close to a dozen names, felt like his stomach had been tied into just as many queasy knots, and wondered with a cold chill down his back whether or not he was ever going to let his wife out of his sight while at court ever again.

Because almost half of these women were married. Broaching the subject of potential forced infidelity or an assault prior to marriage, those were not the sort of inquiries he wanted to be forced to make of any married woman. And he could scarcely imagine how horrified their spouses might feel, magnified tenfold if there was any truth at all to this budding web of allusions and intimations.

But it had to be done.

Standing, he offered her a low bow. “If anyone asks, I was here to see your father, and, because he was away, spoke to his family briefly about inconsequential things. No one will hear that this information came from your lips." He paused, feeling for once in his long years that he knew little of the right words to say to help with the way she looked wilted and tiny in her seat. "I know this was difficult, Lady Vanimeldë, but you have been of great assistance.”

Her returning smile was brittle, barely patched together with ill-fitting shards of glass. “As long as it helps,” she whispered, and her hands came around her body in a lonely embrace, palms rubbing up and down her upper arms as if to drive off a chill.

“It will,” he assured her. “It very much will.”

He would make damn well sure of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:
> 
> Anar (Q) = the Sun  
> Isil (Q) = the Moon  
> Fëanárioni (Q, p) = sons of Fëanáro  
> hanno (Q) = brother (informal)  
> Ai (Q) = exclamation  
> Silmarilli (Q, p) = the Silmarils  
> Amillë (Q) = Mother


	44. Parsley, Sage, Rosemary, and Thyme

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alt. Promises Made From Chrysanthemums. Carnistir woos his girl from afar, Pityo woos his girl over poultices, and Wilwarin struggles not to become attached...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: flower language, mental health issues, bad coping mechanisms, survivor's guilt, guilt in general, resentment, names are complicated, herbalism, backstory, assumptions, thinking about sex
> 
> N: Pityo only thinks he's got his girl's backstory figured out. The title is both something of a hint at her mother's story as well as symbolic in its own right.
> 
> Maedhros = Maitimo = Nelyafinwë = Nelyo  
> Maglor = Makalaurë = Kanafinwë = Káno  
> Celegorm = Tyelkormo = Tyelko = Turkafinwë = Turko  
> Caranthir = Carnistir = Morifinwë = Moryo  
> Curufin = Atarinkë = Curufinwë = Curvo  
> Amrod = Ambarussa = Pityafinwë = Pityo = Minyarussa  
> Amras = Umbarto = Telufinwë = Telvo = Atyarussa  
> Finarfin = Arafinwë

_Aldúya, 52 Lairë (4 July)_

\---

It had already been five days, and Eruanna was enthusiastically stifling the very first hints of despair poking and prodding likes needles into her soft and tender heart.

Nothing from Carnistir yet. Not even a note.

_He promised. Fëanárioni keep their promises._

So, for that morning—another messenger-less and parcel-less morning—she swallowed down her discontent, ate breakfast with her family in an uncomfortable state of hushed false-tranquility, and retired to her rooms to study. It was hard not to be ever so slightly dispirited, flipping through page after page, her eyes scanning lines of text but failing to truly absorb any of the meaning behind the complex words and calculations.

 _This is going nowhere._ She closed the cover of the book—a text on the movement of small bodies in the sky—and set it aside. It was not too late to slip out of the house and spend the day in the greenhouses. Feeling something living and growing beneath her fingertips, tender little ferns tickling her skin with their leafy greenery or vibrant emerald boughs of leaves reaching down to brush through her golden hair where they leaned heavily down bearing fruit and blossom, would help to soothe her spirit. It always did.

Her father would be displeased. Usually, she was allowed to spend an afternoon away from her studies only once each week. Nervously, she wondered if she might convince him to allow an extra day just this once.

Considering how cold he had been in the last few days, silently disapproving over her insistence upon courtship with an unsuitable man—never mind that he had given his consent to the proceedings, as Carnistir had explained to her the morning they had spent together with her braiding lilac into his long, silky hair—but merely watching and waiting for something to happen. A little desperately, she hoped something would happen soon, because she had already seen that hint of smugness in the faces of her sisters. That small whisper of “We told you not to mess around with the wrong sort” ringing through her ears, floating through the air between their entangled gazes like a curse.

_Carnistir promised._

She just needed to give him time. Perhaps the Noldor did not court quite the same way as the Vanyar. Perhaps it was normal for them to go days and days without so much as sending a note to the woman they courted. She rather wished she knew more what to expect, if she should prepare herself for a Noldorin courtship (whatever differences that might entail) or if Carnistir was planning to attempt something more like a Vanyarin courtship. Would he be coming here? Would he be staying away? How often would he visit?

Maybe she needed to think of something else for a while. Resolutely, she went to dig through her closet in search of old smocks or gowns, something that could get dirtied. Even if her father denied her access to the greenhouses today, she could still go out into the gardens and enjoy the sunshine and the flowers rather than being stuck in this stuffy old room with nothing but her thoughts and a mountain of books waiting to be digested.

Her fingers had only just closed about and pulled loose one of her older dresses when her name echoed up through the halls. It was her sister calling.

Her heart skipped a beat.

 _It may have nothing at all to do with him,_ she reminded herself tremulously as she set the dress down upon her bed and went out into the hall. Carefully, she kept herself from running or skipping or prancing or any other locomotion that would show an inappropriate amount of excitement at the potential for good news. More often than not, she had been chided for her undignified ways by her father and her siblings, not suited at all to a daughter of the House of Meneldëa or to a disciple of Varda Elentári, learned in the ways of the stars and, apparently, incapable of emoting like a normal person because that was simply too plebeian.

Maintaining the illusion of floating just above the ground, she came to a stop at the balcony overlooking the foyer. Looking down, she first spotted her sister, Ankalimë, who had her arms crossed and looked at their visitor with consternation—or, rather, at his cargo—as though she could not quite understand the message therein.

The courier was dark-haired. Which could only mean that he was not of Valmar. And who would be sending large bouquets of flowers all the way from Tirion, the city of the dark-haired and gray-eyed Noldor, to the House of Meneldëa in Valmar but for Carnistir?

This time, she could not help but descend the steps a little more quickly than would be strictly considered graceful and ethereal, bounding down the last four steps at a lope and crossing the tiled floor with quick little click-clacks of her shoes. Up close, the bouquet was almost too large to hold—it would fill up the entirety of her arms when it was handed over—but she was more focused on the constituent flowers than she was on the size.

The poor florist’s courier struggled awkwardly for a moment, trying to hold the flowers one-handed, and pulled out a box. Not particularly small, and heavier than she would have expected as it was passed into her hands with a cordial, “For Lady Eruanna.”

Carefully, she opened the parcel. Atop it rested a small note. The hand was not the most elegant, but it might once have been quite polished and still carried a hint of the writer’s formal education in the sweeping curls of the silmi, the romeni, the tincor and the calmar. Breathless, she felt her face begin to heat just a little bit.

\---  
_Dearest Eruanna,_

_Please forgive the time that has passed between my departure and this note, for I was in search of a jewel suitable to gift you in exchange for the mark of your House that rests upon my chest. I hope you will find this an appropriate token of my courtship. My cousins, Ladies Amarië and Elenwë, have assured me that you would not find it offensive if I failed to deliver it in person, for I am still held up in Tirion, but I hope to return to your side within the week._

_Enjoy the flowers, my Lady. I await your response eagerly._

_Yours with great affection,_  
Carnistir Fëanárion  
\---

It was short and sweet, and it swept away the first tendrils of disconsolation that had started to take root in her spirit. Nothing would make her happier than for Carnistir to return so shortly, for she had begun to long already for him to be near in just these past few days. Folding the note carefully, she tucked it away into her skirts.

The jewel underneath it was, indeed, more than suitable. In fact, it was of such fine make that even she, no great connoisseur of such things as gemstones and pendants and other treasures of the earth, could see its value before she had ever touched it with her fingertips. Hardly dared she risk marring it would her fingerprints it for its finery. No one who looked upon such a thing would ever mistake it for belonging to any House but that of Fëanáro, for it was a seven-pointed star made from gems that glowed with inner fire, a mixture of greens and reds and oranges and yellows, all ringed with a blinding white circle that could have been nothing but the purest of adamant. At the center, an opal sat, glistening a bolder orange than any fruit, speckled with little glimmering rainbows of blue, green and radiant yellow light.

Ankalimë took a shuddering breath in as she looked over Eruanna’s shoulder. “Do you think it was forged by… by _him?”_

 _Fëanáro,_ they were both thinking as they looked upon it.

Not for many long years had anyone touched a piece of jewelry or a stone faceted by the greatest craftsman amongst the Eruhíni, for the Noldorin Prince had hoarded his creations in his country estate, sitting on them like a greedy, star-eyed dragon, in the last centuries of his time in Aman, and they were gifted rarely and with much fanfare before that. The chief holder of such jewels—beyond the seven sons and their mother—was the Noldorin royal family, and everyone knew they shunned creations that were forged beneath the hands of their Dispossessed and traitorous brethren and wore them not no matter their breathtaking beauty.

This piece was, indeed, breathtakingly beautiful, and likely priceless. “You will have to show it to Atar,” her sister murmured, sounding reluctant, as though the colorful trinket wore its bold shades in the same way as would something venomous or dangerous to hold, like a snake or a spider. To Eruanna’s eyes, it was, while rather resplendent (and recently purified, if her senses were doing her justice), only a piece of jewelry and would hardly leap up and bite. “If he approves, I suppose your courtship will have officially begun.”

It was no secret that Ankalimë and the others disapproved. Even now, it showed in the look on her sister’s face, in the way her sister shied back from getting too close as though she might catch her death just from touching something that had been beneath the hands of a Kinslayer. But Eruanna would take what she could get for now.

_Once they have spent time near him, spoken to him and seen his sweetness underneath all that bluster and prickly outer skin, they will understand._

She hoped, anyway.

“Of course, I shall, but first…” She turned towards the poor courier, who was looking rather worse for wear and like he was itching to finally abandon his flowery cargo. “Bring those into the sitting room, good sir.”

Happily did the man follow them to the sunny little room with the wide open window letting in the summer breeze and spilling summer sunshine across the floor. Beneath the natural light of Anar, the flowers were even more beautiful to behold. Delicately, the man set the assortment of blooms and their ornate vase down at the center of the proffered table, looking relieved to be divested of their weight at last. Undoubtedly, the ride here carrying those had been most uncomfortable despite the stiff fabric wrapped underneath the blooms to hold them in place and protect them from the wind. Eagerly, Eruanna peeled that aside to see in full her prize.

Had her attention not been honed in with such all-encompassing focus upon the messages inlaid with the flowers, she might have had more sympathy for the poor man, who looked very much like he desired to be dismissed but was forced to stand off to the side fidgeting as Eruanna oo-ed and ah-ed over the lovely sight, her fingers immediately finding the pure white chrysanthemum that acted as the centerpiece of the whole design. It had a number of potential meanings, but, knowing Carnistir, she could guess at the one he had meant.

_I promise. I promise I will return soon._

With a bit of an overcome sigh, she also took in the surrounding zinnias, vibrant in their array of many bold, fiery colors. Ridging the larger blooms were the slender flowers of the honeysuckle, and their sweetness filled up her senses and left her feeling a bit dizzy. Almost did she wish to lean down and kiss the blossoms, to taste their nectar. To taste his message upon her tongue like honey and sugar.

 _I miss you, I miss you,_ the zinnias said. _I am devoted to you, be happy while you wait for me,_ the honeysuckle added.

Well, her mood had certainly improved since she had contemplated going to the greenhouses not twenty minutes ago. Now, she wondered if she would be able to pull herself away from the flower arrangement for the rest of the day, for she longed to count every flower, to know the shade and curve of each, for they had been chosen for her by her love. Certainly, she would have to carefully move it up to her own private chambers and set it out in the sunlight, perhaps give the blossoms some water to quench them after their journey. After all, they had traveled all the way here from Tirion, she would presume, and she wanted them to last as long as possible before they faded as such fleeting things always did.

At her side, Ankalimë shot her an exasperated look. “Are you quite finished? Or are you going to send flowers back in return right this second like a blushing maiden with her first infatuation?”

 _I_ am _a blushing maiden,_ Eruanna almost countered, for all that she hated being viewed as a brainless child by her older sisters and brothers. Might her sister think this a frivolous pursuit, arranging flowers and sending them back and forth in romantic messages, but Ankalimë had married not for love but for reputation. Affection there was between her eldest sister and brother-in-law, but she wondered at whether they truly loved one another even now, after all their long years of marriage.

Then again, Ankalimë was more one of those people in love with the stars and nothing else more so than they.

Would that her sister could understand that her love lay in the fleeting, perfumed beauty of flowers, in the tending of green things and the scent of the earth heady and thick on the back of her tongue, cool and welcoming beneath her hands as she pressed them down. That Carnistir—who, she was quite certain, knew next to nothing about flowers beyond that they were typically fragrant and colorful—was making such an effort left her giddy and almost dancing on her tiptoes across the room. She wanted to pirouette!

Instead, she carefully controlled her feet, for all that they seemed to want to float right of the floor in truth. “I need time to compose a proper message in return.”

As if she had given him the best news he had had all day, the courier let out a sound of profound relief. “If that is all, my ladies,” he said with a sharp bow, very obviously requesting (almost begging) to be released to go about his business.

There was no reason to keep him, and Eruanna was still only half-listening as he was dismissed by her older sister, instead lost in thought, cradling the heaviness of the jewel-carrying box in her cupped hands, caught in the fog of images revolving around Carnistir’s eyes glowing like verdant stars and how the zinnias tried and failed to match the vibrant red rosiness of his cheeks when he was bashful.

Humming, she continued to move and brush against the flowers, arranging them to perfection such that she could see each flower. “Eruanna,” her sister called. “Eruanna, Atar is in his study, but he will not be for much longer.”

Right. The pendant. Right. She needed his permission before she could wear the blatant, glittering amulet of Carnistir’s House upon her breast. If she missed him while he was home, her father would not be back again until late tonight, and then she would have to wait until tomorrow morning. If she went out today, even if it was just to collect flowers in the gardens within sight of the servants, she would have liked to be able to wear the pendant proudly out in the open.

Pulling herself away from the bouquet was difficult, but she would be back to admire it soon enough. Following Ankalimë out of the room, she headed up the stairs towards her father’s study, box held closely to her breast. It was heavy in her hands.

_Will it feel just as heavy with purpose when its chain rests about my neck, when the seven-pointed star hangs down against my chest?_

She could not deny the excitement that had reignited her optimism. After this, she would bring the bouquet up to her room, and then she would plan out exactly what flowers she would weave and arrange together and send back to him with her regards. Maybe some zinnias of her own would be lovely, some encouragement to keep his promise, also, something to show her excitement that he would be back soon…

So many possibilities!

She almost spun in a circle, and barely managed to stifle a sound of pure glee. From a little further up the stairs, Ankalimë sent her a _look._ “Are you coming or not?”

Ah, she had frozen in the middle of the foyer. Like a daydreaming idiot prancing through a world of fantasy. And she was still in too light a mood to feel embarrassed about her lapse of attention, even though she was certain that her sister knew exactly what kinds of silly romantic things her thoughts were currently suffused with.

“Coming!” she answered, grinning brightly and making for the stairs.

Ankalimë just let out a resigned sigh. “Your head will be in the clouds all day,” she complained. “At least your suitor sent a jewel of proper value, and at least he knows how to choose flowers, but I have a feeling you are going to be completely useless now.”

“But you must admit, the gesture was very sweet,” she cried, coming to stand at her sister’s side, curling their arms and meeting those blue eyes that were a chillier echo of her own. “Did you see what the flowers said, Ankalimë? He _misses me!”_

“Sweet indeed,” her sister agreed. And Eruanna might have been imagining it, but she thought she might have seen the slightest glimmer of something gentle.

It only made her smile widen. _Progress._

“Let us get your conversation with Atar sorted,” her sister said then. “Afterwards, you might as well go out to the gardens. You will not hear a word edgewise until you have sorted out your flowers.”

“Of course!” She gave her elder sister a brief embrace and then danced off towards her father’s study. “Thank you, Ankalimë!”

Her sister just sighed again.

\---

_Valanya, 54 Lairë (6 July)_

\---

Watching Istelindë trying to convince Telufinwë that going into town today was a fantastic idea was both mildly hilarious and, also, rather depressing. Last evening, she had expressed interest in descending down to Tirion, her eyes shifting sideways towards the youngest of the Fëanárioni to gauge his interest, only to come away disappointed when he merely shrugged and went back to staring at the fire. Now, this morning, she had announced that she was going and, when Telufinwë had still displayed no interest in visiting Tirion, she had suggested that he might enjoy a little bit of time in town away from his brothers.

(With a certain lady friend, though she said that part not so straightforwardly.)

And Telufinwë, being his obnoxiously stubborn self, was not taking the bait.

The younger twin gave his sister-in-law an apologetic but firm look, chin sticking out as he shook his head. Green eyes flashed over her disappointed face, then met Pityafinwë’s over the top of her head.

 _I know exactly what you are doing,_ Pityafinwë’s eyes silently spoke, not certain whether he approved or disapproved of his twin’s decision to put a stop to his courting of the dancer before it had really eve begun. Conflicted, the elder twin inserted himself between Istelindë, who had breathed in deeply and looked to be bolstering herself for another attempt at changing Telufinwë’s mind (a monumental and nearly impossible task), and instead captured her attention for himself.

“I think Telvo is not feeling so well today,” he broached. “Perhaps, another time would be better, sister Istelindë.”

It was a familiar role. The older twin taking charge, barring others from disturbing his traumatized baby brother at every turn. Part of him, as always, felt annoyance at being forced to intervene because Telvo refused to speak for himself. The rest scolded that small portion with horror, because Pityafinwë knew very well that it was partially (in his mind, mostly) _his fault_ that Telvo was so scarred and horrifically disturbed in the first place, and intervening to save his little brother from more hurt and suffering was _the least_ he could do.

Still, he felt a little hesitant. On the one hand, he knew nothing at all about this girl, this dancer, and was not so certain he wanted her near to his little brother. On the other hand…

_I worry that he will never get past this. I worry that he will try to isolate himself up here, in the mountains, alone forever._

No matter how wary of strange women Pityafinwë might be, he absolutely did not want Telufinwë to be cooped up here, clinging to Nelyafinwë’s apron-strings like a terrified child, for the rest of all time. Perhaps he might have preferred that his little brother find a _friend_ first instead of a potential lover—that the woman in question was not interested in his brother out of what appeared to be pure hero worship after Telufinwë had valiantly saved her (and jeopardized the safety of his entire family in the process)—but he was also worried and anxious enough to potentially overlook that little flaw. He knew that Telufinwë might _think_ that he was protecting that girl by staying away from her (and, maybe, from a certain point of view, he was), but Pityafinwë also knew that his brother might very well be using that as an excuse to self-punish and isolate, whether out of fear or guilt or some other mysterious emotion that the older twin could not fathom.

 _Today, I shall let it slide,_ he silently decided, steering Istelindë gently away such that Telufinwë could make his escape out the back door beneath the rising tones of Kanafinwë’s gentle morning serenading. _But I will not let it lie forever._

In fact, it came to his mind that he might have more than one reason for visiting Tirion this day. Naturally, he was looking forward to making another attempt at befriending and romancing the lovely Lady Wilwarin—she had occupied his thoughts these days more often than he was willing to admit—but it came to him that he might use this opportunity to explore this strange dancer as well. See what kind of a person she was.

_See if she was good enough for his little brother._

As soon as he had Istelindë out on the porch, she huffed in his direction testily. “You should not encourage him to lock himself up here in the mountains, brother Pityafinwë.”

As if he needed her to tell him that! He scoffed lightly in response. “He is being stubborn. No amount of cajoling or pleading is going to make him change his mind about going into town today, so there is no point in you bothering him further.”

And there was her worried face. Her perfectly-arched brows furrowed, and her lips pulled into a dainty little frown. If nothing else, that cooled down Pityafinwë’s temper, for he was aware that they were on the same “side” concerning the betterment of Telufinwë and his social life. His sister-in-law, for all that she might sometimes trip and stumble over the hidden rocks and obstacles lining the roads down the twists and turns of the spirit of each Fëanárion, she really _did_ mean well at the end of the day.

Sometimes, she just had not the right way of it. That was why Pityafinwë was here, to help guide her in her attempts to assist Telufinwë.

“I know this is about that girl,” he broached instead, helping Istelindë up onto the cart that had already been prepared.

Istelindë remained silent until they were on their way down the road, passing through the trees and leaving the cabin and the rest of the brothers behind in their shadows. “Do you think he simply does not like her? I thought they seemed rather smitten with one another.”

“I think he _is_ rather smitten with her, which is precisely the problem,” Pityafinwë countered. “Telufinwë at his worst is a bull-headed, obstinate martyr. He may very well believe that avoiding the dancer is for her own benefit, and damn his own feelings and heartache regarding the matter. He can be remarkably obtuse like that. It is a trait he shares with many of our brothers and, chiefly, with our father. Right now, his mind is set, and it will take much more than dangling Lady Amaurëa in front of his face like a tantalizing bit of meat to change his mind about the course he has set himself upon.”

Nibbling at her lower lip, Istelindë stared out towards the passing fields and rolling, rocky hills and mountain meadows as they passed on by. “Do you think he can be swayed?”

“I… think he could,” the older twin admitted. “I am simply not certain I want him to be.”

“What do you mean?” At his words, Istelindë seemed a little taken aback.

Pityafinwë carefully measured his next words upon his tongue before speaking. Backtracking through all the trouble that had already come of his brother’s infatuation with this pretty, lovely and lively dancer, he wondered if she might just make everything worse. “I have learned the circumstances of their first meeting—Telufinwë and Amaurëa’s—and I worry that her affection for him is a trifling thing. A bit of hero worship, perhaps, rather than genuine regard. I know nothing more about her beyond her profession and that she has been remarkably forward with my brother, who is fragile at best and outright broken at worst.”

“You worry she may be playing a game with Telufinwë.” At this, Istelindë seemed rather downcast, as though she had not really considered the idea but found it surprisingly and horrifyingly possible.

“Maybe it is cruel to say,” he went on, “But Telufinwë is not anyone’s idea of a catch. If he falls for her as wholly and completely as he does all other things in his life, he will be devoted to her and her happiness until the end of time itself. That is just his way. But I would not have him give his heart so fully to someone who loves him in return only shallowly and fleetingly for a mere good deed and not for himself.”

Such was his job as the older twin, to make sure that no one was going to be breaking Telufinwë any more than Fëanáro already had. And certainly not some girl seeking frivolity or gold-digging or any of the less scrupulous motives for which a woman, especially one not of the nobility, might choose to try and gain the favor of a Fëanárion.

“Then, perhaps you should meet her,” Istelindë suggested, echoing Pityafinwë’s earlier, barely-there wisps of thoughts and plans. “She is doing a performance today at the School of Dance, so she would not be difficult to find.”

“So, that is why you were trying to get him to come with today…”

Her cheeks heated. “Well, yes. I have been asking Uncle Arafinwë to keep track for me.”

 _Ah, she has been trying to plot the best way to shove the two of them together._ He supposed it made sense. What better way was there to get a man entranced enough to lower his guard than by having his watch his lady dance? Pityafinwë well-remembered the look on his brother’s face as Telufinwë beheld Amaurëa twirling across the flower-laden stage in the plaza with the gilded fountains in the background and petals spinning down about her slender form as she spun and bent.

“Maybe I will stop by,” he acquiesced. “I want to get my injuries checked first, though I think all but the broken finger are well-healed.”

“And, I suppose you want to see your Lady Healer again,” Istelindë said slyly.

 _She knows._ Narrowing his eyes, he looked over at her. No one would have seen him with Wilwarin except for Telufinwë, and obviously his younger brother was not much for telling others’ secrets. “How did you figure it out?”

“Beyond how suspicious it is that a man is so willing to be seeing the healers?” Here, she shot him a bit of an arch look, lips twitching at the corners with a teasing smile. Flushed in the cheeks, he had to admit that the behavior was a trifle suspicious, especially given the nature of the men of the House of Fëanáro and their well-documented independence and stubbornness. “I followed you to see to whence you were going. Actually, I was a bit disappointed, thinking you really _had_ just gone to have your injuries seen to at the Healing House, or that, perhaps, your wrist or finger were more agitated than you had been willing to admit to your brothers. But then I saw you with her…”

Pityafinwë had no recollection of Istelindë’s presence or of the door to the Healing House opening while he had been there with Lady Wilwarin, but he supposed he would not have been paying attention even if it had done.

“Well, then, you already know that I would like to see her again.” What point was there in denying it as such? “I doubt she is willing to see me as anything more than a patient. Lady Wilwarin will not even call me by my amilessë, though I have given her permission to do so, most likely in an effort to maintain distance between us.”

Istelindë raised a brow. “I do not think you have ever even mentioned your amilessë to me,” she commented.

“It is nothing so special,” he said, letting out a small snort of laughter. “My brother and I were both called Ambarussa in our childhood, or Minyarussa and Atyarussa, though, in truth, my brother shares not my amilessë at all. He was called Umbarto by our mother.”

It was a bit of a delicate subject, but Istelindë had been dealing with the “delicate subjects” surrounding this family already for enough time that he was confident he was not overstepping his boundaries in explaining. After all, how could one broach the subject of amilessi without broaching the subject of Telufinwë’s unfortunate amilessë apakenyë and the ill doom that had followed upon its heels? Indeed, though her face went a little pale with the implications of Telufinwë’s second name, she managed to brush aside her unease and cleared her throat delicately as if to rake away any lingering unrest over the matter.

“Maitimo has never really talked about it,” Istelindë admitted, “And I did not want to ask. The others offered for me to call them by their amilessë immediately upon our meeting, so I assumed that you would have done so as well had you that preference. Do you prefer to be called by your amilessë? Does brother Telufinwë?”

“Telvo most definitely prefers his ataressë to his true amilessë.” Pityafinwë absolutely did not want Istelindë calling his brother _Umbarto_ to his face. Bad enough that he had to see the scars of his cursed name laced all up and down his body in grotesque swirls of melted flesh and discolored skin and scorched nerves without having it pointed out every time he was addressed directly as well. “I used to go by amilessë in the Hither Lands, or the Sindarin equivalent. Since my rebirth and rejoining with my twin brother, however, I have abstained. I did not want to make things more painful for Telvo, who I am certain quite wishes that he shared Ambarussa with me in truth.”

Yet another thing he had given up for his younger brother. A little spark of resentment flickered in his breast, but he crushed it beneath his boot-heel without mercy, satisfied as it, once again, went dark beneath the smothering of guilt and duty.

“I could call you by amilessë only when away from your brothers, if you wish,” she offered hesitantly.

Part of him rather desperately wanted to accept her offer. No love did Pityafinwë have for the name he had been given by his father, who he would gladly in a heartbeat have skinned alive and roasted over a fire like the pig that he was. Still, he suspected that Istelindë would become accustomed to calling him as such and forget herself, and he would rather suffer the indignity of using the name his father had gifted him upon his birth than hurt Telufinwë with the knowledge that he was using his amilessë (their once-shared amilessë) behind his twin’s back. The subterfuge, no matter how well-meaning, would likely not be appreciated.

“Your offer is kind, sister Istelindë,” he answered reluctantly, “But it is better that you continue to address me by ataressë.”

“If you are certain…” She trailed away momentarily, looking uneasily out over the seas of wildflowers swaying joyously in the summer breeze, dancing as if greeting the passerby along the dirt road. “May I ask about your Lady Healer instead?”

_What should I say?_

Obviously, nothing about how he adored her curves, nothing about how he appreciated the roundness of her bottom, and nothing about how he would have liked to measure the weight and softness of her breasts in his palms. Those were thoughts for the bedchambers or rare moments of privacy he managed to scrounge together out in the woods.

But, perhaps, he could speak about the rest without feeling too much mortification. After all, Istelindë was no Curufinwë or Turkafinwë. She would not judge him for being overly romantic in his thoughts and pursuit or for his longing to be soothed and cared for or for being attracted to someone so soft and so gentle as a healer, his very antithesis. Certainly, Wilwarin was no lithe, stubborn, opinionated, athletic lioness who would throw him down upon the sheets or rip him apart with a sharp tongue—not like sister Lindalórë or cousin Írissë—but she had her own charm and her own bravery which he admired just as much if not more than the wildness and strong personalities of his brothers’ chosen partners.

“I… suppose it could not hurt,” he conceded quietly.

Eagerly, his sister-in-law leaned in close. “We have at least an hour yet before we reach the city. Plenty of time. Tell me about her, this lovely healer of yours.”

He wondered if his freckles had disappeared on the backdrop of his flushed cheeks yet. “Her name is Lady Healer Wilwarin,” he began, tasting her name upon his tongue like the finest of delicacies. “We met, if you can call it that, on Midsummer night, when she was called forth to treat my wrist and head…”

Like water oozing from a cupped hand, the words spilled forth, encouraged by Istelindë’s bright and optimistic smile, by the gentle touch of her fingers upon his arm. Helplessly, he let it all out, even knowing that he gushed like a lovestruck youth.

And it was a bit of a relief to have someone listening without judgment. It was a bit of a relief to have a sibling who would not scoff at how he waxed poetic about the darkness of her eyes and the way her hands flitted through the air and the way she smiled with dimples. At how he was so eager to see her again, to make a nuisance of himself if nothing else in order to capture and hold her attention for even a few moments.

It was a relief to have a sibling who was not so steeped in a tangled mess of personal problems and traumas that she was _happy_ for him to be happy, that she had a little faith in the world such that she seemed to believe it might all work out in the end.

By the time they reached Tirion, the two were sitting close, and Istelindë was beaming. “She sounds lovely,” his sister-in-law said, patting his arm, bumping their shoulders.

“She is,” he insisted. “She really, truly is.”

\---

When the familiar redhead appeared in the doorway to the Healing House, Wilwarin felt like all the breath had been sucked straight from her lungs. In the sunlight spilling through the open windows, his hair had a sheen of brilliant gold beneath its vibrant red color, each wild curl glistening as they spilled over his shoulder in a molten wave.

“Ah, Lady Wilwarin!” he greeted brightly.

Taking him in, she could see that his fingers were still bound straight and his wrist still bandaged, though she guessed that the later probably was perfectly fine by now. “My Prince,” she said in return, “I was not expecting to see you again so soon.”

“Sister Istelindë was in town on business today, and I accompanied her,” he explained, not even asking before he plopped himself down on the nearest cot with a genial grin. “I thought, why not stop by the Healing House to see my favorite Lady Healer? And, you can confirm that my wrist is healed up.”

Slightly disappointed that he had stopped by only as an afterthought—annoying, because she should not really care whether or not he was stopping by at all, let alone _why_ he deigned grace the Healing House with his presence—she offered him a wide, empty smile.

“Let us see it then.” She reached out to accept his extended hand, unraveling the bandages while trying to ignore yet more details. Like the tiny scars that ran over the back of his hand. Like the roughness of the calluses on his palms and fingertips. Like how warm his skin was against her own. Pulling the last of the white cloth away revealed a perfectly healthy joint, not swollen or red at all. Most likely, he had already known everything was fine.

“No pain?” she confirmed, turning his hand over. There was the temptation to trace the lines of his palm, but she resisted.

“None,” he answered, and he looked up at her through his russet eyelashes, and she felt heat flush all over his skin, warming and writhing in her belly. She could _not_ be interpreting that look correctly—she simply, absolutely, could not, no matter what the apprentice healers giggled and gossiped about when they thought she was not listening—because it looked far too much like a seductive glance, coy and tempting her to lean closer. There was _no reason_ such a beautiful, perfectly-formed and well-off man would look at a simple healer like that. She was not even all that pretty!

Yet, his fingers wrapped about her hand, wrist twisting seamlessly. “So, Lady Healer, am I satisfactorily improved?”

“Y-yes,” she stuttered out, knowing (just _knowing_ ) that she was going to be seeing _that look_ in her fantasies for weeks and weeks. “Your wrist is perfectly healed, my Prince.”

“Ambarussa,” he corrected.

His amilessë again. “My Prince, I really do not think—”

“Come now,” he insisted, and his smile was of such a charming make that she almost could not stand to see it. “A beautiful lady should not be calling a ruffian like me ‘My Prince’ this and that. Ambarussa is good enough for me.”

“I really must insist, my Prince.” Stubbornly, she stuck to her professionalism.

“If you really must insist, Lady Wilwarin,” he said with a put-upon sigh.

“Other hand,” she demanded then, falling into the familiar disguise of the bossy healer to cover up the way her knees were quivering with delight and nerves both. At least this helped her to remain calm despite how her heart was skipping quickly beneath her ribs and her stomach filled with an entire kaleidoscope of butterflies.

Unquestioningly, he obeyed. Gently, she unwrapped his fingers.

“No _strenuous_ exercise for my right hand, just as prescribed,” he teased. Had it been any other man, she would have scoffed at the blatant allusions to masturbation. Instead, he found herself guiltily picturing it in the back of her head for just that split second between the widening of her eyes with surprise and the falling of her “Lady Healer” mask over her face to hide it all away beneath a beatific smile.

“It looks better,” she crooned, “Obviously, you have been behaving yourself, my Prince.” _By Lady Estë, had she really said that aloud? It sounded so…_ And, through her own brief moment of mortification, she wondered if she just imagined the way his cheeks went a soft pink and his eyelashes fluttered upon his cheeks.

“It would not do for a novice such as myself to disobey direct orders from the lovely Lady Healer,” he answered.

In that moment, she absolutely needed to take a step back, for the heat rushing through her escalated swiftly what with the cheeky grin that crossed his lips, that left her staring at them and wondering if they were soft or if they were chapped, if they would be gentle upon her own or if they would tease hers apart with ease and experience to allow him entrance. And _that_ just led her to wonder if he tasted as delicious as he smelled, and…

And she needed the heady smell of herbs beneath her nose to clear it all away. “Let me send you home with a little poultice. It should help with the bruising and if any inflammation troubles you, but otherwise you are well on the mend, my Prince. Nothing at all to worry about. Now, what do we need…”

She bustled away to collect herbs, rambling all the while to try and take her mind of the more explicit daydreams she had ever so briefly accessed at such an inappropriate time and place. Surely, if she focused on something simple, soothing and familiar, it would draw her away from the burning feeling that was settling now into the cradle of her pelvis, golden and tingling between her thighs where they brushed together beneath her gray gown.

“It really is rather simple to make. I can gather the ingredients for you. Flax seed mixed with water, milk or oil—at your preference—ground down for ten to twenty minutes into a paste that can be applied to the skin. You will, of course, want to heat it before applying, though. And, I suppose I can give you ingredients for something a little more potent just in case. Here, let me show you—”

In the midst of her babbling and her fast, sharp motions as she gathered the seeds and herbs, not looking over her shoulder before she spun around.

And, of course, ran face-first into _his_ chest, not realizing that he had followed her across the room like a loyal dog and had been curiously looking over her shoulder as she gathered items and ingredients together. Now, of course, her hands were pressed between them, right up against his _very impressively flat and hard_ lower belly, while her breasts were right up against his lower chest, his ribcage acting as a wall beneath the flex of the outer muscles.

Before she could fall backward—indeed, she wobbled on her heels, overcome with no small amount of surprise and overwhelmed by the way his earthy scent of open air and grassy fields and patchouli surrounded and encompassed her—she felt his arms fold about her, holding her upright and pressed right up against his body. There was no space at all between them, his warmth right up against her, seeping through the gray fabric down to brush across her body like a bath of soft rays of sunlight. For a few long moments, the pair stared at one another, him looking down at her and her looking up at him, neither knowing what to say nor (secretly) desiring to move from their close embrace.

And then he stepped away, clearing his throat. But not before he made certain that she was steady upon her feet. “Forgive me, Lady Healer. I meant not to get in the way.”

“N-no, of course, you did not,” she said breathlessly, feeling simultaneously ruffled and breathless, like she had just tried to run up four or five flights of stairs without pause. She could feel the way her hands broke out in a sweat, and she hurriedly moved to set the herbs down.

This time, she could hear him following behind her, and she wondered if he had purposefully made enough noise for her to hear now whereas he obviously had been moving almost silently before. It made her feel strange, knowing that he was so close by, that he was within reaching distance should she but stretch her arm out behind her. And she wondered, briefly and with much distraction, how it would feel for him to press up against her back like a burning hot, flexing wall, to wrap her up in his arms with his hands coming to rest around her middle. He was tall enough that he could have rested his chin upon the crown of her head, that his hair could fall around them like a veil of fire.

 _Save that image for later…_ She sighed and moved it aside, trying not to acknowledge how it both stoked the fire in her belly but also brought a warm, almost smothering feeling of potential security to her spirit, as though it longed for the comfort of someone so welcoming and strong and sweet all bound around her and blanketing her in his inner flame.

(She did not need a man. She did not need that comfort. She never had before, and she did not now. And, even if she wanted it, he would never be the one to give it.)

_Save that fantasy for later._

She set her supplies out, glancing over her shoulder and motioning him near. “Let me show you how to prepare these poultices.”

Closer did he come, and she could once again feel his warmth just over her shoulder. The front of his shoulder and chest brushed up ever so slightly against her back, and she caught her breath, trying to stay relaxed and open in her body language rather than folding in like a cringing rabbit or opening up like a flower eager for attention.

_Professional. Stay professional._

That would be her safety net. Against temptation. And against heartbreak. It always had been before and always would be.

_And then he will leave. And, this time, he will have no reason to return._

\---

With fascination did Pityafinwë watch the swift and sure actions of Healer Wilwarin’s lovely, tiny little hands with their neatly manicured but short nails (little white crescents he wanted to trace with his fingertips) as she ground the fresh seeds and herbs, as she mixed in the appropriate amount of sweet-smelling oil.

“Normally, you would apply the paste to a pouch or cloth that has been laid near to the fire so that the poultice will be warm as it is held against the skin. Gentle heat is one of the best treatments for deep aches and swelling. You probably will not need it, but I thought, just in case, it would be wise for you to have an idea how to alleviate such an affliction. It is rather common in healing broken bones, and I…”

Her voice was soothing, and he relaxed in its soothing waves. For all that it was a straightforward and knowledgeable explanation of how to prepare a basic poultice—something that would have been useful to know about a millennium ago before riding off to war rather than now when he lived in the peace of Valinórë—there was something about the softness of it, the rhythm of the explanation, the way her lips curved just at the corners of her mouth, the way her hands danced in time with her words, that was almost hypnotizing.

“My Prince, are you listening?”

With a slight shake of his head, he drove away the daze he had fallen into, breaking the surface of the hazy pool of his thoughts. “Forgive me, but I was wondering, Lady Healer, how did you decide to become a healer?”

“I beg your pardon?” She seemed lost as to how he had leapt from an explanation of poultices to asking about her life decisions.

“Is that too private a question?” he asked.

“No, no, not at all…” The frantic movements of her hands slowed as her eyes grew a little distant with thought. “My mother worked here, in the palace, as a servant before the Darkening, but, when she was pregnant with me shortly afterwards, she moved to the countryside in search of solace. When I was young, all I really remember of her is that she was very, very sad…”

Slowly, he lowered himself onto the neighboring cot, listening intently and trying not to draw too many conclusions. Still, the timing of it seemed rather poignant, that she made no mention of her father, that her mother was alone and saddened and had gone elsewhere in search of comfort. He wondered whether her father had been one of the Exiles, though she had not directly said one way or another.

And her mother… Well, Pityafinwë had experience with the sadness of mothers. He had never known his own to be anything other than somber and distant and sorrowful, consumed by her passion for her art as though that would drive away the obvious discord of her marriage or somehow placate her heart in place of the loss of his father’s love.

“You need not speak of it if it is painful,” he murmured, for his intent had not been to bring a shadowy look of old grief to her lovely, dark eyes.

“It was quite some time ago,” she countered, shaking her head, looking down at her hands as they ground and mixed together her poultice now in long, soothing strokes rather than frantic, efficient motions. “Eventually, we did find somewhere where Amillë was happy—or as happy as she could be—and there was a lady there, a healer, who would smile upon me when she walked by and let me trail after her skirts like an inquisitive little limpet. She was kind and sweet, and all who knew her loved her dearly, and she seemed to make everyone she touched feel lighter despite their grief or their troubles. I could have sworn that she could heal any hurt with just the touch of her hands. Sometimes, in the evening, she would sit down with me by the lakeshore where the nénur grow and she would point out the different herbs in the garden and tell me what sort of healing they were used for…”

Wistfully, she sighed. “I wanted to be just like her, knowledgeable and loved and healing everyone I touched. So, I came back to Tirion when I was grown enough to begin an apprenticeship, and I studied to be a healer. Fortuitously, my mother and I were known here, at the palace, and I was one of the few selected to shadow and learn from the healers in this Healing House, though there are many others in the city.”

“You have accomplished your wish,” he said quietly, pondering her words.

“I do not know that I quite bring the same joy and light to the hearts of my patients as did she,” Lady Wilwarin said with a laugh that was just a hair too sharp for his liking. “Still, I am grateful to be here, and I am happy.”

For all that she said the words, they rang hollow, and he felt himself frowning before he could hide the expression fully. Luckily, her back was turned. Still, something about her tone, about the way she looked down when she spoke, about the sigh that followed, a long gust of breath that made her shoulders hunch in around her, seemed ominous. Leaning just a hair closer, he said, “I do not know. You brought joy and light to me.”

Finally, she looked up at his face, startled. “You should not say such things, my Prince.”

“I am not lying.” Really, he was not. There were few things in this world that could bring joy to one of his bloodline, but he had been caught up in her net with painful ease, only getting himself more and more tangled each time he came here, each time he watched her smile or was soothed by her quiet voice or felt the gentle butterfly kisses of her fingertips upon his skin as she nursed his injuries.

“You are my _patient,”_ she said then, looking half-panicked but also blushing, refusing to meet his gaze fully. “I… It is not appropriate.”

“And what about after I am healed?” he asked, standing and moving to clasp her hands in his own, measuring their tininess curled up within his own. “If I come back to see you then, would you at least consider calling me by my amilessë? I would be here in the capacity of a friend, not a patient or a prince or any of that nonsense.”

Her little white teeth were just barely visible nibbling at her full lower lip. A man with less self-control might have leaned down to kissed her then and there, sucking that delightfully plump lip between his own. As it was, Pityafinwë merely shifted uncomfortably and imagined how it might feel instead, how soft she might be if he held her pressed against him, how she might sound if she gasped in surprise as he kissed her. Still, he knew his stare could not have been subtle, and he was not trying to hide his regard.

As he watched, her breasts rose and fell sharply, as if she struggled to breathe when she finally dared to meet his gaze, when she saw it all staring back at her. Hesitating, she glanced away. Then back, then away again.

“I… I suppose that would be fine,” she whispered.

“Excellent!” He offered her a broad smile with just a hint of teeth behind the shower of charm. “I look forward to our next meeting, Healer Wilwarin.”

She swallowed audibly as he kissed her hand lingeringly. “Until then, my Prince, you had best take care of that hand. Let me… Let me prepare the ingredients for travel, and I will finish showing you how to apply the poultice. If you would… if you would sit back down, please.”

Obediently, he retook his seat and let her fuss over his hand. And, all the while, he wondered what it would be like to wrap her up in his arms and swallow her whole in his embrace, so petite and so soft was she. Hopefully, he would not have to imagine it in the midst of his daydreams for very much longer.

_At least I believe I demonstrated my affection and declared my intent. And she did not run away screaming._

That had to mean something. Something good.

He hoped.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:
> 
> Fëanárioni (Q, p) = sons of Fëanáro  
> silmi (Q, p) = multiple silmë (equiv. of S)  
> romeni (Q, p) = multiple romen (one of two forms of R)  
> tincor (Q, p) = multiple tinco (equiv. of T)  
> calmar (Q, p) = multiple calma (equiv. of C or K)  
> Eruhíni (Q, p) = children of Eru  
> Atar (Q) = Father  
> Anar (Q) = the Sun  
> amilessë (Q) = mother-name  
> apakenyë (Q) = of foresight  
> amilssi (Q, p) = mother-names  
> ataressë (Q) = father-name  
> nénur (Q, p) = yellow water lilies  
> Amillë (Q) = Mother
> 
> \---
> 
> Flower symbolism:
> 
> White Chrysanthemum = I promise, tell me the truth, honesty, purity, devotion, loyalty  
> Zinnia = Missing you, endurance, remembrance, thoughts of absent loved ones  
> Honeysuckle = be happy, I am devoted to you, lover's embrace, sweet love, tenderness  
> Water Lily = rebirth, optimism, creation, resurrection, enlightenment


	45. Sowing Doubt and Gaining Trust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little bit of everything mixed together...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: self-deprecation, past failed relationships, unrequited love, thoughts of sex, mentioned rape/allusions to rape, dysfunctional family, spying/eavesdropping, flower language
> 
> Maedhros = Maitimo = Nelyafinwë = Nelyo  
> Maglor = Makalaurë = Kanafinwë = Káno  
> Celegorm = Tyelkormo = Tyelko = Turkafinwë = Turko  
> Caranthir = Carnistir = Morifinwë = Moryo  
> Curufin = Atarinkë = Curufinwë = Curvo  
> Amrod = Ambarussa = Pityafinwë = Pityo = Minyarussa  
> Amras = Umbarto = Telufinwë = Telvo = Atyarussa  
> Finrod = Artafindë = Findaráto  
> Turgon = Turukáno  
> Aegnor = Aikanáro

_Valanya, 54 Lairë (6 July)_

\---

Wilwarin did not dare meet the Prince’s eyes again.

Every iota of her concentration was focused on getting through the explanation of the application of a simple anti-inflammatory poultice without spontaneously combusting on the spot or melting into a useless pile of shock and mortification upon the floor. At her back, she could feel the stares of the younger women, the apprentices who were trying very hard to pretend they were not eavesdropping and watching every second from the corners of their eyes, as she went about treating the wayward Prince with his too-perfect lovely verdant eyes and his too-handsome smirking, angular face and his too-soft curling russet hair that even now brushed against her arm as she held his up to examine his mending finger.

She half expected it to burn. But it was cool and very soft.

“There,” she breathed out as she finished, wondering that she had managed to keep from keeling over backwards on her feet which felt far too unsteady for comfort.

The much larger hand she held in her own pulled away, and he looked over it with a brief glance, fingers flexing but for the one still tightly bound. “You have my eternal gratitude, of course, Healer Wilwarin.”

And then, of course, he kissed her hand. Because, of course, he was going to.

_You brought joy and light to me…_

Because that is what men did with women they fancied and wished to court, was it not? And he had all but said to her in slightly more diplomatic words that that was what he wanted to do, had he not? And, like the absolute fool she was, she had agreed to call him by his amilessë if (when—most probably when) he returned as a friend rather than as a patient seeking her trade. When he came back to spend time with _her_ and not to take advantage of her knowledge or her skill or anything else to do with her abilities in the Healing House.

 _I am such a fool,_ she could not help but think. _A mirror image of long-lost happenings that ended in nothing but tragedy and sorrow. Making all the same mistakes. Just a foolish, desperate woman he should never have glanced at twice._

Swallowing, she thought to pull away, but he was finished breathing hot and sweet over her skin before she could muster the strength.

“Until next time, my lady,” he purred out, and she felt his voice reverberate through her skin and down her spine. The place where his hand had touched hers once again burned, and, in the back of her head, she wondered (for perhaps the thousandth guilty time) what it would feel like to be touched elsewhere upon her naked skin. If he would leave warm and tingling imprints behind everywhere he brushed.

“Until next time, my Prince,” she echoed, feeling as though she were floating through the interaction rather than participating in it.

Because, suddenly, things had become so much more complicated.

As the door clicked shut in his wake, she was swarmed by the younger women. “I told you, I told you!” sweet, young, naïve Inyë was insisting to her sister-apprentices. “He really _is_ seeking to court you, Healer Wilwarin. Did you hear what he said?”

The girls twittered about her like little birds up in the branches, their bell-toned voices harmonizing into the birdsong of girls discussing love. But it all broke around Wilwarin like water breaking upon rock, swirling around her rather than through her, something that happened to the others but could not reach her where she was lost in her own thoughts.

Her. He had expressed undeniable interest in _her._ Until this point, she had been able to willfully deny the possibility as being the silly fantasy of a group of over-imaginative young apprentices and a lonely woman who longed for romance that she really, really did not need. Until this point, it had been fine to fantasize about him in the privacy of her home, to breathe in the details of his face and form, to use them to build up the perfect afterimage of his spirit in her dreams as she moaned and touched herself between her thighs. Until this point, she had known with certainty that those silly daydreams and nighttime fantasies would do nothing but stoke her sexual desires and little else, because he would not ever look twice at a woman like her when, surely, he could have almost anyone he desired.

Until this point, it had been fine. Not ideal. A little heartbreaking and a little disheartening. But _fine._ Because she had not been _vulnerable._

Now, she wondered if she was not walking into some sort of trap.

_What would someone like him ever want with someone like me?_

She was so far below him in status, so far outmatched by him in attractiveness, that she could barely fathom what he could possibly want with her. He was a Kinslayer, a murderer, a traitor with his hands steeped in blood, not even remotely trustworthy, and here she was, fawning all over him as he pranced about her Healing House, tripping over her own feet for the chance just to hold his hand under the pretense of healing his hurts. And he was responding in kind. Only, she could not bring herself to believe that someone like _him_ would be courting a woman like _her_ out of the goodness of his non-existent soul. That that handsome and charming smile, that the smoldering heat in his forest-green eyes, that the sultry kisses he laid upon her knuckles, were not all just a front to draw her in like a flame draws in a foolish moth.

_Surely… Surely, this is some joke. Some trick. Surely._

After all, she would hardly be the first common woman courted and wooed into such a trap by a man of the nobility who desired a quick romp with no attachments that he could not get with a girl of the noble class. Those silly romance novellas where gardeners and baker’s daughters and farmer’s girls married lords and lived merrily ever after in the arms of luxury and everlasting love were all tripe as far as she was concerned.

No, princes did not fall in love with and marry healers. But they could certainly fall into lust with them.

 _That sounds even sillier. Him? In_ lust _with_ me, _a common woman?_

Looking down at herself, she wondered that it made her feel both hot and cold at once, the idea that he might be trailing after her skirts purely in the remote chance that she might be interested in indulging in sexual favors with him, or that she might be stupid enough to believe that he was after anything more than mutual satisfaction between the bedsheets. Still, she found it hard to believe. Pudgy in her belly, thick about her thighs, not sleek or defined or even physically strong beneath the thin lining of softness in her upper arms and about her hips and bottom, she was hardly a catch. Certainly, she was not turning any heads.

Clearly, there was _something_ going on, if he was singing romantic serenades in her direction and kissing her hand with that sensual little glance from beneath his long, deep auburn eyelashes. What else could that something be but some form of lust?

Did she want it to be lust?

Did she… want to be… with him?

 _Well, obviously, from a purely primal physical perspective, yes._ She had been masturbating to thoughts of him doing all manner of lurid things to her and with her for more than a week now. There was no sense in denying that bit.

But lusting after a man and _getting involved_ with one were entirely different things. From a distance, all was well and good. She could be pathetically emotionally attached for a while as she burned through her overwhelming need to picture him in all his naked glory, slicked down with sweat and moaning as he took her with long, firm strokes between her trembling thighs. But all that would fade away eventually, and she need never get close enough that he might leave her heart in ruins. Such infatuations always faded with enough time and distance, as she knew as well as any other young woman who spent centuries watching handsome men come and go without giving her a second glance.

Close up and personal, though… the real thing… that was different.

_If I learned nothing else from my mother, it was that._

Close up and personal meant the potential for hurt. Close up and personal meant that, when her heart was engaged and her emotions twisted into knots, agonizing over whether she would see lust or boredom in his eyes, it would all come crashing down when the latter inevitably blossomed like a black flower in the midst of his springtime gaze. Never could she hope to hold his attention for long, not a simple, barely average woman who was too short, too thick and too simple to compare to something as exotic and wondrous as _him._

Getting involved, even under the guise of pure sexual satisfaction, was bound to end in heartbreak. And she had seen well enough what that could do to a person. She had grown up beneath the shadow of her mother’s unrequited love, watching the woman’s eyes grow darker and darker each day as nothing could quell or ease the ache of being rejected and thrown aside for someone better and prettier and wealthier and _more perfect._

Wilwarin bit at her lower lip and fisted her shaking hands in the soft fabric of her healer’s gown, staring at the wrinkles forming in the gray.

_I cannot do that. I cannot._

And, yet, she had not turned him away. Like a fool, she had agreed to call him by his amilessë, bathing in the intimacy of his regard, in the brightness of his answering boyish grin. And, now, she was caught up in the first vestiges of his web.

 _It can go no further,_ she told herself, setting her jaw and ordering the groaning, disappointed young apprentices back to their work like a true strict overseer. _It can go no further than this. The next time he comes here, I shall turn him away, and that will be the end of that. I neither need nor want a man in my life._

That would be the end of that indeed.

If only she was not already partially ensnared.

\---

It was the middle of his third day of training.

Morifinwë thought the greatest trials of his life had well and truly passed in the days when he had been scrambling and scraping to learn the arts of the sword and spear through sheer trial and error, when every movement and thrust and swing could have been his last if they did not land cruelly true. Clearly, though, he had been wrong.

Who knew there could be so many _rules?_

At least, with swords and spears and slitting open enemies, there was one clear objective. One had no time to think about anything else in the moment than their next breath, than their next movement, than those few precious things in their life that gave them the strength to keep going through each new horror and press through the bitter and aching exhaustion and blink through the sweat and blood and (occasionally) tears. It was a dance that yielded only two outcomes. Death or victory.

Sitting across the table from Amarië and Elenwë, the former clucked her tongue and the latter scolded him for fidgeting. They were having tea—Morifinwë had not indulged in anything quite so ridiculously inane and purposeless as teatime with biscuits since his boyhood, for such things were simply not _done_ in the Hither Lands during times of war and none of his brothers had been the least bit interested in resurrecting such torture from their pre-Darkening past after rebirth—and the women were quizzing him on the different meanings of flowers. For the most part, he was doing well enough at that, at least. If only he could keep his unoccupied hand from trying to find the nearest bit of fabric to pinch and twist between his restless fingers while he used the other to hold aloft the delicate little teacup and take appropriately short and savory, appreciative sips. It was, apparently, just _not done_ to take normal-sized gulps no matter how thirsty one might be.

“Daisies?” Elenwë asked.

“Innocence,” he answered, taking a sip. At least it was halfway decent tea. The kind that was heady, that tingled upon the tongue from the ginger and warmed the belly.

“Buttercups?” Amarië asked.

“Childishness or riches,” he answered, setting the cup down and reaching for a biscuit. He was allowed to take just a nibble at the edge. Eating it all at once (no matter that he could easily have fit the whole thing in his mouth) was also not done.

“Tulips?” Elenwë asked, and he knew it was a trick.

“Depends on the color,” he answered, taking another nibble as a reward. It was very sweet, the glazing obviously made from syrupy sugar. Another delicacy that had been barred to him in the Hither Lands. More than one or two of these would certainly make his stomach turn.

“Purple ones, then,” Elenwë said.

“Royalty,” he answered. “Is it commonplace to have access to this many pastries and cakes and biscuits?”

“They are for nibbling, not for eating. Really, tasting the food is just a compliment to the host, much like it is here. Azalea?” Amarië asked.

Rebelliously, Morifinwë ate the small biscuit in one bite. “Caring and temperance.”

The pair of women send him a slightly scolding look underlaid with sparkles of amusement. If he was going to be stuck only taking tiny, acceptable bites of anything he was given when he was trying to court Eruanna and appease her family, he might as well take advantage now and gorge himself on the sugary delights while it lasted.

It was right about then that the sound of the door knocker echoed up through the hall. Amarië went to answer it.

“Bellflower?” Elenwë asked, distracting him from their impending guest.

“Unwavering love,” he answered, listening with half an ear for the voices (feminine voices only) that were now coming closer and closer along with the sounds of footsteps down the hall.

“Tulkaromba?” Elenwë asked.

Morifinwë felt his cheeks turn bright red, almost so fast that it left him dizzy. Because, at the mere mention of the golden trumpet-shaped flowers, all he could think about was Eruanna’s bright smile as she held them against her chest on a backdrop of white and pink fabric, how she had kissed him on the mouth when he had given them to her and braided his hair with lilac the next day in reply. He doubted he would ever so much as be able to _think_ of them again without picturing those beloved moments again and again.

(Without imagining what might have happened if he had deepened the kiss and wrapped his arms around her on the doorstep instead of allowing her to pull away.)

“A request for a return of affection,” he answered dutifully, somehow managing not to stutter, as the door clicked open and two women entered.

“Brother Morifinwë!” Istelindë greeted, almost flying to his side in a whirlwind of excitement, leaning down to clasp his face between her soft hands and kiss his rosy cheeks. “I see that Amarië and Elenwë have kept you busy these past few days. Cousin Amarië tells me much progress has been made already.”

It certainly did not _feel_ like there had been much progress. But, perhaps, that was because, once he memorized one set of rules, another new set would take its place. Often, a strange contradiction to the first set, this second set would negate part of the first, and he had to remember in what situations it was appropriate to deviate from one set of behaviors to the next. He had never been good at that sort of thing, not even with Noldorin customs.

For example, the rules about who to speak to first in a room full of family members and how many greetings he was supposed to give before he could talk to Eruanna. Apparently, for the Vanyar, he would have been required to greet every male of the household by name, if they were present, before speaking to any women, and the first woman he would have spoken with was the Lady of the household, and _then_ he could speak to Eruanna directly. However, because they were formally courting rather than merely testing out their suit through vague flirtations (the Vanyar, he had discovered, were unsurprisingly fond of innuendo and insinuation rather than declarations of intent or forward directness, and they often flirted at the idea of courtship through poetry and the like in advance of an official declaration), he could get away with greeting only Eruanna’s father, eldest brother and the Lady of the House—in this case (he presumed) her mother or eldest sister—first before turning his full attention upon his potential fiancée.

It felt rather like they were already engaged, what with him wearing the symbol of her House about his neck and her (he hoped) wearing his as well. Amarië told him that this was not technically the case, but that they might as well be considered spoken for until the courtship ended in marriage or they went their separate ways.

It also meant, he was pleased to note (for once) that he had free rein to chase off any other men who might decide that his almost-not-really-fiancée looked like a promising target for flirtation. One did not approach a woman who was spoken for unless they were prepared to compete for her affections. Morifinwë had a feeling that, if the symbol of his House did not scare of every eligible bachelor for leagues around, his hovering over Eruanna like a dark shadow of ill intent most likely would. The Fëanárioni tended to promote such responses without even trying to be intimidating.

“Lady Amarië and Lady Elenwë have been most diligent in their instruction,” he agreed with just a hint of long-suffering horror beneath his otherwise monotone voice.

“Cousins,” Amarië corrected, and Elenwë hid a smile behind her dainty hand. “We are your _cousins,_ Morifinwë. You need not be so formal.”

Morifinwë hesitated. Mostly out of respect for Artafindë, who had been wary but so far excepting of the Fëanárion’s presence in his townhouse every day for most of the day, and who was undoubtedly one of his more tolerable cousins. And, no matter how tempting it would have been to informally address Elenwë as a member of his own extended family (because it would have made Turukáno go absolutely mad with fury at the perceived familiarity of the gesture), he could not address one lady informally and the other formally.

He sighed. Stupid etiquette. Stupid rules.

“We were just finishing up tea,” Elenwë said in her soft, unassuming voice. “Then we were going to go and practice dancing.”

Yet another torment that Morifinwë could have done without. Some of the dancing was straightforward, waltzes and such that he had learned as a boy and had been able to recover from his muscle memory with a minimum of fuss and only a few toes being crushed beneath his foot. He was even decently good on his feet once he had the steps down—this, he attributed to the footwork involved in the wielding of almost every type of weaponry—but, for some of the dances, well…

There were a few that were little more than walking, stepping in patterns, that sort of nonsense. For most of those, he would not even be close enough to have a personal conversation with his dance partner. Even worse were the ones where the partners would be switching throughout, for which he fully expected a great number of white-faced men and dizzy women waiting for him to leap out and attack them like rabid animals if he came within three paces.

And then there were the hand gestures. Those ones were the most ridiculous. He could have done without the strange waving and turning about of the wrists through the air.

 _“It is meant to be graceful,”_ Amarië had said as they practiced, laughing at his mutterings as they spun around one another, paused to wave their hands in a symmetrical pattern not unalike two mating butterflies, and then spun again. It felt completely ridiculous, and he absolutely shuddered to think of doing it in public where anyone could see.

Morifinwë rather preferred the old-fashioned waltz.

“That sounds promising,” Istelindë commented, seemingly very interested in exactly what sort of dancing they were going to be teaching. “I have a few hours to spend on my own, so you would not mind if I stayed here for a bit, would you?”

“Not at all,” Amarië answered pleasantly. “Shall we then?”

Letting out a half-stifled groan, Morifinwë hoisted himself to his feet. As the Lord of the House was out and about (as per usual), it was his task to escort the Lady about everywhere they went as the highest ranking (read: only) man currently available. It was strange to stand so close to a female who was neither his sister-in-law, who broke protocol (he resisted the urge to point out) by looping her arm through his unused one, nor Eruanna. But Amarië seemed wholly unbothered by sharing so much personal space with a Kinslayer as she took his offered right arm and let him lead her out of the room. Behind him, he could hear Elenwë giggling at his suffering and resisted the urge to shoot her a half-hearted glare over his shoulder. Because that would have been quite un-Vanyarin indeed.

“You will have to show me all the dances you have learned,” Istelindë insisted, sounding far more excited about watching him stumble through traditional Vanyarin quadrille hell or some such equal horror. “And you shall have to tell me about everything else as well. Have you yet received a return bouquet from your lovely lady yet?”

Resigned to his fate, Morifinwë went forth. If Istelindë wanted him to step on her toes, he supposed he should be gentlemanly enough to oblige.

 _It is worth it,_ he told himself, thinking of Eruanna’s smile.

“Not yet,” he answered. “But she will reply soon.”

And her flowers would surely say everything there was to say about her budding love.

If the women noticed his lips curving into a bit of a sappy grin, they may have exchanged glances in a line of sight well below his chin and pretended to have noticed nothing.

\---

Every time she spotted red hair, Amaurëa’s heart leapt.

It was a little bit of a dumb reaction, because there were more than a few people about with red hair—vibrant, fiery red hair, deep auburn red hair, even the burnished coppery red hair, though none of them were quite the shade of russet with golden undertones that she was longing to see again—and none of the people she spotted in the ocean of the crowd were tall enough besides.

The one time she had spotted Telufinwë and his skulking twin brother, they had been head and shoulders above almost everyone else, frighteningly tall compared to the average man or woman. Even in the (very unlikely) coincidence that someone could perfectly manufacture the exact same shade of russet hair and the exact same mess of curls, they would inevitably be at least half a foot or more short of the familiar towering height she associated with her would-be suitor and object of interest.

Thus, it was that, when she spotted the familiar shade (maybe just a touch darker, she thought suspiciously) she immediately measured the height and facial features of the individual before allowing her hopes to rise up too high.

Which was, perhaps, wise. Because they would have been soundly dashed.

Today was a rather simple performance, one being sponsored directly by the School of Dance to showcase its talent and urge those who might be interested in learning the art to come forth and see what they might develop in skill should they work beneath the strict schooling of the many Mentors that oversaw the students. The top students, such as herself, were expected to show their support and put on a fabulous display for the potential newcomers, dazzling them with the promise of becoming every bit as graceful and talented under masterful tutelage.

Amaurëa was happy to contribute, as she usually was, for there was nothing in the world that brought her more joy than dancing. Especially dancing before an appreciative audience. Her art was transient, ethereal, something to be remembered and admired by those whose eyes traced her silken movements in awe and appreciation but something which would be gone in the blink of an eye. Like all great artists, she longed to share her art with the world.

Still, it would have been nice to share it _with him_ as well.

Looking out over the dark stage to where the crowds had gathered, she spotted him, the potential Telufinwë. He appeared tall enough, which had her heart pounding beneath her ribs in a hopeful rhythm. Narrowing her eyes, she leaned just a little further to the left, trying to get a side-view of the right side of his face, for that was where his scars—a discolored, twisting crescent arching up over his cheek—would have been imprinted in his otherwise freckle-dotted pale skin.

Alas, she could see immediately that it was not her Telufinwë.

But, from the profile, she could see that it was his brother. The sullen one who had followed them about the last time they met until he had gotten bored and flounced off to do his own business elsewhere. She had gotten the impression then that he did not like her much and would rather not have her anywhere near Telufinwë, though she was not quite certain what it was that she might have done to be so offending that he had written her off as an undesirable interloper before ever having spoken to her.

If _he_ was here, surely Telufinwë was as well?

Glancing about, not ready to release her grasp upon hope just yet, she sought for the second redheaded twin towering over the shorter patrons. So far… nothing.

“Amaurëa,” someone hissed from behind. “You go on in only a few minutes, get over here and let us finish doing your hair up properly!”

Reluctantly, she allowed herself to be pulled away.

Already, hands were tucking her hair into a bejeweled golden net of glimmering spodumene and amethyst gems, pale evergreen and delicate pink and vibrant purple. It was an elaborate costume, all done in purples and teals and gold, sprinkled with translucent silks upon her arms and about her skirts that would flutter like parting dusk clouds speckled with diamond stars when she spun. The whole theme of this first dance between the three top female performers was to tribute to the heavens, and Amaurëa was, of course, playing the Stars. And, by extension, their Queen. The other two would be the Sun and the Moon.

Personally, she would much rather have been Nessa in one of the later performances, and not only because her costuming and makeup would have been less hindering to don and remove. But one did not complain about these sorts of things. It was an honor to portray the Queen of the Valar, and she dared not scoff at it after her stumble (unwitting though it might have been) at the Midsummer Festival.

A shiver ran down her spine, a momentary feeling like ice being pressed to the back of her neck. Glad, she was, that she was holed up and safe in the cloying, perfumed backstage with her fellow dancers, with those whom she had shared weeks and weeks of diligent choreography and much laughter and sisterhood.

 _Those men would never touch me again,_ she thought as she rubbed her hands over her jewel-encrusted upper arms and tried to drive away the momentary feeling of dread and sickness. _After what Telufinwë did, they would never so much as glance my way._

But, somehow, that knowledge seemed a trifling thing. So, three men of all the men in Valinórë would know better. Three was not all, and she was certain that there were more ink-stained spirits lurking in the wings, waiting for unsuspecting young girls like herself to stumble and make an enormous mistake in wondering off alone and unaccompanied. Even here, in this place of familiarity and safety, she still felt unprotected when she was not locked away in her room or surrounded on all sides by her fellow dancers and her beloved Mentor in the studio with the smooth wood floors beneath her light feet.

_I felt safe with Telufinwë._

He was beautiful (and no one, not even the other dancers who had seen her with him, could convince her that his scars made him ugly) and he was sweet (in a way no other man she met had ever been) and, instead of feeling the overwhelming sense of danger when his large form loomed overhead, she felt rather like he was the Pelóri and she was Valinórë, protected from all that might do her harm on all sides. For who would dare to cross one such as he?

Maybe it was a bit ridiculous. But she could not help it. Never had she met anyone like to him before. He had broken the law—had viciously harmed three men—just to make sure they would never harm either her or any other woman in such a horrible and debilitating manner ever again. Might others not approve of his methods or his violence, but, for her part, it made the world feel just a little, tiny bit safer.

Because he was there, looking out for her.

Except, she had not seen him in the crowd. Her heart stuttered in her chest.

Her two partners for this dance pranced forward, one pale-haired depicting Isil and the other golden-haired and depicting Anar. Their hands entwined as they stepped towards the curtains that led out to the stage, as the voices within the hall quieted and the light just peeking through the bottom edges beneath the curtain hems dimmed. It was time to begin.

They twirled out onto stage.

Immediately, she saw the brother. A tiny frown, just a momentary little thing, tugged at the corners of her lips when she saw no Telufinwë at his side. Still.

The first notes of the harp, high and singing like the twinkle of distant stars, brushed away her anxiety. Without thought, her body moved, for it knew its way around this stage, through these movements, well enough that it took no thought to remember when next to step or whence. Amaurëa, for all her momentary disappointment, let herself be pulled under by the flow, falling into that haze that ever came with performing before hundreds of sets of rapt eyes, all appreciating her art form in all its glory.

Each one of them, she imagined, she reached out and touched as her hands were held high upon the air and spun. Like the stars touch all lives who bathe in their holy light.

But none of them were _him._

If he had been there, she thought, she would not have just been as magnificent as the twirling of the stars across the vastness of the night sky, as did compliment many lips later, when all was said and done.

If he had been there, she would have been transcendent, a being of white light and pure movement, something from beyond the edges of this world. Because knowing that he was at her back, that he was watching over her and admiring her—the real her whose face needed not paint to hide away its beauty nor a fancy, flowing dress to make her appear divine—would have made her feel like the most beautiful and important woman to walk the face of Eä.

She would have been an Ainu in the flesh.

But he was not there.

\---

Patiently did he wait as the young dancer waded through a sea of well-wishers and exclamations of grandeur and glory for her exceptional performance. As a man who knew little about the arts but knew well enough when he saw a thing of beauty, Pityafinwë could not help but agree that she had been spectacular to watch, like a swirling galaxy full of tiny, glowing white gems fastened upon chains of golden light. All purple and red and whispering evergreen swirled against the background of blackness.

Really, he could understand what his brother saw in her from a purely physical perspective. But, while her dancing was expressive and brought many of the audience to tears, to his cold and darkened spirit it said little about her truest self.

Kanafinwë likely would have been horrified at his dismissal, would have tried—in stuttering and flowery lyrics—to explain that an artist’s work was the epitome of the depiction of their deepest, truest spiritual being, and that he should feel humbled to have glimpsed such a rare and intimate pearl, a part of another person that they shared freely in bliss with all those who dared to look upon it and _see._

Pityafinwë was simply not that sort of a fanciful man. Romantic, yes. Spiritual, no.

It was hard to be a spiritual person after watching your father gleefully burn your twin brother to death. It was hard to trust anything or anyone at face value—even his own brothers, for a long time, until they had proven their trustworthiness—if he could not have trusted his own father with such a sacred gem.

A single dance was hardly going to convince him that this girl was good for his brother. What he really wanted and needed was to speak with her directly.

Thus, he still loitered about outside the main hall, waiting, well into the next performance. He knew she would have seen him standing above all the rest of the visitors, knew she would have seen the beacon of his wild, curly red hair and known who he was, knew she would come to him if for no other reason than to ask after his younger brother’s absence.

He was right, of course.

She came to him unadorned, free of her complicated tangle of silk and gems and golden chains and netted hair. No longer looking like an ancient priestess dancing hymns into being beneath her feet, she was rather normal. Lovely, but not so striking as to stand above any other beautiful woman. Tiny and slim, almost to the point of being disconcerting.

Pityafinwë rather liked his women short. But he did usually prefer that they had more substance than this waif of a girl. Thinking perilously back to early this day, back to the Healing House, when his eyes had trailed over the supple arches and curves of Healer Wilwarin, and earlier than that, in the privacy of his own time in the night, when he had imagined what she might look like beneath her drab gray gowns, dancing naked for him upon the vibrant lawns of the mountain hills surrounded by wildflowers and her fluttering namesakes…

Well, he simply felt no true visceral attraction for this woman before his eyes. He wondered, vaguely, if Telufinwë did.

“Did you come alone, my Prince?” she asked formally, golden eyes darting all about as if searching for his scarred doppelganger and widening pitifully when she realized, now for certain, that he had come here alone.

“Telufinwë did not accompany myself and sister Istelindë into town this day,” Pityafinwë confirmed. And, though he might not yet approve of her, he did feel the tiniest spark of guilt at the sheer disappointment that left her shoulders curling in just a hair, her open stance shrinking in upon itself.

When he moved, she flinched ever so slightly. Slowly, he drew back and made certain to give her plenty of space.

He might not know her or like her, but he was not here to terrify her or remind her of things best left forgotten. Not after what Telufinwë had told him about their first meeting in the dark labyrinth of the palace hallways.

_“They were going to rape her, Pityo. I had to.”_

“I realize I must be a disappointment,” he began gruffly, “And a poor replacement for my younger brother in your esteem. However, since my own business in Tirion is complete, I thought I would come here to meet you without Telufinwë to distract you.”

_Because we both know that, if he were here, I would not get in a word edgewise._

“Was he too busy to come and watch?” she asked then, voice rather small.

If he had been blunt and truthful, he would have told her that Telufinwë had decided to cut ties with her and that she should not hold out hope of seeing him again. It would be been brutal, tearing and slicing harshly through the tiny shimmers of hope he could see radiating out of her large, amber eyes, and it would have gotten the point across quickly. It was something that Curufinwë would have done without hesitation.

Pityafinwë was not Curufinwë, however. He had not come here to intentionally hurt someone who, undoubtedly, was already hurting more than her masterful dancing and her cheery face and her deceptively bright eyes were hiding.

“He was too busy to come into town today,” the older twin premised, “So, I came here in his stead. Besides that, I rather wanted to speak with you.”

“With me?” She seemed surprised. And nervous.

“Yes, with you,” he confirmed. “Have you somewhere you would be comfortable speaking with me? Somewhere private, but not _too_ private.”

For a moment, she seemed fearful. And he could hardly blame her for having that sort of instinctive reaction to the idea of being with a man _alone._ But, then, she slowly nodded her head in acceptance. “There is a café near the plaza. We could get something light to eat and enjoy the sunshine for a while as we speak.”

Pityafinwë was not really the sunshine and tea kind of man, but he agreed anyway. He would not force her into a situation she found uncomfortable, so he allowed her to set the terms of their engagement as such.

“Lead the way,” he said, motioning her forward with the sweep of his hand.

Keeping her head turned just enough to see him from the corner of her eye, she went first through the doors and out into the street. On silent feet, he followed, contemplating his next move. Above all else, he needed to know that she would be loyal to his brother, that she would be safe for his family, and that her feelings were genuine. All that before he would even _consider_ trying to convince Telufinwë to come back down here to face his woman and quit hiding up in the mountains stewing in his own guilt and trauma.

This, of course, necessitated speaking about his brother.

So, naturally, he turned the conversation to Telufinwë. “Until sister Istelindë sent us forth on an errand to the plaza where you were dancing, and until you caught his gaze over the crowd, I had not actually realized that you and Telufinwë knew one another.”

When he spoke, deep but quiet, she jumped slightly in surprise. Like she had not expected him to actually talk at all. “We… we met… at the Midsummer Festival.”

Already had Pityafinwë known as much. “I know. About how you met.”

If she had been alarmed before, she was almost terrified now. Her eyes were wide and slightly glassy as they looked up at him through dark lashes, and her face had gone starkly pale to rival the moon. Forward did she walk, but stiffly and lacking the grace with which he knew was intrinsic to her very being. “Did he tell you?”

“If you ask whether he betrayed your confidence… no, he would never do such a thing intentionally,” Pityafinwë answered. “I guessed, and he confirmed.”

“Oh…” Her hands fidgeted in her skirts. She would not meet his gaze.

If there was one thing that Pityafinwë recognized, it was shame. For decades after rebirth, he had not been able to meet Telufinwë’s eyes either. It was a curse he was all too familiar with, and one this girl had not, to the best of his knowledge, done anything to earn. No matter what society said about women whose virtue had been compromised.

“It is nothing to be ashamed of,” he asserted, not really knowing what else to say and not really knowing how to soothe her discomfort. “That is what Telufinwë would say were he here.”

_Well, if he said anything at all. It is certainly what he would be thinking, though._

“And what about you?” she asked quietly. “Is that what you would say, speaking for yourself and not in the place of your brother?”

Pityafinwë blinked at her, a little startled. Rare was it that anyone differentiated what he thought from what Telufinwë thought, even their brothers. In some ways—especially after Telufinwë had been reborn mute and terrified of almost any social interaction that might lead to further harm upon his person or his fragile, ashen spirit—the pair had become fused together, one almost never without the other. And, even rarer was it for people to realize that not only was Telufinwë a separate entity that could think for himself (rather than an extension of Pityafinwë’s will) but that Pityafinwë was a separate entity from Telufinwë and often spoke for his brother rather than for himself, even when they did not agree.

In this instance, though, he rather thought they would. Pityafinwë was no less familiar with the helplessness of victims—his own, for a start, who he had cut down mercilessly beneath his blade as they desperately tried to protect their friends or lovers or spouses or children—and he knew that in no way were the actions of her aggressors _her_ fault.

Just as those people he had slaughtered in Doriath and at the Havens of Sirion had done nothing to provoke him and carried no blame, neither should Amaurëa feel shame for being the unfortunate bystander caught in the evil machinations of her attackers, who most likely saw her as little more than a convenient target and scapegoat.

“I would say the same, were I speaking for myself,” he said thoughtfully.

They wandered in silence for a few long minutes, weaving through the crowds towards this little café. And, slowly, she began to relax a bit. So long as he stayed a respectful distance away, he thought she at least would not run from him in terror.

Strange, how she could obviously feel so safe in the presence of his little brother, yet, despite their shared face, she felt not very safe with him at all.

As they reached their destination, he held open the door to let her in. In a careful motion, she slipped through the door, pressed as far to the other side of the threshold as she could manage to avoid entering into his personal space. Allowing the door to swing shut, he followed her in to the quiet din of voices and the scent of fresh breads and hot coffee and herbal tea.

It was pleasant. He could smell things that made him think of Wilwarin, of the Healing House and the oils and scents that clung to her gown. If nothing else, it made his face soften from its perpetual look of cold indifference. And, in response, Amaurëa relaxed just a little bit more, offering a hesitant smile.

“Over there?” she motioned, pointing off towards the middle of the large, open room. Not so close to the windows as to feel open to the purview of outsiders, but not tucked into the back with an overabundance of unwanted privacy.

“After you, my lady,” he said.

She went forth, and he followed, feeling just a little better about her than he had before.

\---

It was by pure chance that Aikanáro was in the right place at the right time to spy upon his cousin and a woman.

Well, spying was a bit of a harsh name for it, he thought. He was simply gathering information like any curious cousin would do when they spotted their Fëanárion relative, tall and hard-faced and trailed by a flutter of vibrant copper-red hair, meandering along the street standing an arm’s length away from a tiny slip of a woman. Both were looking very uncomfortable in the other’s presence.

Vaguely, he wondered if this was one of cousin Istelindë’s matchmaking schemes. If it was, it did not seem to be going that well.

Still, his curiosity got the better of him. It was rare that he found anything intriguing these days—the whole world was rather steeped constantly in gray for one such as he, though he had felt a bit more lively with purpose in the past week since his father had tasked him and Findaráto with their little investigative duties, and he felt more energy flowing through his veins than he had for a very, very long time as a result—and, so, he took advantage of the rare moment of feeling like there was something worthwhile to do with himself rather than pine his day away in misery and grief.

Andreth would have been happy that, at the very least, he was out of bed and out and about. Even if it was to eavesdrop.

“I know,” Pityafinwë was saying, “About how you met.”

Whatever this was meant to mean, it clearly alarmed the woman. Her feet, moving slowly if skittishly, stumbled in their rhythm for a moment. He did not have a very good view of her face, but he could see that it was very white. “Did he tell you?”

Aikanáro crept just a little closer, being certain to hide in the shadows of the buildings at the edge of the street. Neither was paying any attention, but his gold hair would certainly give him away if he did not take care to keep to the shadows. Truth be told, he was rather intrigued—and, seeing the woman’s body language, a little alarmed—by the conversation. Having spent the last week subtly asking women if they had been physically or sexually assaulted by any of the three men who had been attacked, and having seen firsthand when a girl _had been_ and how her body seemed to bend and twist to make itself small, he rather hated seeing the same reaction again in yet another woman.

No matter their status, no matter their position in society, they should have been protected by the men in their lives, especially those of greater authority, and not ever abused. This little slip of a thing was showing the first hints of mistreatment, cringing away from the look in Pityafinwë’s gaze like it was a whip that struck across her skin, and he did not like that he first wondered if _Telufinwë_ —imagine that, the mute and fragile last son of Fëanáro babied by all his brothers, playing them all for fools and hurting a helpless woman—might be responsible.

He did not for a second want to believe such a thing. But this past week had taught him that, no matter how much he did not want to believe something, that did not mean it was not true.

“If you ask whether he betrayed your confidence… no, he would never do such a thing intentionally,” Pityafinwë said then, and his voice was low and gruff, not at all masking his own faint discomfort. “I guessed, and he confirmed.”

Whatever it was that he had guessed, it left his female companion looking almost sick to her stomach as she turned to stare up at his downturned, stony face. Aikanáro did not like it.

“Oh,” she whispered, her voice nearly lost in the hustle and bustle of the street.

“It is nothing to be ashamed of,” Pityafinwë then said, voice low. “That is what Telufinwë would say were he here.”

She perked up ever so slightly at that.

 _Maybe Telufinwë is not her abuser after all?_ Aikanáro watched the pair shrewdly, trying to read more emotions from her face, from her eyes, though his vantage point was poor.

“And what about you?” she asked. “Is that what you would say, speaking for yourself and not in the place of your brother?”

Strangely enough, this threw his poor cousin for a loop. Enough so that the Fëanárion gave her an assessing look, like a man measuring the worth of a sword before a battle to the death, deep and searching with narrowed eyes. If he found what he was looking for, one could not tell it from his face.

“I would say the same, were I speaking for myself,” was his answer.

The pair drifted off into silence. It was not exactly companionable, what with how she was still subtly leaning away from her Kinslayer partner. Still, it was not hostile either. The pair seemed tentatively accepting of one another, like two dogs meeting for the first time, sniffing one another and trying to decide whether to attack or to play, only to find that they were not quite certain what to make of one another at the end.

They stayed quiet all the way to the small café near the plaza. Aikanáro dared not follow them inside, for he knew he would be spotted, if he had been lucky enough to escape detection by his cousin’s sharp hunter’s instincts already.

Pondering the information he had gathered—and concerned that they might have another case of unpleasant treatment of a woman on their hands—he disappeared into the crowd.

He would have something to report to Atar and Findaráto tonight at the very least.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:
> 
> amilessë (Q) = mother-name  
> Tulkaromba (Q) = Jonquil (Vanyarin dialect)  
> Fëanárioni (Q, p) = sons of Fëanáro  
> Anar (Q) = the Sun  
> Ainu (Q) = angelic being/angel  
> Atar (Q) = Father
> 
> \---
> 
> Flower symbolism:
> 
> Daisy = innocence, loyal love, faith, purity, positivity, simplicity  
> Buttercup = childishness, cheerfulness, financial gain, virginity, humility  
> Purple Tulip = royalty, undying love  
> Azalea = caring, temperance, gratitude, passion, stay true  
> Bellflower = unwavering love, constancy, mourning  
> Jonquil = return my affection, desire, power, sorrow, death


	46. Warm, the Sense of Coming Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Along with some friendship building and some bitter news...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: past attempted rape, allusions to past rape, non- to semi-explicit descriptions of non-consensual sexual acts, rape recovery, PTSD, cultural differences, flower language
> 
> This is a potentially triggering chapter. Read at your own discretion.
> 
> Maedhros = Maitimo = Nelyafinwë = Nelyo  
> Maglor = Makalaurë = Kanafinwë = Káno  
> Celegorm = Tyelkormo = Tyelko = Turkafinwë = Turko  
> Caranthir = Carnistir = Morifinwë = Moryo  
> Curufin = Atarinkë = Curufinwë = Curvo  
> Amrod = Ambarussa = Pityafinwë = Pityo = Minyarussa  
> Amras = Umbarto = Telufinwë = Telvo = Atyarussa  
> Fingolfin = Nolofinwë  
> Finarfin = Arafinwë  
> Finrod = Artafindë = Findaráto  
> Aegnor = Aikanáro = Ambaráto

_Valanya, 54 Lairë (6 July)_

\---

One would have thought that, if she felt so incredibly safe and enfolded in the overwhelming but gently quiet presence of Telufinwë, she would have felt similarly protected standing in the shadow of his identical twin brother. After all, one of the things she loved most about the scarred Prince was his height and breadth, and she had imagined often enough what it would feel like to be enclosed in his arms, him curled up all around her from behind, his chin nuzzling against the top of her head.

However, she found Pityafinwë’s height intimidating. And his sardonic voice, often enough sharp and dripping in disdain, to be frightening.

Amaurëa doubted he meant to be either towards her, for all that he seemed not to know what to make of her, to find her motivations for befriending his twin brother suspect. Certainly, he was not hostile, not sneering at her or rudely commenting or doing anything else to make her feel any smaller and more helpless than she already did. In fact, other than his generally gruff mannerisms—she attributed this to an innate ill temper that he shared not with his younger twin, but one which he was, admirably, trying to stifle to keep from making her more anxious than she already was—he was behaving as a gentleman. A grumpy one, perhaps, but still holding doors for her, still asking her where she wanted to sit, still making certain she had food on her plate and had begun to nibble before he tasted his own little slice of heavenly pie.

The silence between them was not exactly _comfortable,_ not like it would have been if it were Telufinwë sitting across from her, but it was not exactly tense either. Just a little charged. Because both knew there were topics to be discussed, and Amaurëa suspected that she was not going to enjoy any of those topics overmuch.

Still, even sitting across the table from him, halfway between the door to the café and the back wall, enclosed in a semi-private little table near to the wall, she felt a bit closed in. Would that she had chosen somewhere just a _little_ closer to the window, and that she had put herself with her back to the outside world rather than to the far wall with him sitting between her, the exit and most of the other patrons, who preferred seats by the windows and were enjoying the sunshine and chatting amiably.

Well, as amiably as they might considering some of them were aware of who and what her dessert companion was. The first few minutes had seen the poor server go pale and stiff as a board with fright, and some of the couples and groups of friends went quiet and stared from the corners of their eyes for a few minutes, not even trying to be inconspicuous while they murmured and gossiped. Finally, when it was clear that nothing groundbreaking was happening between the tiny dark-haired woman and her silent, broody Fëanárion companion, people slowly went back to their conversations, their drinks and their pastries.

She took a sip of her tea, trying to mask her nervous gulp.

_Was I always so nervous around men?_

Little did she enjoy lingering upon her horrible experience in the palace, how close she had come to being assaulted in ways other than a few nasty comments and some fondling in inappropriate places. Things could have ended much, much worse, she knew, shuddering to think of others who might not have had a Telufinwë to come and rescue them in their hour of need, but it still left her wary of her male counterparts.

Surely, that was understandable?

It made her feel small and tired. Many times worse would it have been had the three perpetrators not been silenced by Telufinwë, though she wondered anxiously if they would truly cease their terrible ways and take seriously the warning they had been given. Right now, they were locked up in the Healing House, crippled but recovering. But what abut when they were free? What about when they could walk down the street whenever they liked? What if they saw her again by chance, unaccompanied and unprotected, and Telufinwë was not there?

Such thoughts, she knew, she could not allow to consume her, or she would never leave her room at the School ever again. Gently, she did her best to bury them away, knowing very well that they would be back later in the dark of night when her heart was its most frail.

“Telufinwë said that you know what he did for you,” Pityafinwë finally broached, getting straight to the point rather than wavering and dancing about it as a man with a less straightforward personality might.

“I do,” she whispered. “I did not ask it of him. I never would.”

“No, I never suspected you did,” the older brother agreed, his words carrying just a hint of dark humor that she did not quite understand. “Telufinwë is more than capable of concocting such reckless foolishness on his own terms. He has never needed instigating.”

Feeling just a bit offended on behalf of her savior, Amaurëa felt a spark of righteous anger. “It was not foolishness!”

“It was,” Pityafinwë countered, almost mocking her, the quiet hiss of his voice doing nothing to stifle the biting sting of the words. “He ran off without forethought, attacked three people viciously in plain sight of their gazes, terrified them with threats of exposing their misdeeds in the hopes that that would be enough to keep their mouths sealed, and, in the process, has endangered himself and his entire family. Should he be caught, he could very well be exiled from civilization for an indeterminate amount of time, unwelcome amongst his own kinfolk. And he would have thoroughly proved every ill whisper and rumor circulating around the House of Fëanáro since our rebirth: That we are uncontrolled, psychopathic, violent maniacs who cannot control ourselves and will perpetrate violence like a black stain all across the blessed purity of Valinórë. Neither he—nor we, by extension—will be trusted or welcomed anywhere from the east to the uttermost west of these lands. And you call not such impulsiveness foolish?”

Okay, so, perhaps he had a point. Amaurëa shrunk back slightly in her seat, looking anywhere but into the flicker of green flame in the eyes of the man seated across the table. Now, she simply looked like a naïve young girl, and an empty-headed one at that.

But…

Across from her, Pityafinwë crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair. “Forgive me, that came out sharper than I had intended. What Telufinwë did was very dangerous—for himself and for the rest of his family—but I still should have said such things with more diplomacy and care. Of all the rumors that circulate Tirion, the whisper that most of the Fëanárioni possess an unpleasant temper when roused is true.”

“Yes, of course,” she murmured, looking down at her half-eaten pie. Her stomach was twisting now, but no longer in hunger. The taste of sweetness on the back of her tongue made her feel a bit ill, and she set her fork down.

“Truly,” he insisted, softening just a bit. “I apologize if I startled you. It is not my intent to frighten you, or to make you feel uncomfortable or unsafe.”

He knew what had happened to her. She wondered if that was the only reason he was being as accommodating—and as willing to apologize—as he was. “I had not really thought of the consequences like that,” she admitted. “I was just grateful to know that those men were not out and about anymore. Not on the streets or anywhere else that they might…”

Her voice trailed off awkwardly.

“What with how well he hobbled them,” Pityafinwë said, voice gaining back some of its bite, “I doubt they will be walking about on their own anytime soon.”

Little did Amaurëa know of what had actually been _done_ to her attackers. She was not sure that she could stomach the details. But, even so, hearing that was a little bit of a relief. Longer did she need still to come to terms with what had happened.

“Still, that is not what I wanted to talk about,” he then said. “I needed to be certain that you would not speak of it to anyone else.”

Hardly did she _want_ to speak of it to anyone. 

How would she explain it without explaining what a stupid young girl she had been, wandering off on her own without a care in the world like an air-headed ninny? All the rumors suggesting ill doings afoot, all the warnings to take care, and she had barely acknowledged them at all!

How would she explain it without speaking of how she had run into those three men who, while a little tipsy, had come across as being so charming?

_“We could not let a young lady wonder about lost on her own,”_ their ringleader had said, grinning widely to expose his white teeth. _“We are all on our way back to the party. Let us escort you to your destination, darling.”_

How would she explain that, without a second thought, she had gone with them? Just like that. And, until they had led her to a dark and deserted set of hallways—the din of the party still far off—which ended in a dead end and locked doors, she had not realized anything was even amiss? It had not even crossed her mind!

Even now, she felt mortified. Not just at what had happened—certainly, she had no desire to explain to anyone the sorts of awful things they had said to her, that they might help her on her way if she repaid them with favors on her knees where she belonged, and other less pleasant things as well when she had refused, and then what had come after as they laid hands upon her body while she cried—but that it had happened at all. That she had been so unwary and so uncareful to have gotten herself into such an awful situation in the first place.

Logically, she knew that was not quite right. 

Many times since had she woken up in the middle of the night feeling as though her skin were crawling with dirty hands, with fingers like the legs of spiders that violated her body, and she had been unable to sleep for the horror of her own imaginings of what _might_ have come to pass had she not been saved. Sometimes, she wandered like a ghost through the school, finding somewhere to sit and stare at the moon and the stars until she was too tired to resist rest, until all thoughts were driven away beneath the steady call of Lórien’s song. Sometimes, she went to bathe, to scrub her skin until it bloomed red and stung yet somehow still did not feel free of their touch. Sometimes, she simply stayed abed and cried like a small child into the night, seeking comfort within the dark.

Her Mentor had come to her then, had listened to her speak of her ordeal, had told her that she was not at fault. Nothing she did had _forced_ those men to harm her, nor had she in any way asked it of them or invited it upon herself by her words or her dress or her profession. In no way could she be held accountable for their deplorable actions. She had just been an innocent passerby in the wrong place at the wrong time who, rightfully for a woman raised in a safe and loving sanctuary, had not been wary of their intentions.

It helped. A little. But it did not entirely erase the shame. For being touched, but also for allowing it to happen.

Going back to her normal life and her normal routine—to intensive choreography and hours upon hours of practice with familiar faces, sisters and brothers she had known since she was knee-high and learning her first dance steps—had soothed some of it away. Like a dark dream that lingered somewhere far off over the mountains, gloomy but distant enough that it held no impact on her day-to-day existence.

Except when it did at random and inexplicable moments. Like it did now.

“I could not speak of it openly even if I wanted to,” she murmured. “But, if I could, I would not betray Telufinwë’s trust in that way.”

“Not even if this playful little flirtation between you does not come to fruition?” he asked plainly, fingers tapping without rhythm against the top of the table. “You would not share what you know in vengeance at being slighted?”

“Telufinwë _saved me,”_ she said heatedly, issuing forth her own little bit of bite and sting, for how _dare_ he suggest that she would do something so selfish, so ungrateful! “He would never do anything to hurt me intentionally. And, even if there was never anything between us, that does not lessen the value of what he did. He did not _have_ to step in when he did. He could have just… he could have just wandered by.”

“He could not have,” Pityafinwë told her, and there was no hesitation nor doubt in his voice as he said those words. “It is not in his fundamental nature. No matter who it was, no matter if he knew her or not, if he liked her or not, he would never have just wandered past and turned a blind eye. That is half the problem.”

Black was the humor in that statement. Because, if Telufinwë _had_ just walked on by, Amaurëa would have suffered but there would be one less problem for his family to deal with.

“I am sorry. He did it on my behalf, and I—”

“Stop,” Pityafinwë interrupted harshly. “Do not apologize. You told me already that you asked nothing of him, so you are not responsible for his actions.”

She still could not meet his eyes. “I would not say anything. Not ever.”

“I suppose all I have is your word,” the Fëanárion said. “For my part, though, I believe you in that much at least. You will say nothing. I was wrong to assume that you would not value his deeds even should your little romance end badly. What he did for you was certainly more than a mere courting gesture.”

“Much more,” she whispered, fiddling with her hands.

They fell into silence once more. Pityafinwë took another bite of his pie. Amaurëa thought to do the same, but her stomach had tied itself into a harsh knot and felt ready to rise up the back of her throat in rebellion should she infuse it with any more sustenance.

“You are still nervous,” he observed, causing her to jump slightly. Never did Telufinwë speak suddenly, for he rarely spoke at all, and she had not been expecting it.

“Just a little,” she admitted. Though, that was a bit of an understatement.

Which, obviously, he could tell just by looking at her slightly guilty expression and her curled and crunched up shoulders. “If you believe nothing else, surely you do not think I would go about harming my brother’s friends and acquaintances.”

Defensively, she glared. “Of course, I know that! Besides, if you are half as honorable as your brother, you would never do anything to harm a lady.”

At that, his smile wavered just a bit, his green eyes rapidly darkening and flickering. It came and went so fast that she thought, for a moment, she might have imagined it all. Just a momentary shadow passing over the windows, sunshine spilling back over his features to reveal that nothing had changed.

“I am not anywhere close to half as honorable as Telufinwë,” he said in the way someone talked about the weather, even though the words made her shiver slightly said in such a monotone voice with such a bland smile. “But he would eviscerate me if I did anything to hurt someone he cared about. And, for reasons that are mysterious to the rest of us, he very much seems to care for you, my lady.”

“And I care about him,” she insisted, trying not to let Pityafinwë’s strange admission unnerve her for its blunt and disturbing honesty, trying not to acknowledge that he did not immediately say he would never harm a woman. Pushing down the fear—she was certain he was telling the truth, at least, about the fact that he would not hurt her because she was under his brother’s protection—she lifted her chin sharply. “I want to see him again.”

With those eyes, he stared straight through her. Like he was looking through the golden, honeyed surface of her eyes and down into something much deeper. He was trying to cast judgment upon her, determine if she spoke the truth.

She was, and so she had nothing to hide.

“I can see, at least somewhat, why he likes you,” Pityafinwë finally said, “Though you are, surely, much more talkative and friendly with him than with me.”

_Hold your ground. Do not look away._

Finally, after a number of long moments sharing his empty stare—two plates of pie resting between them in limbo awaiting their appetites—he tilted his head to one side and blinked, snapping the line of sight between them and leaving her feeling as though she had reeled back in spirit, prevented from doing so physically only by the high back of her chair. Slowly, his expression softened just a bit.

“So, lovely lady, tell me your name at least. I do not think we have been formally introduced.”

“It would be polite to offer your name first, think you not?” she countered stubbornly, still feeling wary but less so now that his body language had softened, now that he was leaning back in a state of relaxation instead of forward like a threatening predator. Of course, she already knew his name, but part of her (the little bit that was losing shyness with ever passing moment now that she at least had his word he would not hurt her) put her foot down and demanded a formal introduction.

As if he could read her bout of stubborn insistence from her eyes, he let out a snort of amusement. “I am Pityafinwë Fëanárion, Telufinwë’s older twin brother. By a few minutes only, of course. It is nice to meet you, Lady Dancer.”

“Amaurëa,” she said. “I am Amaurëa.”

“No family name?” he asked curiously.

No reason did Amaurëa have to feel lacking. “I have lived at the School of Dance for as long as I can remember. My father was a musician before the Exile, and my mother was also a dancer before she left the School to have children. Well, only me. When I was old enough to begin training, she let me go.”

It was a bittersweet thing, to be given that sort of freedom but, in return, to have no understanding of family the way many of her friends did. She understood—her mother had never quite recovered from losing her father, from losing the potential for a family that she had left behind her art for—but there had been no contact. If her mother came to see her when she danced, she would never have known, for she hardly knew the woman’s face.

“Their names were Nessamelda and Nandaro. One can rather guess how they were first acquainted,” she added, “So, I suppose, if I were to take a name from my family, it would have been Nessameldawen.”

“Fitting for a dancer,” he commented lightly. “And you have not seen either of them?”

“My father, not that I ever remember, though he must have been there when I was very small. My mother I barely remember. Unlike many others, we did not keep touch when I left to begin my training. I know little of her doings or whereabouts now.”

If Pityafinwë found this strange, he said nothing of it, though his brows did furrow a bit as if in consternation at the revelation that she had never had substantial contact whatsoever with either one of her parents. To a man with a mother and father who had raised him to adulthood, with five older brothers and a younger, the concept of having no family by blood at one’s back might have been a strange one indeed.

“Well, Lady Amaurëa,” he said, reaching across the table slowly enough that she could have pulled her hand away but did not, allowing him to kiss her knuckles like a lord would do to a lady of court, “May the stars shine upon our meeting.”

“Indeed, Prince Pityafinwë,” she agreed, feeling a tiny smile come upon her face for the first time since realizing Telufinwë had not come to see her today.

“You may as well just call me Ambarussa without the fancy titles,” he said, releasing her hand and, in that same motion, scooping up his fork and taking another bite of his delectable dessert. “And, I commend you for your taste in pie. I would be a terrible brother to suggest that it was, in any way, of finer make than sister Istelindë could provide, but I do feel I can say that it is most satisfying.”

Feeling as though she had passed some sort of unspoken test, she let out a silent breath of relief and dared to taste her own slice of pie once again.

“It will be our secret, Ambarussa,” she said.

They shared a small snort of laughter.

\---

The poor courier who arrived at the door looked hassled and sweaty, like he was thoroughly sick of running to and fro across the city in the heat and the sun with a large armful of flowers looking for the receiver of the fair Vanyarin lady’s affections. First, he must have gone to the inn, for that was where Morifinwë was _officially_ staying, but then he must have had to ask about to find the true whereabouts of the wayward prince.

What he stumbled upon was Morifinwë, slightly disheveled from dancing, face reddened with exertion and no small amount of embarrassment. He did not answer the door, lingering a few feet back as Amarië, the Lady of the House, welcomed the guest inside into the front hallway carrying his burden.

“Your lovely Lady Eruanna has sent you a bouquet,” Amarië announced almost smugly, and the other two women giggled into their cupped hands with delight.

The poor courier looked like he wanted to die.

“Well, brother Morifinwë, interpret for us,” Istelindë urged as the three women gathered close to take in the flowers.

The first thing he noted were the zinnias, a return gesture. “She says that she misses me as well,” he murmured, brushing his fingers over the multi-colored blooms, through vibrant pink and red and golden-orange. And then he moved on to brush his fingers across a clump of rain lilies, bright pink and white sticking out against the zinnias. “She says… she says that she anticipates our next meeting.”

And then the azaleas…

If his cheeks had not already been red, they certainly would have been then. “T-they represent first love, passion, taking care of one’s self and staying true.”

He managed not to stutter over the word passion. Barely.

“I cannot keep these at the inn,” he choked out, feeling like his heart was going to leap out of his throat. It was ridiculous and unseemly. The most horrible, gory, bloody and disgusting battlefield to scar the face of Eä could hardly turn his stomach, but seeing these flowers—knowing that Eruanna wanted to see him again as desperately as he wanted to see her, to build their new romance—managed to somehow make his stomach do backflips.

“They can stay here,” Amarië said immediately. “We can put them in the drawing room, though you may want to take a few blossoms with you when you go back to the inn.”

The idea of desecrating the arrangement, windswept from travel though it might have been, felt a bit sacrilegious. But the idea of leaving them here, of not having them close—especially knowing that she had probably cut these by hand, prepared them beneath her palms, every detail arranged with _him_ and their next meeting in mind—also made his heart ache. “Maybe one bloom,” he suggested, reaching out to stroke his fingers across one of the rain lilies. “Just one only.”

“Do you want it braided into your hair?” Amarië asked.

It would look ridiculous. Amongst the Noldor, tending flowers and flowers in general were womanly pursuits, and they decorated dresses, skirts, hair, baskets and such. Noldorin men were not seen adorned with them except when they were carried in a bouquet as a present for a lady or, on the rare occasion, as a present _from_ a lady. But putting a flower in a man’s hair…

_You rode from Valmar all the way to the mountains with lilacs in your hair. So, you will be out in public in broad daylight with a lily. So what?_

His father would have nearly choked on his disdain. Fëanáro would rather have let Nolofinwë gut him with a sword than be seen with a pink flower adorning his hair. Morifinwë did not have to have a particularly vivid imagination to know what his father would have said about all of this.

Well, Fëanáro would never have approved of any of his sons—even the most useless, bashful and clumsy of the lot—going after a girl of the Vanyar.

_I suppose I might as well continue to disappoint._

“I… would like that,” he agreed. “But, first, we need a vase for these.”

“Oh, of course!” Amarië bustled around him in her pastel skirts, swishing right out of the room, leaving Morifinwë with two women and a very uncomfortable-looking courier whose eyes were fixed very firmly upon the ground as though it were the most fascinating thing to have ever crossed his path.

Morifinwë cleared his throat and looked at the poor man, holding his arms aloft to accept the flowers. “You can go. Forgive the inconvenience.”

If the man was furious or upset at the supposed inconvenience of doing his job (chasing Morifinwë halfway across Tirion), he said nothing. Though, Morifinwë supposed that that might have something to do with the knowledge that he was speaking not only to a man of the royal House of Finwë, but also a Fëanárion. A scowling Fëanárion, evergreen eyes dark with a resting glare, mouth set in a firm line, and arms cradling a heap of brightly-colored flowers.

With a quick bow, the man handed over the bouquet and dismissed himself. Morifinwë wondered how fast the gossip was going to spread. Through Tirion and through Valmar.

As he was on his way out, Amarië returned carrying a large vase, dark emerald green, lined with lacy patterns around the rim and filled with fresh water. Very gently, the four circled about and made certain to get all the stems of the arrangement into the vase opening. When all was said and done, it was arranged beneath the sunshine in the window, like a large red, open wound bleeding out affection into the very air along with sweet scents. He could not help but run his hands over the flowers again, feeling their incredible softness beneath his fingers, thinking of Eruanna’s skin and her golden locks and… and…

His fingers brushed across the azaleas. And other things.

“Here.” He felt a hand about his wrist. “Pick a flower and let the three of us braid it into your hair in your lady’s stead.”

For all that the azaleas made his blood stir, his fingers drifted towards the rain lilies again. One that was white with just the slightest blush of pink at the tips of each petal. Because it meant that she was excited to see him again.

Over and over, he had been told that he ought not kiss her upon her lips at all until they were officially engaged—the more puritan Vanyar would not approve of such signs of affection even then—but he wondered if he would be able to resist swooping in and capturing her in his embrace, laying kisses upon every part of her face he could reach, when next they met.

Even upon the soft plum blossom pink of her lips.

For just a moment, he imagined more. Things normally saved for when he was lying alone in the dark in his bed. Fantasies of getting down on his knees and worshipping her in other ways, hidden away in the gardens and surrounded by the scent of a thousand flowers. Would that he could have her seated in the gazebo, thousands of pink roses as their witnesses, as he spread open her thighs open wide and tasted her blossoming sex…

_Not now,_ he thought, wondering that he had not melted right into the floor from the heat boiling under his skin. _Not now!_

Carefully, he held out the flower, and Amarië received it tenderly.

Istelindë came to his side, arm twined through his own, leading him to the rug before the hearth. And he did not mind that he had to kneel on the floor in order for the trio to reach his hair. It was not quite the same sort of intimacy as having Eruanna’s hands touch his hair, but he sat still with a sigh as three sets of hands began their work.

A woman of each branch of the family, a daughter of Fëanáro, of Nolofinwë, and of Arafinwë each. Braiding a blessing into his hair. It was a strange, impossible thought.

Except, it was happening.

And he closed his eyes and let himself enjoy the impossibility of it. Warm and soft and welcoming like an embrace.

Like this was his family. And they were accepting him with open arms.

He could only hope that, someday soon, his brothers could feel this same sense of belonging, too. And the same sense of coming home.

\---

When they met up at the wagon two hours before sunset, both Istelindë and Pityafinwë were in what could be described as a good mood.

Istelindë was smiling in a self-satisfied manner, feeling as though her skin were tingling just under the surface with some unidentifiable magic that had come to life and sunk down to her bones with each stroke of her hands through dark hair. Her entire afternoon had been consumed by dancing, being twirled around a wide, open room with a smooth wooden floor by Carnistir, who was, shockingly (or, rather, perhaps not so shockingly) incredibly graceful once he had memorized the steps to any dance. She and her cousins by marriage had taken turns being the lucky lady to twirl and spin about in wheels of motion, to share in the simple but powerful bliss of one lost in the moment.

After a while, even Carnistir had softened and relaxed, allowing himself to enjoy their purported “torture” if only in the form of tiny smiles that every so often crossed his lips and somehow remolded his entire face, smoothing some of the hard, agitated angles and the deep shadows that lingered over his eyes. Istelindë did not think she had ever seen him look so perfectly like he was exactly where he belonged and glad to be there, neither lingering nor hesitating nor hovering just out reach like one standing at the threshold of a door uncertain of their welcome inside.

Then, to see his joy—no matter how hard he tried to hide it beneath scowls to save face before the florist’s courier—when Eruanna’s flowers had arrived upon the doorstep, it had made Istelindë’s heart positively _melt._ He had been so _happy._ Never had she seen any of her husband’s brothers look so inexplicably, unconditionally filled with joy and excitement, that ever-present veil of sorrow and shadow carried everywhere burning away.

And then it had all ended with her and Amarië and Elenwë with their hands buried wrist-deep in surprisingly heavy, smooth dark hair, fingers dancing through the motions of forming a small network of braids to meet in the center where they would place a flower from the bouquet. At first, Istelindë had not quite understood the implications as she and her new friends set a soft, blushing pink rain lily into her brother-in-law’s hair and brushed the long ends out in a fan across the broadness of his shoulders.

But Amarië and Elenwë had explained the meaning behind the gesture in quiet voices, smooth and whispery to avoid disturbing Carnistir, who was limp and almost purring beneath their hands with his eyes closed.

For the Vanyar, the braiding and care of one’s hair was an intimate thing. A woman might allow a female servant to tend to her hair if they were a close and trusted person who had served the family long and well. Otherwise, the care and keeping of hair was something done between family members exclusively. Husbands and wives tended to each other’s locks. Siblings using brushing and braiding to show affection. The Vanyar held physical touch to a level of intimacy that Istelindë, born and raised in the Telerin society where hugging and kissing and other physical gestures were commonplace and expected even amongst acquaintances and strangers, could scarcely understand.

_“We are acting in place of his beloved,”_ Elenwë had told her quietly, _“But we are also accepting him as a member of our family. Only sisters would do something like this for their brother. Never random strangers or unrelated females.”_

Were it any other family, perhaps that would not seem so odd a thing. Carnistir was cousin to each of these women’s husbands and so was, technically, a member of their extended family. But the House of Finwë was far from a normal family. Cracked and shattered down the seams where tentative bonds of brotherhood had been forged and broken and forged and broken. They seemed unsalvageable bridges between cold and distant hearts that might snap and plunge their unsuspecting crossers down into the abyss of rejection below at any moment. Bridges no one had dared to cross for centuries.

_I suppose we needed flowers and hair-braiding and courtship lessons and dancing in the afternoon sunshine to start the rebuilding,_ she thought as she waited patiently for Pityafinwë to arrive at their agreed-upon time.

Which he did, almost to the moment. As tall as he was—just barely shorter than Maitimo—the sixth brother would have been visible as soon as he turned the corner at the end of the street even had his hair not been burnished red and glowing like a beacon in the low angle of Anar’s rays.

Even though he was not smiling, she could tell that he was in a pleasant mood compared with the tense anxiety of this morning. His eyes were not so narrowed despite the sunlight shining in his eyes, and his shoulders were allowed more slack than he normally gave, not quite so stiff and so squared as they had been this morn. As he approached, she offered him a broad smile and a wave. “Brother Pityafinwë,” she cried, “How has your day been? Did you see you lovely healer? Did you talk to your brother’s lovely dancer?”

“So eager to be nosy,” he accused without bite, helping her up onto the wagon before ascending himself and taking the reins. They began heading down the street towards the northern gates of the city. “I did, in fact, do both.”

In all honesty, she had not expected to hear much more than that. Pityafinwë, even though he often spoke for both himself and his brother, was still not one of the more talkative Fëanárioni, enjoying listening more so than speaking if he could get away with it. Still, Istelindë pushed just a little because he seemed to be relaxed and welcoming to further questioning, leaning back in his seat and humming tunelessly beneath his breath as he steered them around a corner and the gate came into view.

“Well,” she began, “What happened?”

“Lady Wilwarin says my hand is nearly healed,” he explained, and she could veritably hear the contentment oozing from his tone, a mixture syrup and honey, like he was imagining the woman again in his mind’s eye as he looked upwards towards the clouds drifting overhead. “I said that the next time I returned it would be to visit her as a friend and not as a patient, and she agreed to use my amilessë when I did.”

“Do you think she has interest in you in return?” she asked her brother-in-law, wondering if he would be willing to share such details.

Apparently, he was not so squeamish about such things as Makalaurë. “I know she is interested in a purely physical manner.” Both of their cheeks flushed with a small bit of color, hers all peachy pink and, his, a pale red. “But I am hoping for more.”

“That sounds promising.” She looked over towards his face, still staring forward and slightly up, taking in the sky. He blinked as they passed through the gate, the wall of Tirion momentarily interrupting his vantage point. “And what about the dancer?”

He turned to look over at her. “Amaurëa is… tolerable. I think, having spoken to her, that Telufinwë seems part of his old self in her fire, that he is attracted to her outgoing nature when it presents itself spontaneously. With him, she seemed very forward and chatty and accepting, interested in him as a person rather than purely his physical prowess. With me, she was less talkative, almost nervous. I think she views him as a protector, someone offering safety as well as someone who listens attentively.”

That did not sound so bad. “Did you learn how they met?”

So fast did the little black shadow cross his gaze that she wondered if she had not imagined it, if it had not been the bough of a tree breaking the line of sunlight raining down upon their heads. But his lips had twisted for just the barest of moments. “I already knew how they met. That is something for them to share, not I.”

Lightly though it was said, Istelindë still heard something strange beneath his tone. “So, it is embarrassing and secret then.”

“One might call it that,” he murmured in response, not meeting her gaze.

“Do you approve of her courting your brother, then, O great protector?” she teased, reaching over to nudge against his upper arm playfully.

“I do rather think that it would do Telufinwë good to come out of hiding,” he admitted, almost grudgingly. “And she is better than I would originally have expected. They may not, in the end, come together as mates, but I do think they could be friends at the very least. My worries about their interactions are mostly assuaged.”

That was practically a certificate of approval accompanied by raucous applause and a warm welcome coming from someone like Pityafinwë, who Istelindë was half-convinced did not like anyone much other than his younger twin brother. Well, and his beautiful healer.

“Well,” she said, recognizing that she had probably pushed as far as she could, “I spent most of the day checking in on brother Morifinwë. Cousin Amarië and cousin Elenwë have been working very hard on teaching him the finer points of manners and etiquette in the Court of Valmar, and they have also been teaching him to dance. We spent all afternoon…”

As she rambled on about her adventures for the day, her little brother listened with half an ear and a small, crooked expression that might have been a smile. His green eyes watched her bemusedly, perhaps, but with less coldness and sharpness than they almost always held.

And Istelindë, still warm and fuzzy from the pleasant success of her day, was more than content with that.

\---

Today, like many of the other days in this past week, was long. It left Findaráto feeling as though all the life and light had been squeezed out of his spirit like water squeezed from a wet rag. And it was not even finished yet.

More than anything, he wished that he could return back to his townhouse and to his wife, holed away from the ugliness of society. He wished that he could curl up in her arms, head resting upon her lap, and drift off into sleep beneath the gentle stroking of her hands, of her fingers brushing through his loose golden hair while she sung softly into the night. He wished he could just pretend that all this mess and turmoil was not even happening.

Naturally, the Universe did not seem to care what Findaráto Arafinwion wished.

He had spoken with a number of young ladies of court in the last few days, and none of those conversations had been any less awkward, painful and revealing than had been the very first he had had with young Vanimeldë. Findaráto had seen (and been unable to assist with) almost as many bouts of tears, and his heart ached and his head throbbed with fatigue and it was now not just the Fëanárioni and their decision to crawl back into society from the pits of obscurity that was keeping him in a constant state of insomnia and paranoia.

Today’s first meeting had been particularly unpleasant, and things had only tumbled downhill from there, leaving him stranded in a muddy ditch of uncertainty covered in the knowledge of filth.

_Lady Undómiel was as lovely as her name, an ode to the twilight gray of dusk and the first stars of night, might imply. Classically Noldorin from the sculpted lines of her features to the midnight shade of her hair to the dusk-gray softness of her downcast eyes. The sort of lady that any young and unattached male of court would certainly be glancing towards a second time, would certainly be daydreaming about having on his arm in the gardens alone._

_Clearly, some less reputable men, as well._

_“I… I know him,” she murmured, when Findaráto inquired about the third name on his list. “N-not very well, but I… I know him.”_

_“In what capacity?” he asked gently. “Did he court you?”_

_Her soft, dark pink lips twisted. Still, she would not meet his eyes. In her lap, her fingers were tightening about each other, struggling to strangle each the other first. She made a diverted motion to touch her face—a nervous habit, he suspected._

_“For a short while,” she finally answered, diplomatically empty of detail._

_“But it did not progress further than some gestures—dancing and the like?”_

_In her eyes, he could see himself mirrored back, face open and friendly if serious in its lack of a smile, but eyes shrewd and dark, waiting on her response. And he knew, in that moment, that she knew he suspected something more. Something untoward. The color, previously soft and peach, giving her the look of ivory that was so cherished by young ladies at court, bled away into bone whiteness. Even her lips lost their rosy hue._

_“Why are you asking such a thing?” she murmured, glancing nervously towards the door of the open sitting room they inhabited, as if checking to see that no one was listening just outside in case she spoke of something incriminating._

_“We are completely alone,” he reassured her, drawing her eyes back to his face. “I ask only out of concern. You will not be in trouble. If I must tell anyone else what you have told me, I would not tell them from whose lips I heard the words. I swear it, my lady.”_

_She glanced away again. “You would not tell a soul?”_

_Not the first had she been to express such a sentiment. Some of the things he had heard these women speak about in the past few days could ruin them should it be bandied about freely throughout the cold and unforgiving gossip vines and winding trails of court. Very deliberately did he make sure she could see his eyes when he spoke to her, such that she could read the truth from them._

_“I would not share your secrets,” he promised her. “If something is happening which is concerning—and I have come to think, after speaking to many, that there is—then I would have my family know of it. So that we may do all in our power to assist you and every other young lady of court. That is the_ only _reason I would ask this of you, my lady. I have no intention of speaking a word of this to anyone other than my father and others involved in investigating these matters by order of the King.”_

_Her eyes blinked rapidly, lashes fluttering. So often had he seen this language of expression in the past few days that he could almost taste the salt upon the air before the first tear fell from her eyes. More than anything, he wished he could do something to help soothe away her distress._

_But he had learned, from trying it once and only once, that such avenues of attempted comfort were not welcome. As he was male, this was not very surprising. After all, it had been other men, unfamiliar men, who had caused the hurt in the first place. Hardly could he blame any woman, after experiencing even the mildest of those awful things which he had heard tell of in these past few days, for desiring that he keep his physical distance._

_It occurred to him that, if Amarië were allowed to be here, he would feel so much better. If his wife were here, she would move to sit beside the now-weeping girl and offer her shoulder. And, perhaps, the young lady would not hunch in upon herself as though she huddled to protect herself against a viciously biting cold wind beating down upon her from above. Perhaps, she would not have looked so lonely and desolate._

_“He was very kind to me, at first,” she told him, shivering, “And very handsome. Everyone hears rumors, you know, about certain people, but when he first spoke to me, he seemed not at all as a man_ like that, _for he complimented me, brought me wine, danced with me and behaved a perfect gentleman all the while. I thought, perhaps, the others had been wrong. That they had judged too soon or relied to heavily on some ill rumor passed around at court for sport or to damage reputation.”_

_And it started the same. Every damn time._

_“So, when he wanted to go out to the balcony, I did not think much of it. I was… Well, I had had perhaps too much wine. But I went with him. Like a foolish little girl.”_

_He wanted to tell her that it was not her fault. But he did not think she would listen much to those sorts of platitudes. None of the other girls had. All of them had given him that same hollow look, that look that said nothing he told them would make it better or easier or hurt less._

_“We never went out to the balcony. There was another man waiting in a nearby room, which was so dark I could not see much of anyone’s faces. After that…”_

_Findaráto did not look away from her face through sheer herculean willpower. It took everything he had to keep his face from morphing into an expression reminiscent of hatred, of vicious and biting fury. That, he also knew, was not what she needed._

_She just needed him to listen and believe._

_“It just happened so fast,” she murmured. And then, in little detail but enough that left little to the imagination, she told him about what else had happened in that dark room._

Darkly, he thought, as he recalled the crimes she had shared all in vivid and sickening detail, that, perhaps, whomever had decided to carve the word ‘filth’ into the backs of those three men (if one could call them men) had the right idea. Never could Findaráto condone violence against unarmed and untrained men, but, if he were ever to make an exception, perhaps it would have been for this particular type of scum. It had not ever occurred to him that people of his _own realm_ over whom he resided as Crown Prince would be capable of doing deeds that would make even heartless, cold-blooded Kinslayers like the Fëanárioni balk. But, clearly, it was not out of the realm of possibility after all.

The only concession was that he had not yet encountered a woman who had confessed to being outright penetrated by a man’s sex vaginally against her will. Some of them had been so vague that he could not determine the extent to which they had been assaulted and dared not ask. Just talk of dark rooms and of being touched by unfamiliar hands and being kissed while crying and confused about what was going on.

But he suspected that it was only a matter of time.

_“They mentioned something,” she told him, looking as exhausted as he felt by the end of it all, with her red-rimmed eyes lowered. “When they spoke to me, they mentioned others. Mentioned that women of my ilk—noblewomen, daughters of the elite—were so much harder to play with than the common women. If you look further… perhaps you should consider…”_

_She did not outright say it, but he knew what she meant. That the “lucky” victims were women of the court whose families were too powerful to outright attack one of their women violently and brutally lest someone discover what had happened. They only went so far as they knew they could in the knowledge that the women they attacked were unlikely to speak of it to anyone else, let alone confess to their family members. And, so, they would be safe._

_But who would believe a commoner—a gardener or a maidservant or a merchant’s daughter or someone of that walk—accusing a lord of assaulting her?_

_Well could Findaráto understand the thought process of the aggressors in choosing their victims. Even with those intoxicated, confused young girls in dark hidden rooms who could not speak lest they ruin themselves and their prospects for marriage and a secure position in society, going too much further than groping or fingering would be dangerous. If they were ravaged to the point of injury and bleeding—or, worse still, if such an assault ended in pregnancy—it would be almost impossible to hide, and there would be risk of it all coming to light, which the aggressors did not want. But if it were a maid, whose family was not powerful, who might not dare to come forward pointing fingers at the elite if she even dared to speak of what had happened to anyone at all…_

_It made his stomach twist to think about it. Findaráto thought he had seen the last of such horrors when he had died bleeding and torn to shreds in the black depths of the dungeons of Tol-in-Gaurhoth. Clearly, he had been wrong._

_“I will be thorough in my investigation,” he promised. “Is there anything that I can do for you, my lady? Anything that might help?”_

_He had learned not to apologize. Sometimes, it made the victim angry to be pitied. Sometimes, it made their crying and sniveling worse, and he would be forced to sit still and watch helplessly. Sometimes, they just stared at him with blank, empty eyes trying to understand why he was apologizing for something someone else had done._

_This was all he knew how to do, even though he already knew what the answer would be._

_She shook her head. “No, my Prince. Nothing.”_

_“Then I shall take my leave and give you privacy,” he said, standing and offering a deep bow to Lady Undómiel. “You have my gratitude for sharing what you know with me, my lady. Do not doubt that.”_

_Her smile was watery and false. “Of course, my Prince.”_

_And then he left her alone._

Even thinking about it now left him cringing with shame for leaving her there alone and upset. As he arrived at the palace—as he ran through those memories again and again on his way up to his father’s study—his eyes grew distant, and he wove past servants and through familiar halls with nary a thought to his movements. All too soon, he was standing outside that door feeling like a harbinger of the second Darkening.

When he knocked, he heard his father call for him to enter.

And he went inside. Found Arafinwë sitting behind his desk with that same smile he always wore, and it was both a relief and a curse. Something that both brought comfort and simultaneously made Findaráto want to slap that look away violently if for no other reason than to chase away some of the heat and fury that bubbled away in his veins after a long day of hearing crying women recount stories of rape.

And there was Aikanáro, whose face was appropriately stern and whose eyes were smoldering blue. Clearly, his younger sibling was no less disturbed or enraged than he at these happenings, and it showed in the way his lips tightened when their eyes met across the room. Slowly, Findaráto went to take his place beside his younger brother.

“You have told me that you wished to speak of matters relating to your investigation,” his father began. “What have you to share, yondonyar?”

This meeting, he knew, would be no less unpleasant than any of the others.

And, so, he began to explain.

By the end of it, his father was certainly no longer smiling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:
> 
> -wen (Q) = suffix denoting female version of patronymic (N: as opposed to patronymic -iel)  
> Nessameldawen = daughter of Nessamelda  
> Anar (Q) = the Sun  
> amilessë (Q) = mother-name  
> Fëanárioni (Q, p) = sons of Fëanáro  
> yondonyar (Q, p) = my sons (formal)
> 
> \---
> 
> Flower symbolism:
> 
> Zinnia = Missing you, endurance, remembrance, thoughts of absent loved ones  
> Azalea = First love, caring, temperance, gratitude, passion, stay true  
> Rain Lily (Zephyr Lily) = I am waiting, anticipation of what is to come, expectations, healing past hurts


	47. Songs of Tomorrow, Dawn Will Follow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A dark and stormy night and a bright and sunny morning...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: discussion of rape, guilt and anger, espionage, depressed character, insomnia and paranoia, nightmares mentioned, family bonding, flower language, names are complicated
> 
> Most of the triggering content is near the beginning and isn't very explicit. Be forewarned. After that, it mostly turns into hurt/comfort and fluff.
> 
> Maedhros = Maitimo = Nelyafinwë = Nelyo  
> Maglor = Makalaurë = Kanafinwë = Káno  
> Celegorm = Tyelkormo = Tyelko = Turkafinwë = Turko  
> Caranthir = Carnistir = Morifinwë = Moryo  
> Curufin = Atarinkë = Curufinwë = Curvo  
> Amrod = Ambarussa = Pityafinwë = Pityo = Minyarussa  
> Amras = Umbarto = Telufinwë = Telvo = Atyarussa  
> Fingolfin = Nolofinwë  
> Finarfin = Arafinwë  
> Finrod = Artafindë = Findaráto  
> Aegnor = Aikanáro = Ambaráto  
> Fingon = Findekáno

_Valanya, 54 Lairë (6 July)_

\---

Both of his sons looked tired.

Ambaráto hid it better than did Findaráto. Arafinwë knew that his eldest had already been stricken with sleeplessness before beginning this investigation into the accusations against his Fëanárion cousins, but it seemed that he was rapidly getting worse if judgment were cast by the dark, bruised circles beneath his shadowed blue eyes. There was no other word that the King might use to describe the expression except spent down to the bone, nor to describe those eyes but for _aged,_ like they had seen too much.

He had not seen his poor firstborn look so wrecked since the early days after his rebirth as he readjusted to being among the living. As he dealt with, for the first time, the nightmares that kept him up and screaming in the middle of the night, ringing in the ears and rousing from bed all else who slept within the palace walls.

When Findaráto sat down, he did so with all the grace of a sack of flour being hefted down upon the cushion, like a great weight falling with a jarring thud. If he had not sat before the King, had not being making an active attempt to maintain his composure without cracking, Arafinwë thought his son would likely have let out a world-weary sigh, put his elbows up upon the desk and rubbed at the bridge of his nose to combat the pain that the older man could see building up in the pinched corners of his eyes and his mouth.

“The investigation has been progressing,” his eldest reported. “I would say well, but news of such doings as I have heard these past few days does naught but trouble the mind.”

“Tell me of what you have learned.”

Arafinwë watched as the brothers exchanged a look laden with mountains worth of meaning buried beneath an ocean of silence. Neither _wanted_ to speak of what they knew, hesitating, as though, by speaking of ill deeds, they might somehow conjure them into existence, make them more real than they were when they lingered in the gray immaterial world of thought. Patiently, Arafinwë waited.

“We suspect we know why our three _victims,”_ with venom did his eldest speak the last word, with a bite that would have made lesser men flinch, for it left the lips of a man who had torn a werewolf asunder with his bare hands and teeth and all that rage and power flowed just beneath the surface of stormy blue eyes, “do not wish to speak.”

Again, the lingering. Findaráto was searching for the right words. It boded nothing but ill indeed if it were such a terrible thing.

“I have no proof yet but for the words of those to whom I have spoken,” Findaráto continued, “But I suspect that these three men—amongst, possibly, others—are of the sort who take advantage of vulnerable women. Sexually.”

It was, indeed, worse than Arafinwë had hoped for. And it made a terrible amount of sense, much as he would like to have denied the possibility.

If the Noldor could be so corrupted that some of them could commit a heinous crime such as murder of innocents, why not this as well? The taint of the shadow—of Morgoth’s theme—ran through the veins of all beings. The Dark Lord himself had spent many centuries inciting it in the blood and bone of all to whom he spoke and all with whom he interacted. And he had, in no small amount, called upon the Noldor and cursed them with his attentions.

Like a leftover, slow-acting poison, it must have set in. “Do you suspect that this has been happening for a long while?”

Findaráto’s mouth pursed thoughtfully. “I think that, having gone undetected, the perpetrators were becoming careless. Arrogant. Perhaps it had been long since these abuses started, but they have grown upwards as a tree, branching out into more dangerous territory when the abusers felt it was safe to work further and wider than they had dared before.”

“And you know this from rumors?” he asked then. He could not accuse or convict men upon the hearsay of court.

“Some of the young ladies I have spoken with have admitted to experiencing assault.” Findaráto’s image flickered for a moment, eyes dipped in shadow. “I would detail it for you, but I do not think I could speak it aloud without the sunlight and the airy summer breeze to combat how wicked the words would feel spilling from my tongue. It matters little that I have yet to encounter a woman who claims to have been mated in the way of marriage against her will, for I have many yet to speak with, and that is just amongst the daughters of nobility. I suspect there will be many more who were not protected by fathers with a powerful title and families with great wealth.”

Arafinwë looked away then, staring at the dark windows with moonlight creeping in upon the floor, mingling with firelight. Indeed, he could understand that such dark thoughts were hard to speak of in the night, during that time of day that reminded all of them too vividly of the Darkening and how it swallowed everything light and pure in the world.

“You suspect that the attack was an act of retribution, then,” he concluded, steering them away from graphic talk of brutalizing women. He had not the stomach for it now. Maybe later, after he had whispered away his horror (and his guilt at being blind to these happenings) unto the silver veil of his wife’s soft waves of hair, after he had prepared himself for what he would hear and knew he would not lose his dinner. But not now. Not in the dark. Not taken by surprise in the night as though assailed by hellfire from out of the blackness.

Of course, Findaráto knew what he had done and allowed the redirection with just the smallest spark of gratefulness in his gaze. “I do. It makes any involvement of the Fëanárioni rather unlikely, however. They would not have a motive. More likely than not, their presence was just a convenient coincidence that could be used to divert attention.”

For a moment, Ambaráto straightened, leaned forward as if he were going to speak. But then bit his tongue and said nothing, going back to staring blankly at the wall.

“Think you that your brother’s assessment is flawed, Ambaráto?”

Those eyes rolled towards him, dim and dark and hazy. “No. He is likely to be correct. There are so many possible suspects that it would have been easier if they had been, but I do not believe they had anything to do with it.”

Whether or not that was his son’s true opinion was hard to say. There was barely any inflection at all in that voice to guess upon.

“In any case,” the younger continued, “I have plans to ingratiate myself to the comrades of these three men, to see if I cannot get a closer look at what goes on in their closed circles and parties and gatherings.”

It sounded like a slimy task, something that Arafinwë would rather have sent a spy to handle than his own flesh and blood. “You need not go so far,” he said. “I could send someone else if it is a task you would find too distasteful or distressing.”

But Ambaráto just let out a derisive sound, the click of his tongue mixed with a hiss. “At least doing this I might make myself useful.”

Many thousands of things Arafinwë wanted to say to that—chiefly that Ambaráto was not useless in any capacity no matter how unbound and shattered he felt at the loss of his mate or how empty and poor a second chance rebirth seemed without her—but he had said it all before many times, and none of it had swayed Ambaráto to agreement. This was the first time, though, that his son had taken the initiative to _do something_ on his own, however. Even if it was something that Arafinwë would have preferred he had no part in—for who wanted their child interacting with the sort of folk who would harm an innocent woman?—he also did not want to discourage the tiny little flicker of embers alight in otherwise dead eyes.

It was the first time since rebirth that something had carried _meaning_ for his son beyond the trivial outer shell of its existence as a necessary nuisance to be acknowledged and dealt with. Arafinwë was not about to take that away.

“If that is what you wish,” he said instead, “I will only implore that you take care.”

Reckless spirit housed in a new body with no one and nothing to live for, Ambaráto offered only his most sarcastic of smiles. “Of course, Atar.”

“And I will continue with my interviews,” Findaráto jumped in, sensing the strange and unpleasant tension and seeking to annihilate it before it suffocated them all, “And see if I cannot dredge up more names to investigate, perhaps women who are not amongst the nobility. But, for the time being, I had another request to make.”

“Make it, then,” Arafinwë implored, happy to assist in any way he could.

“I would like to bring Amarië with me.”

Arafinwë blinked, a little startled. To his own wife he might confess all, tell her everything that lingered like a festering sickness in his heart, everything that might be cleared away by the acceptance of her touch and the assurances of her voice in the quiet of the night, driving away the innate fear and unknown of the shadows. But he would not have wanted her there to hear it all firsthand, to know the details, any more than he would have wanted her there on a battlefield witnessing the spilling of entrails or the decapitation of heads or the rivers and rivers of blood melting dust into mire. “Pardon?”

“It would make the women I speak with more comfortable if she were there,” Findaráto explained, and his voice sounded both tired and desperate. “They do not seek comfort and reassurance from a man, and they often cry and flinch and speak vaguely out of fear because they do not feel comfortable with confessing to one of my sex.”

Ah, so there was a sensible reason for the request. In retrospect, Arafinwë supposed that that made a great deal of sense. It was not generally considered decent for women to speak of sexual matters to a man to whom they were not married, but he was aware (from listening to Eärwen speak of her close friendship with Anairë and her evenings spent in seclusion with her ladies in waiting) that women freely spoke about such matters between themselves quite often, even going so far as to share rather explicit details about the prowess of their partners.

He did not really understand. He would never have shared details of his escapades in his bedchambers with any of his male acquaintances. Definitely not with Nolofinwë. But, then, there were things about women that being married to one could not even teach, and this was one of those mysteries that he was certain would remain perpetually unresolved throughout all the long ages of Eä.

“Very well,” he acquiesced, “You may give her full disclosure of this business, and she is to report by your side.”

“My thanks,” Findaráto said, bowing his head slightly in gratitude.

“Is there anything else that needs to be spoken of immediately?” the King asked then, almost praying silently that there was not. One would have thought he would be ecstatic to have this all over and done with quickly and cleanly, to have it all out at once, but he found himself feeling stretched and weary. Some sleep, he was certain, would help him recover from the shock, to curtail the splitting ache that was forming beneath his ribs, to release the burning that was lingering just behind his eyes.

“No, I should think that is all. Unless you have something to add, Aikanáro?”

The younger brother shook his head sharply after a moment’s pause. “No. Nothing.”

“Then you should go and rest, yondonyar,” the King said with both concern and affection, “For you have served well in your endeavors. I would have you sleep and take some time to be merry before facing this dark task again.”

“I doubt I could sleep even if I tried,” Findaráto commented, “But I shall try nonetheless. Goodnight Atar, Aikanáro.”

His eldest gave a sharp bow of his head and fled the room. Arafinwë really did hope that his son would find some form of rest, of consolation and soothing, in the arms of his wife. He hated to see his child suffer so, to know that there was little he could do to assuage that pain and that he had, in part, contributed to it unmeaningfully.

“I shall take my leave as well, Atar,” the younger son said, standing from his seat. “I shall be out late the next few nights gathering information.”

“Rest well, Ambaráto,” he murmured, not at all surprised when his words did not even merit a backwards glance at the door. Quietly, it swished shut and clicked, leaving the King alone in his study with naught but the fire for company, its heat permeating the room and the scent of sacred wood crisp upon the back of his tongue.

He went and added sage to the blaze, taking in the white smoke, watching as it flushed over the ceiling and spread across the room as it burned. It made the air about him feel just a little cleaner and a little clearer when it had filtered out the open window and was gone like a prayer to Manwë spiraling upwards into the now-moonless, overcast sky. What with the sort of slime and soot and shadow that lingered after such a hard and disturbing discussion, he was relieved to have some means of purification of the air through which those words had been spoken.

Sitting down once more, this time not at the desk but before the fire, he allowed himself the break in his Kingly façade to rub at his face and squeeze his eyes shut. Thunder rumbled beneath his feet, heralding the oncoming storm.

 _How could such things have happened,_ he wondered, _without any of us seeing? I am the King of the Noldor, their guardian and protector, and this was happening in court beneath my very nose and I was none the wiser!_

His only consolation, small as it might be, was that his sons were working hard to untangle all the lies and subterfuge and get to the truth of the matter. And he trusted that they were not going to stop until they had accomplished their goal. If, in the process, they managed to put a stop to such awful happenings, well, that would be a relief to the King, whose days were overflowing with other work that needed seeing to lest Tirion fall into chaos and ruin.

_And, to think, all this unfolding only a week before Eärwen’s brother is going to visit. I still need to send a missive to Istelindë to let her know…_

It was all just too much. He needed some rest. If he could manage to sleep at all what with so many worries flowing and circling through his mind like the buzzing of flies about corpses rotting in the sun. Certainly, it had ruined any good mood that might have lingered over the past few days, leaving his heart feeling sunken as a lead weight to the bottom of the bay.

But it would do him no good to linger here staying awake and working himself back into another fit of exhaustion. What use would he be to anyone then?

More than anything, right now, he just wanted to speak to his wife in the privacy and solitude of their chambers, hidden beneath the sheets together in a tangle of limbs and hearts and minds, warm and safe. There, he could share his worries with her. There, he could be weak with no one else to see. Just Arafinwë and Eärwen, plain and simple. Not the King and the Queen.

Standing, he moved to put out the fire. Yet, when all was dark in the room and he began to blow out the lanterns, he almost wished to have the heat and the light back. Thunder rumbled again, and a cold gust of wind cut through the open window and left him shivering.

The world, it seemed tonight, was a cold and unwelcoming place.

\---

He should have spoken.

At the moment, sitting in that study and staring at the vivid green color of the far wall covered in ornate patterning and the way golden light flickered hypnotizingly across its surface, it had come to Aikanáro that he had, perhaps, found a potential connection between his Fëanárion cousins and the three victims of the beating and torture.

It was, of course, all conjecture, a mere supposition based on coincidence. But he _did_ find it interesting that there was a potential connection between a woman—nervous, potentially abused or attacked sexually, thus cousin Pityafinwë’s attempts to assure her that there was no need for shame—and one of his cousins or more. Which, of course, put the bloodthirsty Fëanárioni back on the suspect list with both motive and capability.

 _You do not even know what happened to that girl,_ he scolded himself. _Even if she_ was _attacked or assaulted, there is no indication whatsoever that it was done by any of the three men locked away in the Healing House._

So, he said nothing.

_This requires more investigating._

He did not want to bias his father and brother towards falsely accusing or incriminating his cousins. He did not want to turn their heads on the basis of little more than an idea that had flitted through his mind in the heat of the moment.

 _But would it not have been neat and tidy,_ he thought blandly to himself as he slipped through the shadowy streets of Tirion, quiet now that dark had fallen, windy gales gusting their way through the streets to announce an oncoming storm’s chill. _Some ridiculous, stupid courtiers attack a woman who is friends with—or lovers with—a Fëanárion out of sheer bad luck on the only night they had all been assembled in Tirion since their rebirths, and they get viciously attacked for their troubles._

It was a terrible thing to think, from a certain point of view, but he would probably have given a low, caustic laugh were that the case.

 _A just reward,_ he thought darkly as he ducked into his own small, silent house. _A just reward for those who would attack the innocent indeed. Attacked and tortured and terrified into silence by someone so vicious and so dangerous as a Fëanárion. The hunter of the helpless bunnies then taken down by a larger, more vicious predator. The hunter who gets to feel the same terror and helplessness as their prey._

The door clicked shut behind him, sending him plunging into darkness.

He did not bother lighting any lanterns. Tonight was not a night for bathing in warmth and fire and light.

Tonight was a truly awful night.

And he was hardly going to make an effort to raise the mood. The rain that began to pound down against his window said everything that need be said about his feelings.

\---

It started to rain as Findaráto walked home.

Trotting over the slick cobblestone, he went to hide from the harsh wind and the needle-sharp pelleting of the rain near the sides of the townhouses. The rumbles of distant thunder had been teasing at a distance for a while now, but the storm was upon them at last, lightning breaking overhead. Swiftly, Findaráto turned onto the abandoned street where he made his home and crossed, taking the steps up to his door two and a time.

Unlocking the door, he stepped inside and wiped his damp hair back from his face. Down the hall and to the right, he could see light coming from the sitting room.

 _Amarië is still up,_ he thought to himself, assessing the dampness of his tunic and finding it unacceptable. He peeled it off, leaving him dressed in just his undershirt, and left it hanging next to the door. Removing his boots, he then padded into the house with quiet socked feet.

Peering in, he saw his wife curled up on one of the small sofas, book in hand. It was a poetry tome, one of her treasured possessions with an ornate cover and dogeared corners to mark her favorite poems, a gift he had given her so long ago that it was a wonder the spine was not cracked nor the pages falling out for how many times it had been read. Seeing her there, looking so peaceful, like a creature made from golden firelight and wisps of stars spread across the sky in milky spirals, brought a helpless smile to his face despite the darkness of his mood and the ache behind his eyes. Quietly, he knocked on the doorframe to let her know he was home.

Her eyes flashed up to his face, her lips curling into a return smile. She held up a finger to her lips for him to stay quiet and then beckoned him inside.

Elenwë was spread out on the opposite sofa, sleeping with her head pillowed on a decorative cushion, golden hair spread out and spilling down to brush at the floor. She had been hidden from his sight by the back of the sofa. “She stayed because of the storm?” He supposed he would not have sent her walking home by herself in the dark either.

“Well, she fell asleep about an hour or two ago,” Amarië admitted a little sheepishly. “Both of them did. I just had not the heart to wake them and send them on their way, especially once I heard the distant thunder.”

_Both of them?_

Stepping further into the room, peering around the furniture, he blinked at the sight of his dark-haired cousin sprawled out in front of the fire, legs straight out, back against the side of Amarië’s little couch. Morifinwë’s eyes were dark and distant, lids half-hooded, as his head lolled forward until his chin almost brushed his chest.

Once, Findaráto might have questioned how a man could sleep as such. Having marched through Helcaraxë and then through many hundreds of leagues of wilderness, he knew that a man who spent so much time out and moving, marching to war or traveling through the plains and forests of Beleriand, would adapt to be able to fall asleep anywhere at any time no matter how uncomfortable the ground was or their position might be.

But he was rather surprised that Morifinwë had not startled awake when he had arrived home. The front door had not been shut delicately.

Furthermore, he was surprised that Morifinwë had fallen asleep _at all_ in the presence of women who were not members of his immediate family in a house that belonged to another man. It was like falling asleep with one’s back unguarded in foreign territory.

Cautiously, he approached his wife. It came into his mind to be annoyed—he had wanted to come home and sleep, but he very much doubted he would be capable of so much as a whisper of rest with a Fëanárion literally under his roof—but he was too tired to muster the sharpness of the emotion.

By this point, sheets of rain were pounding against the windows. Findaráto glanced again at his cousin and sighed. “I suppose there is no point in expecting them to leave tonight.”

“Forgive me,” Amarië teased, “But they just looked so peaceful.”

Peaceful. What a strange word to describe a Fëanárion! Yet, he could see that Morifinwë was, indeed, still and quiet. His hair was braided back in intricate little braids weaved down around his head from three separate directions meeting high on the back of his skull. Sitting there, white and pale pink and delicate, was a small lily. A rain lily, if Findaráto knew his flowers still as well as he once had.

“You braided his hair,” he murmured, looking towards her as he sat beside her upon the sofa, not quite knowing what to think of that or what else to say to express his surprise.

“Ah, Findaráto,” she murmured, closing her book of poetry and setting it aside. “We did, Istelindë, Elenwë and I.”

“That is quite the statement,” he premised, watching her face.

Amarië nodded slightly. “He really is very sweet, you know,” his wife told him, and she laughed at the skeptical expression she received in return. “Melda, if I were not taken already… He is exactly the sort of man that any young woman can only dream about, and it has nothing to do with how pretty his eyes are or how handsome his face is.”

It was a glowing recommendation indeed, especially coming from a Vanyarin girl, born and raised in the golden city of Valmar.

Surprising, it might seem at first. But, then, somehow Morifinwë had convinced Lady Eruanna’s family to accept his courtship of a daughter of the House of Meneldëa. Perhaps it should not have been so surprising after all.

“He is so very dedicated,” his wife continued, “And so very, very sweet. We have been teaching him to dance, and he just about falls all over himself every time he so much as bumps against one of our toes, so eager to make sure we were not hurt. And, when we dance, his hands are huge and covered with calluses but touch so gently, like he thinks we are baubles made from glass. And not _once_ has his attention wavered, have his eyes looked away from mine, when I was speaking to him directly. It is as if every word he hears is the most important thing in the world for that single moment in time. Such attention alone would be enough to turn the head of most women of the Vanyar.”

Indeed, Findaráto could understand that, but… “But braiding his hair, vessenya?”

She let out a little musical laugh, reaching out to give him a little nudge against his shoulder. “You should have seen his face, Findaráto! See that bouquet over there on the table? Lady Eruanna sent it. It arrived this afternoon, and I think he barely breathed for a full ten minutes, so entranced was he!”

Though the light flashing through the windows every now and again blinded him to most of the color in the room, he could still make out the shape of the flowers branching out of one of Amarië’s ornate vases, though he was a bit too rusty to tell what they were by seeing the outline of the petals alone. With the next stark, momentary crack of white light (and accompanying boom of thunder) he could make out the pale shapes of the pink rain lilies and the multicolored zinnias all about and… were those azaleas? He thought they looked the right shape and color to be anyways.

“He looked so distraught that he would have to leave them here,” she said, leaning in against Findaráto’s arm, “So it was suggested that he might have one bloom braided into his hair so that it would be with him when he went back to the inn. Then Istelindë had to leave, and I fed the other two dinner and, well, he just fell asleep right there on the floor before he made it out the front door, I am afraid. Typical man, content once his belly is full.”

Typical man, Morifinwë might be. Typical Fëanárion, he obviously was not. There was not an innocently charming bone in the body of either Turkafinwë or Curufinwë—potentially not even in Nelyafinwë or the twins, though Findaráto had more experience with the third and fifth brother than any of the rest, so he might not know as much about the current personalities of the others—but, apparently, there _was_ more than one or two in the fourth son. More than anyone would have expected if judging by the typically dark snarl of his features, his tendency to be snappy and frowning and scowling with his downturned eyebrows shadowing his glowing eyes and pursed lips giving the impression of bad temper.

He was, at least, gentle and charming enough to have won over Amarië in a matter of days, bumbling around like a large, bashful black shadow. Enough that she had been willing to claim him like a little brother. Elenwë, too.

Casting one last assessing look towards his cousin, Findaráto leaned back and pulled his wife close. “Just read your book.”

“You do not want to go to bed?” she asked, taking up her place leaning against his chest, pressing kittenish little kisses against his jaw and the corner of his lips. “You look very tired, vennonya. I know you have not been sleeping well.”

“I think that Turukáno would skin me alive if he ever found out that I left his wife sleeping and unguarded in the same room as a Fëanárion.” Which was the truth, if not the entirety of it. More so, if he were being honest with himself, he thought he might be able to rest just a little were he in the same room as the interloping man, where he would hear or see if Morifinwë so much as suspiciously twitched in the middle of the night.

“I do not think that Carnistir could harm a woman even if he wanted to,” Amarië replied, “But, if it makes you feel better, melda.”

“He lets you call him that?” Findaráto asked, leaning back against the rest of the sofa with a sigh, huffing just a little as his wife curled up atop his chest. So far as he knew, Morifinwë about threatened to delimb anyone who dared to use his amilessë. Only Turkafinwë was daring enough to do it, but Turkafinwë would have been daring enough to spit in the face of the Dark Lord if he felt like it, so that was not saying much.

“Not exactly,” Amarië admitted, smirking. “Istelindë calls him that when she thinks he is not listening. She knows he would prefer to go by ataressë, but, after seeing how vividly red his face can get when he is flustered or excited, I can understand why she has been unable to think of him by any other name. I am almost certain, though, from watching him twitch whenever she says it aloud, that he hears when she calls him by his amilessë and just says nothing about it because he does not want to upset her.”

“And, so, you thought you would go ahead and call him by his amilessë as well?” Findaráto teased lightly.

“It is so very fitting that I could not help myself,” she answered with a little giggle, laying her head down upon his chest.

“I had something else I wanted to speak about,” he murmured against her ear. Though, now that he was warm by the fire and out of the rain, curled up and comfortable with his wife pressed against his side, he wondered that he did not really wish to speak of all the darkness and evil permeating through even the sacred lands of Valinórë.

He did not want to ruin it. This peaceful mood that so sharply contradicted the chaos and screaming and wildness pounding on the panes of the windows. Inside everything felt so safe and secure and right. A little sanctuary against all those ill will in the world.

Even knowing Morifinwë (Carnistir) was laying on the floor barely more than a meter or two away did nothing to unsettle the blanket of quiet that began to rest across his racing thoughts, slowly them down and tucking them away onto their dark shelves to wait until tomorrow morning when all was light.

“We can talk in the morning,” his wife said, and he could see her face as a hazy, sunlit glow through the burnished gold of his lashes. “Sleep, now, melda.”

How could he do anything else but obey?

\---

_Elenya, 55 Lairë (7 July)_

\---

When Morifinwë blinked his way back into the waking world, there was sunlight shining almost directly into his eyes through the window.

This, in of itself, was not a particularly unusual occurrence. Many days he awoke, either outdoors or in, with Anar beating down upon his features. However, he normally would recognize the room or forest clearing in which he awoke. At first glance, though there was a vague familiarity about the little room with a theme of ivory and deep brown, he did not immediately recognize it. Certainly, they had nothing so fine as this holed up in the mountains, nor were the cheap rooms at the inn of such quality.

Added to that the fact that he was sprawled across the floor, which was not typically where a man was meant to be sitting (or sleeping) in a room so fine, Morifinwë found himself temporarily confused. It took standing up upon his wobbly legs (noting, with annoyance, that he was still wearing his clothing from last night and still smelled like he had danced for five hours straight, which he had) and peering about to realize that there were three other people in the room, all golden-haired and fast asleep.

Off to one side was Elenwë, hair falling around her and all over the floor. Off to the other were Artafindë—who had most definitely not been there when he had fallen asleep the night before—with Amarië splayed out on top of him, her face tucked into the crook of his neck and shoulder.

He stared for a moment at his cousin’s face, noting that Artafindë was missing his outer clothing, clad in his undershirt and leggings, and, also, that he still looked absolutely exhausted. Morifinwë could see that his eyes were deep-set and ringed in dark bruises from lost sleep. An expression that was all too familiar, for the fourth brother had seen it upon his own face often enough in the centuries leading up to his death. Beneath that, he thought he could see the whisper of harsh lines cutting through pristine features, shimmering in and out of focus beneath the rays of Anar breaching this silent little sanctuary.

Well, who was he to judge a man for that when he covered his own killing blow?

Upon silent feet, Morifinwë made his way towards the door, only to stop in his tracks as he beheld again the bouquet that Eruanna had gifted. Now that sunshine was coming directly in through the window from the east, the flowers looked to be set aflame. Almost dazed, he reached out to touch them, and they were impossibly soft beneath his fingertips.

Glancing back at his sleeping audience to be sure he was not watched, he leaned down to put his lips to a lily’s petals. So soft they were. Closing his eyes, he breathed in the soft scents beneath his nose an imagined stroking his mouth just like this, so softly that their skin barely touched, over the curve of Eruanna’s slender throat, down over the graceful line of her collarbone, towards the tantalizing swells of her…

“You are awake, I see.”

Startled, he bolted upright like a deer, looking over his shoulder to see that Amarië had lifted her head from her husband’s chest and was watching him with her bleary eyes barely open, lashes fluttering upon her pink cheeks.

Like a beacon, his cheeks burned scarlet. Because, of course, they did. They were his striking curse, and they made her softly laugh.

“I should be on my way,” he murmured, voice barely more than a breath to avoid waking the other two sleeping occupants of the room. Especially Artafindë, who looked like he could use another week of good rest.

“Now, you are a guest. You should not run off without at least eating a little bit of breakfast and drinking some tea,” she scolded lightly. Somehow, by a strange magic that must be inherent between two beings who trusted each other down to the very depths of their souls, she managed to maneuver herself off her grumbling husband without waking him from slumber. Snuffling, Artafindë turned away, cheek pressed into the cushions, and did not stir.

Amarië set off across the room, only to pause halfway to the door, wobbling slightly upon her heels as though she had momentarily lost her balance.

Immediately, Morifinwë reached out to steady her. “Careful.”

The golden-haired lady shook her head slightly, gratefully making use of his offered arm to keep herself upright until the momentary dizziness had passed. “Oh my…”

“Are you well? Should I fetch you some water?” These sorts of things happened sometimes when one stood too fast while dehydrated. And she had been dancing all afternoon yesterday, and he could not really remember much about how much water she may or may not have drank no matter how much he furrowed his brow and stretched his mind, and…

“It is no great matter,” Amarië said, waving away his concern. “Come along and eat before you leave. This will be your last day in Tirion before you make for Valmar once more, will it not? We shall have to procure some more flowers…”

He followed her out of the room and down the hall to the kitchen, forgetting all about the strange dizzy-spell. Within minutes, she had food on the stove, and Morifinwë’s mouth was watering almost immediately, salivating like a starving dog that had been living off scraps, for he had been subsisting on inn food for the past week or more while in Tirion and Valmar and would dearly appreciate a home-cooked breakfast

Amarië spent half that time in the midst of suggesting more flowers. “How about something related to devotion? It is a little too early in the courtship for _passion,_ but you seem to be out of the short phase of exclaiming first feelings of love and all those things. Oh, what do you think of heliotropes, cousin Moryo?”

When he did not answer, she turned her head to look at him. “Morifinwë?”

He coughed, feeling awkward. Suddenly, the tiled patterning of the floor was intensely interesting, and he started counting the number of corners of little square tiles visible between the edge of the cabinets and the rug that she had graced with the presence of her feet. “You may as well call me Carnistir,” he mumbled, feeling that blasted habit of pinching and twisting at the edge of his tunic reassert itself with deadly force. He felt like his fingers might fall off it they did not occupy themselves with movement, if they did not distract him from the fiery embarrassment creeping across his skin in molten waves. “I know that you already do so when you think I cannot hear you.”

She paused, ignoring the sizzling of the meat for a few long moments. He could feel her stare on his face, and it only made the bright red hue burn harsher and spread further, up past his eyes and down his neck like tongues of lava. “If that is what you want…”

Wringing his hands, he glanced up at her soft, pleasant features and away again. “I would not have suggested it if I did not want you to do it,” he murmured, wishing he could disappear through a crack in the floor and disintegrate back into the ether of nothingness so that his cheeks could not turn any darker. “I would have Istelindë do so as well if I did not think that Turkafinwë would mock me forever for it.”

After all, Istelindë was his sister in all but blood now. And these two women, Amarië and Elenwë, had accepted him, taken him in and been kind, had all but claimed kinship with him just yesterday in the afternoon. Any woman of his family might properly call him by his amilessë which, were he to be completely honest with himself, he would have preferred to be called by anyway were it not for how viciously his brothers teased him over its origins. It was, after all, the name his mother had given him at his birth, and he loved her far more than he had ever loved his father. Besides that, he was becoming more and more fond of hearing it. Eruanna used it whenever she spoke to him, and it had ceased to feel like mockery every time he heard it aloud. Used by his would-be lover, given by his mother and untainted by the tongue of his father, all important points to be considered.

And, in truth, none of the Fëanárioni really enjoyed using their ataressë, except Curufinwë, whose amilessë was about a thousand times worse, and Telufinwë, whose amilessë foreshadowed his demise by fire and water at his own sire’s hands.

The rest of them would happily wash their hands of a name given by Fëanáro.

“Really,” he added, voice still low, “I want you to use it.”

“Very well, cousin Carnistir,” she said immediately, and he glanced up just enough to see that she sent him one of her early morning sunny smiles that reminded him of golden light peeking over the mountains and glittering off the surface of Helevorn just after dawn.

Calming now that her gaze was back to the tending of eggs and ham and potatoes, he gingerly went about making himself tea. So fixated were the pair that neither noticed when Artafindë stepped into the room, yawning and pretending to have heard absolutely nothing of the happenings therein before he made his first appearance of the day, hair all askew and shirt sitting crooked upon his shoulders.

“Amanya arin,” he greeted quickly, going to his wife and kissing her cheek and then her lips. Feeling awkward at glimpsing the display, Morifinwë kept his gaze fully focused on the herbs he was preparing for their boiling demise in a pot of hot water, at least until the kissing was done.

“Hello, melda,” Amarië greeted after their lips had been entwined for an indecent amount of time. Moving like two beings that were an extension of one another, Morifinwë watched from the corner of his eye as she stepped aside without being asked, allowing her husband to take over the minding of the potatoes on one side of the stovetop. “I had hoped you would not be disturbed until the breaking of fast was ready. Or later.”

Artafindë hummed under his breath. “The smell of good food is too great and tantalizing a call even for a man such as myself to resist.”

They kissed again, and Morifinwë made tea.

It was only after the spread was laid with four places around a table that was really only built for two that Amarië danced out of the room to go and awaken their fourth. Leaving the two male cousins standing with no one else for company or distraction but one another.

“So,” Artafindë began, “You are using your amilessë again.”

“Only in private, cousin,” he snapped, arms crossing stubbornly as a scowl asserted itself firmly upon his features. He knew from experience goading his own soldiers into cowering messes that it was just as potent as any sneer or snarl from the face of Fëanáro, from whom he had undoubtedly inherited the wickedly cruel expression.

Naturally, Artafindë, perpetually unflappable and probably all too used to an overdose of the Fëanárion temper from the days of Turkafinwë and Curufinwë haunting the halls of Nargothrond, was entirely unaffected. Or, perhaps, it was just too early for the tired man to be intimidated, for his face hovered over his cup of tea so closely that Morifinwë wondered if he was going to dive nose-first into the steaming hot liquid if his obvious fatigue overcame him once again. But it did not, and Artafindë merely sipped at his hot drink and sighed in the face of his dark cousin’s normally blood-curdling glare.

“Fine, just when your brothers are not around then… Carnistir,” his cousin said. “In return, I would that you used my true ataressë where naysayers hear not. I much prefer Findaráto over Artafindë.”

Prior to the strange suddenness of Nelyafinwë’s marriage to Istelindë, any thought of honoring or respecting anything Telerin would have been a cue for hellish mockery and scorn amongst the Fëanárioni. Even before the Darkening, the staunchly Noldorin household (under the strict and unyielding thumb of their terrifying sire) generally considered the pleasant, friendly people who were more concerned with their boats and their ocean trips and their fishing expeditions than wealth or fortune or reputation to be rather simple and beneath note. The planned marriage of Nelyafinwë to one of their Princesses was a mere formality at best, a way of securing official alliance, and Fëanáro had bemoaned endlessly about the ludicrousness of potentially putting some Telerin woman upon the throne should Nelyafinwë ever come to sit upon its splendor.

The only consolation for Fëanáro had been that, at least, Istelindë was not _of the Vanyar._ That, he would never have been capable of stomaching. To think that, even at this very moment, Morifinwë, by coming here and devoting himself to the learning of Vanyarin culture for the sake of a Vanyarin woman, was defying his father to such an extent that Fëanáro must feel of the ache and burn of it even in the deepest depths of the Halls of the Waiting…

Well, he had already decided to flout the “disdain and abhor all that is the Vanyarin race” rule of his father’s. What did it matter if another old and dusty rule was broken?

He opened his mouth to speak it aloud and hesitated.

When it came down to it, in those ancient days amongst the seven brothers and their sire, no one had been allowed to use the common and lowly Telerin dialect in the household of Formenos, and there had been a silent but prevalent insistence upon calling every one of Arafinwë’s children strictly by the Noldorin translations of their true ataressi. So ingrained was this insistence that, even in Exile when his cousin had gone by the guttural Sindarin Finrod, the name Artafindë was still what Morifinwë thought in his head when he glimpsed sight of Arafinwë’s oldest son.

Speaking the name _Findaráto_ felt strange. Like it did not belong rolling off his tongue.

“If you insist, cousin Findaráto,” he said anyway.

“I rather do,” his cousin said primly, seating himself at the table. “Come and eat. No doubt you will have a long afternoon of travels if you plan to head on to Valmar and arrive sometime tonight.”

“I do plan to,” he admitted, gingerly seating himself across from his cousin and accepting the bowl of potatoes, burnished golden-brown on one side and soft and fluffy white on the other, spooning some of them onto his own dish. “I still have to make a stop at the florist, and Amarië has practically insisted upon coming along. Should you allow it, of course.”

“Is there a reason I ought not to?” His cousin added three slices of ham onto his own plate and then passed it over. “She seems to hold you in high esteem.”

Well, it was really no surprise that Amarië spoke to her husband about him when he was not present. They were spouses, after all. Morifinwë could not imagine that, if ever he did marry Eruanna, he would hide any of his thoughts and opinions from her ears. Still, words of such regard from his cousin’s wife left him fumbling a piece of thin-sliced meat, which flopped pitifully onto the table and lay limp, resisting admirably as he tried to fork it back onto the delicate china of his plate. “Does she?” he choked out.

 _Damn my bloody face,_ he thought as he saw his cousin fight down an amused chortle beneath the poor shield of his hand. His penchant for embarrassment truly was a menace!

It was only after he had calmed his obvious urge to laugh, hand falling back down to the table, that Findaráto continued. “She rather does. Thinks that you are a sweetheart underneath all that bluster and snapping and snarling.”

_Can I bury my face in my plate and die?_

“I have never known her to be an ill judge of character,” he cousin added, taking some eggs for himself as well. “There is no need to be embarrassed at being a decent person with a soft side.”

Now he was just being teased! He looked away and shuffled his fork through his potatoes, swirling them around on his plate. “Yes, well…”

“You are leaving for Valmar today,” Findaráto continued between bites of ham. “But I am certain that you shall be back again, if only to visit with your brothers in the interim. If ever you need to be housed here in Tirion, you are welcome in this house, cousin Carnistir, as a guest. We have an extra room for such occasions.”

His roving hand stilled. Looking up, he stared into his cousin’s blue eyes. “Pardon?”

“Amarië claimed you as family. Think you that that means nothing at all to me, her husband?” Findaráto asked, and it was almost impossible to tell whether he was contented with this development or if he was merely making the offer as a formality to please his wife only. The suspicious side of Morifinwë, ever vigilant against ill will aimed towards himself and his family, rather wished to remain cynical and believe that this was all just a bit of song and dance, empty of meaning and familial warmth.

But would it not have been nice were it true? Yesterday, he had felt welcomed here. Not an unpleasant shadow of ill will that people wanted to drive from their homes and proximities lest he taint them with his stain, but genuinely accepted with open arms even with all his flaws, safe for the first time away from his brothers.

“I shall keep that under advisement,” he finally said with a faint inclination of his head. Closer he might be with this man’s wife and cousin by marriage, but he and Findaráto had never spoken frankly to one another. Of all their cousins, the eldest son of Arafinwë was certainly not he whom held the most of Morifinwë’s bitter resentment—that position was saved almost exclusively for Findekáno, just below the utter hatred he harbored for Nolofinwë—but it would still take some time to move through the noxious cloud of sarcastic words and harsh thoughts that rose in the back of his throat.

Still, if only for Amarië, he would try to judge his cousin by his actions and words now, at face value, and not for sins of the past that they probably both wished they could forget.

“Excellent!” Findaráto shoveled another bite into his mouth. Comfortable—if not friendly—silence settled between the two cousins. Not a minute or so later did the women reappear, Elenwë’s hair still in disarray as she combed through the tangled ends that laid over her shoulder and dribbled downwards like spirals of golden honey.

They all settled in to eat, Amarië leaping right back into a discussion of what flowers Morifinwë might be interested in bringing with him to see his beloved lady.

“So, cousin Carnistir, we were discussing heliotropes,” she said.

And he felt his lips twisting into a small smile. “Heliotropes sound lovely.”

\---

All morning, it had been in his thoughts, on the tip of his tongue, waiting to be brought out into the morning light like a splash of black ink. He thought about it, bringing up his assignment and investigations with Amarië, asking her to assist.

But, somehow, he could not bring himself to shatter her sunny mood. All morning, she had been almost floating upon her tiptoes, so bright and so happy to have visitors, to discuss flowers and courtship and weddings (though, that last topic left Carnistir blushing so hard Findaráto wondered if he might keel over in a dead faint), to have something to look forward to. It was not that Elenwë was in any way lacking as company, but he suspected Amarië was excited at the possibility of having another Vanyarin “sister” welcomed into the fold of the House of Finwë.

So, that whole morning he held his tongue and smiled through his teeth and watched as she fussed over brushing Elenwë’s tangled hair and fussed over fixing Carnistir’s dark locks and fussed over making sure they were all well-fed and had enough to drink. Amarië was in a more mothering mood than usual.

It was only when she had both their guests wrangled up at the front door that she turned to her husband. Suddenly, her eyes widened. “Oh, melda, I forgot! You said you needed to talk to me last night!”

_What a time for her to remember._

He leaned down and kissed the corner of her mouth. “It can wait until after you have seen Carnistir off to Valmar.”

“Wonderful!” she exclaimed, returning the kiss, just brushing his mouth.

And then she herded her two charges out the door and down the street, no doubt heading for the florist to obtain flowers for Eruanna. Standing in the doorway, hair unbound and lifted by a gentle breeze as the warmth of sunlight sank deep into his skin, he watched as the two women attacked his poor cousin, sandwiching the tall, dark figure in on each side like little golden flames. Helplessly, he smiled, and he continued to watch the trio until they disappeared around the corner and out of sight.

With a sigh, he looked up at the blue sky overhead, almost cloudless in the morning after the storm. Cool and crisp, the air filling his chest and dissolving the lingering tightness. For a few long moments, he closed his eyes and enjoyed it, thinking of his dear wife and her bright and shining smile, of her sweet cousin Elenwë giggling quietly behind her tiny hands, and of blushing, shy Carnistir dropping ham on the table in surprise and turning scarlet.

 _It is nice to be reminded,_ he thought, _that there are still good people in this world doing good things just because they can. And that, while deceptively beautiful people can harbor great evil, there are those who appear dark who can harbor the strongest light._

Quietly, he retreated back inside, and the door clicked shut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:
> 
> Fëanárioni (Q, p) = sons of Fëanáro  
> Atar (Q) = Father  
> yondonyar (Q, p) = my sons (formal)  
> vessenya (Q) = my wife  
> vennonya (Q) = my husband  
> melda (Q) = dear (one)  
> amilessë (Q) = mother-name  
> ataressë (Q) = father-name  
> ataressi (Q, p) = father-names  
> Anar (Q) = the Sun  
> amanya (Q) = blessed  
> arin (Q) = morning
> 
> \---
> 
> Flower symbolism:
> 
> Zinnia = Missing you, endurance, remembrance, thoughts of absent loved ones  
> Azalea = First love, caring, temperance, gratitude, passion, stay true  
> Rain Lily (Zephyr Lily) = I am waiting, anticipation of what is to come, expectations, healing past hurts  
> Heliotrope = I am devoted to you, you please me, devotion, faithfulness, intoxicated with pleasure


	48. Crying Heaven Shed Your Diamonds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Makalaurë has his first day teaching and another afternoon with Vardamírë...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: hints at depression, unhealthy coping mechanisms, music, magic/enchantment, jealousy, flirting, cuddling, platonic cuddling, thoughts of sex/kissing, sexual fantasy, mention of masturbation, respecting boundaries
> 
> Maedhros = Maitimo = Nelyafinwë = Nelyo  
> Maglor = Makalaurë = Kanafinwë = Káno  
> Celegorm = Tyelkormo = Tyelko = Turkafinwë = Turko  
> Caranthir = Carnistir = Morifinwë = Moryo  
> Curufin = Atarinkë = Curufinwë = Curvo  
> Amrod = Ambarussa = Pityafinwë = Pityo = Minyarussa  
> Amras = Umbarto = Telufinwë = Telvo = Atyarussa

_Isilya, 57 Lairë (9 July)_

\---

It was raining on the morning of Isilya.

That did not bother Kanafinwë much. Though he had never been too fond of the rain, he was not overly bothered by it either. Perhaps it was strange, but he found that there was something quietly beautiful about it. That the gentle purity of it truly did make him think that, perhaps, somewhere, Lady Nienna was weeping for the evils that marred her beloved Eä and her tears now spilled down from the heavens. And, for all that it was annoying to have to don his oilskin cloak, wade through ankle-deep puddles, and walk his horse down the steeper rocky slopes on his way to the city to avoid them both slipping and breaking their necks, he still found himself subscribing to the rather superstitious belief that the rain was a bittersweet lamentation that existed to cleanse the earth of its sorrows and darkness.

Of course, his hood had been blown back four or five times on his journey by the wind, and his hair was damp and smoothed to his skull by the time he arrived at the School of Music, and that rather took the magic out of the otherwise miraculous spectacle. The poor man assigned to work at the lobby greeting desk immediately stood upon seeing him appear in all his soaked, dripping glory, looking both flustered and embarrassed as he almost ran across the tile floor to greet the royal guest. Obviously, he had been informed since the last visit that he had come face to face with Kanafinwë Fëanárion and had not even known it.

“My Prince,” the man greeted with a deep, abrupt bow, overeager to please. “We already have a concert hall prepared for your class.”

With a sigh, he wrung out the tail end of his dark hair. It formed a small puddle, adding to the watery footsteps he left trailing across the pristine floor. “I apologize for my tardiness. And for the mess.”

“It will be taken care of,” the man assured him. “Please, this way.”

Five minutes of brisk trotting (on the shorter man’s part) later, they arrived at a small concert hall with a wide-open stage occupied solely by a rather jumpy-looking harpist arranging and rearranging his sheet music as if to keep his mind off the impending performances. Truth be told, Kanafinwë had been told that he was only going to listen to a handful of older students nearing the completion of their training, so he was expecting the hall to be mostly empty and quiet, a rather low-key event all things told. Instead, upon his arrival, a hush spread through the crowded room. The seats were completely filled with some young students having gone so far as to stand in the back to watch.

And here he was, hair tangled and damp, wearing his typical clothes with all their wear and tear, their patches and their stains, his boots scuffed and muddied from muddling around in the morning helping his brothers lay foundations for a new building on freshly-cleared land. Compared with the well-groomed, velvet-tunic-donning lowest echelons of students—and the even more flamboyantly and immaculately dressed Mentors—he looked scruffy and ratty and nothing at all like the Prince he was by birth.

As he entered, even those who were seated stood. All eyes stared, wide and stricken, as if they could not believe that he had appeared in the flesh.

It was strange but humorous to realize, as he walked towards the front of the silent room, all heads slowly turning to watch as he passed by, that he was, in actuality, amongst the tallest people in the room. He was quite used to being the shortest one around (other than, recently, sister Istelindë) and only just realized that his brothers would have towered over the heads of almost everyone present with frightening ease.

That, at least, was distracting enough until he reached the front of the room and spun about on his heel to return the stares with one of his own. “There is no need to stand on my account,” he announced, feeling a bit out of his depth. It had been so very long since he had had an audience like this. Certainly, there must have been just as many people present at the Midsummer Festival celebration at the palace, listening as he flirted and courted his way into Vardamírë’s good graces with his otherworldly voice, but they had not been so fixated upon him and him alone as he moved, nor had they all gathered specifically to bear witness to the spectacle of his first attempt at providing teacherly advice to young and promising vocal students.

Skimming all those unfamiliar faces as his audience hesitantly reclaimed their seats, he finally landed upon a silver-haired woman three rows back from the front all the way at the end on the left side. Vardamírë offered him a hint of a smile as their eyes met. She was looking rather radiant enough that it took some strength of will to turn his eyes away.

“Let us get started then,” he announced, rubbing his hands together to drive away the chill of the damp and the rain from his aching joints. “Who wants to go first?”

There was a row of students at the very front, all of them white-faced and looking as though at his cue they were to walk to their cruel public execution upon the stage. It would be in poor taste to laugh at such expressions of abject terror, but Kanafinwë could not deny that his lips quirked in amusement as he looked down at them, as he met each of their wide eyes in turn, waiting patiently for someone to step forward.

All was silent.

And then a young woman stood, her entire body stiff as a board, like every muscle had morphed into stone, arms pressed straight down against her sides. There was nothing particularly remarkable about the young woman, whose hair was pale blond and whose eyes were dove-gray.

She marched up to him and stopped within arm’s reach, her eyes fixated upon his chest rather than daring to look up at his eyes. “My name is Liantassë, Mentor K-Kanafinwë.”

Patiently, he waited until her eyes crept up to meet his gaze. In the shimmering mirror of her irises, he could see his own burning like white stars through the dim lighting of the hall, otherworldly and unsettling. “Well met, Liantassë,” he greeted quietly. “You may address me as Makalaurë. Feel free to begin whenever you feel ready.”

Her hands were shaking as she ascended the stage, poor thing.

Looking out across the crowd, she seemed almost petrified by the staring of a veritable sea of eyes gazing back from the abyss, her breath shuddering as she tried to suck oxygen into her lungs. Well could Kanafinwë remember the first time he had performed for a crowd this large, how little shivers had run up and down his spine, how he had felt momentarily short of breath. Even so, it had been nothing in comparison to the first time he had performed with his father in the room, those fathomless eyes resting unblinkingly upon him as his fingers nervously strummed the air in preparation for the breaking of the silence with that first solitary note.

Nothing was he in comparison to his sire. Softer, darker, shorter, slenderer and far less confrontational and harshly opinionated. No room had Fëanáro for error in anything he did or anything his children did, and there was an unspoken expectation that they never made a mistake on even the smallest thing, especially in the public eye. They had learned quickly as boys to comply with those expectations or suffer the unpleasant consequences.

When he was young, Kanafinwë supposed he had been of a similar make. But, when he was young, he had also been abjectly terrified to fail. Not only because his father would have ravenously descended upon his head like a bloodthirsty fiend and torn his self-esteem to shreds, but also because he felt the need to prove his worth in his art, to prove that his pursuit was worthwhile to a sire who found little in the way of the daintier arts to be worth his time or effort. Now that Kanafinwë had failed at all the most fundamental and important tasks ever laid before him—most having nothing to do with music and everything to do with rotting corpses of children at his feet and burning pyres set with the bodies of his dead brothers—a few missed notes in an aria seemed such a trivial little thing, so inconsequential and forgivable in the grand theme. When the time came, when little Elrond and little Elros (mostly Elros) stumbled over their words and missed some notes, he scolded them not and offered them praise and gentle correction, and he was pleased that at least someone in the whole dark, dismal, rotting world was smiling and joyous, and all because of his quiet regard and direction.

Where his father would have snarled at the girl for making him wait, would have verbally shredded her for her fear of the judgment of others as she stood before the admittedly impressive crowd of talented musicians, Kanafinwë stayed quiet. When her eyes glanced towards him, he offered her a half-smile.

She looked about one breath short of fainting on the spot. The harpist, waiting for the cue to begin the short thematic introduction to the piece, looked on helplessly, almost as nervous as the poor vocalist. Really, Kanafinwë found the whole silent spectacle intensely uncomfortable, especially given the fact that he was the very least likely of his seven brothers to leap up and do something truly terrifying, like wave about a knife at the smallest stutter or rant to the heavens in a blaze of light at the ineptitude of the performance.

 _By Eru Ilúvatar,_ he thought with irritation, _this is going right well!_

When another thirty seconds went by without the girl saying anything or doing anything but staring down at the crowd, eyes flickering towards Kanafinwë every few seconds, he let out an audible sound. The poor thing jumped.

“How about,” he said, startling a few more skittish members of the crowd, “I start then, shall I? Half of you are only here to stare at me anyway.”

Brushing his hands against his trousers to chase away the last of the lingering dampness of the rain, he matter-of-factly walked up onto the stage, blithely ignoring the guilty wriggling of hands and averted eyes of many of the crowd who were, indeed, here to take in the spectacle of a Fëanárion rather than to offer anything in the way of assistance or support to their fellow musicians. The harpist let out a faint squeak as he was waved aside, allowing Kanafinwë free range of the harp. Sheet music rested easily within sight, and it took only a blink or two to see the common theme, to track his way through the piece and read the key and the chords and the familiar melody like a silent symphony within his mind. Nothing too difficult.

Looking up, he met Vardamírë’s curious gaze through the dim lighting and offered her a wink and half a smile.

And then he started to play.

It was not as easy to cast a spell over a room with just a harp beneath his fingertips—his voice was his natural weapon of choice for such endeavors as truly enrapturing a room—but it _was_ enough to rinse the tension right out of the performer’s back, leaving her looking back at him over her shoulder, eyes wide, body boneless and reeling, mind sucked into the sweet, sweet melody. Familiar chords rustled through the backdrop of rain tapping insistently away at the ceiling, a faint and distant drone that calmed Kanafinwë’s blood.

Without even realizing what she was doing, the student started to sing. Were he not required to assess the physical presence of the performer as well as their vocal prowess, he would have closed his eyes and leaned back to enjoy her breathing voice, mellowed and warm like golden strands of light all wrapped one about another into a gentle love ballad. Alas, he was still pleasantly surprised at how nice it was to perform even this simple piece, to just sit in the background, to guide the student through the rising and falling of emotion with just the brushes of his fingers upon strings pulled taut and vibrating against his skin. One might go so far as to say it was mesmerizing.

Kanafinwë, every time he sang or strummed, realized all over again that he had forgotten his art could be so pure. Something that required no stress and no tension, something that was not tainted with the remnants of long centuries of pain and grief. Just a release, a dam behind which emotions churned then knocked down, letting it flow loose and bleed out into the waking world to tug at the minds and hearts of those who dared to listen.

He was almost sad when it ended.

The ringing silence for long moments was a chilly reminder of reality after such a lovely and brief visit to the pastoral countryside, to simple romance between two young beloveds in the fields of barley. It was painfully uncomplicated, and he breathed it in and savored the taste of it on the back of his tongue.

But this was no time for reverie. He breathed out, let it go, and took his hands from the harp to begin the applause. As if startled from a trance, the audience followed suit, and the young maiden blushed delicately and offered a deep curtsy. Even from his angle, off to the side, he could see that her lips were curved into a tiny smile. Relieved, yes, but also glowing with that little sparkle of _something_ that struck all those who fell into their art and were transported away for the briefest of eternal moments.

When the noise let up, he cleared his throat. “Let us start with words from the audience,” he guided, “And then I have a few places which I would hear again as well and lend my advice.”

Liantassë swallowed, still nervous and still intimidated, but no longer frozen in place as though stricken solid by a frigid gust of wind come down from the north. “Yes, Mentor,” she said with another small curtsy in his direction.

He turned his gaze out upon the crowd, hearing the first voice rise up out of the silence.

 _No,_ he thought, _this is not so bad at all._

\---

One thing did Vardamírë know for certain. Listening to Makalaurë perform for long periods of time, if only at the harp rather than using his Eru-blessed voice, left one wandering through a haze of golden light and cloud, as though the very floor itself had become insubstantial and soft, their feet sinking into its depths and yet somehow hovering above at the same time to give the impression of floating through watercolor. Even now, as others filed from the hall looking and feeling just as simultaneously full of energy and emptied of their weight, she still felt it like a hand wrapped around her heart, squeezing tight and holding her captive.

The Fëanárion was certainly a strange and mysterious being amongst mere Eruhíni. It was ridiculous to think, but she half-wondered if he had been conceived in the union of one of the Eldar and one of the Ainur as had been Lúthien Tinúviel, for how else could he be gifted thusly in the sacred realm of voice?

Naturally, that was ridiculous. Everyone knew the parentage of the infamous Fëanárioni. But she could not help but briefly think it nonetheless.

Waiting patiently outside the doors, she ignored the strange looks she garnered from passerby as they left behind the strange and otherworldly realm and returned to the concerns and tribulations of the real world. When the flow of people had abated, she peered inside and caught sight of Makalaurë speaking with his handful of students and some of their Mentors, face set in that welcoming, beckoning state of softness that she remembered from her first night meeting him, the one that could calm anyone’s racing nerves with but a whispered tone of his golden voice. It was that same look which had brushed away her worries when he had approached her that night at the Festival, the same look that had soothed her anxiety when she had nearly thrown up at the knowledge that she had spoken to—was about to _sing with_ —a known and infamous Kinslayer. Because, when he was smiling like that, he did not look like a being capable of harming a mouse, let alone a man capable of cutting down a helpless woman with a sword.

One could not deny that he had a way with people, manipulating them without so much as blinking, without them even realizing. It was such a strong charisma that, when he chose to use it upon some poor, hapless individual, it might as well have been enchantment.

Even though Vardamírë was stubbornly resisting the pull to dive headfirst into a relationship with such a man, she could not deny being affected, sucked into the whirlpool of his eyes and his voice and his gentle but inexorable presence. Even now, her breath was coming fast and shallow with dazed excitement as he walked towards the door, waving off the last compliments and well-wishes of his students.

As he exited into the hallway, she found herself hesitating to call out to him, however, in a fit of momentary doubt. Others were still lingering, still loitering about to get another glimpse of the Kinslayer in all his towering, dark, incomprehensible glory. At that moment, head held high and eyes ablaze, he looked every inch his status as Prince despite the raggedness of his clothes and the faint damp sheen of his long raven hair. He looked like a being made from starlight and fire burning through the pitch black of the night sky.

It came into her mind that, perhaps, she might say nothing. Disappear. Already, there were plenty of young women glancing his way who would be more than willing to throw themselves into a romance without making him do all the extra work. In the end, what had she really to offer such a being as he but a cold welcome and a distant friendship?

Yet, before she could act upon the urge to flee, his head turned, and the bright look he gave as he spotted her made her knees turn to jelly.

“Miss Mírë,” he greeted, swooping down upon her like a bird of prey and swallowing up all her resistance and her doubt with the courtly kiss to her knuckles and a smirk that could have undone the most frigid and resistant Vanyarin lady. “Long has it been!”

“It has not been even two weeks,” she scolded with a helpless smile.

“It seems so much longer,” he said, and she absolutely refused to assume that he had silently added the words _because I was away from you, because I missed you._

“So, lovely Miss Mírë,” he said then, “What say you to showing me around more of the School? You must know all its secrets, having lived here all your life. I would owe you a great debt—perhaps even another song, if you desire.”

No self-respecting vocalist would turn down the chance to hear Makalaurë sing. Today’s crowd at the studio class had received only a tiny taste of what the Fëanárion was capable of, she knew from experience, and she could not deny that the thought of hearing his voice raised once again in song made her heart race.

That he was offering it to _her_ —that he was even paying her attention when there was a flock of young ladies just down the hall waiting to ambush him with their desperate, giggling affection and admiration—made her feel like the most desirable woman to walk the face of Eä. Certainly, such a man could have chosen and seduced anyone, but he wanted to spend time with her still. Her, a simple music teacher.

It was, perhaps, unbecoming to feel smug along with the melting of her resistance. But she could not help the sideways glance she sent the women twittering and loitering at the other end of the hallway. Because, for this afternoon, Makalaurë was going to be _hers._

“I have some ideas,” she admitted shyly, accepting his arm when he offered, though it was she who led him in the opposite direction of the sycophantic admirers.

It was only once they had rounded the corner that his overwhelming aura of soothing, almost seductive, friendliness vanished. His broad smile faded into something a little less pained, and she realized with a start that he had been putting on a show at being so happy and so friendly and so open to the rest of the Mentors and students. Like a mask peeled back, something both sharper and more natural stared out at her, something that felt suddenly lighter and freer in expression.

“My thanks for the rescue,” he said, as if she had known he needed rescuing and had planned the daring escape rather than claiming his attention for herself (guiltily) to rub it in the faces of the young, idiotic girls who wanted to flirt their way into his good graces (and take her place) and possibly in between his sheets. “I was rather not looking forward to dealing with more gushing females.”

It was flattering, in a way, that he felt comfortable showing more of his true self around her than around any other, that he found her trustworthy of seeing his greater depth. Vardamírë had never needed to hide herself in such a way. Using tact and keeping some private thoughts private were familiar to her, but watching the false face melt off Makalaurë’s features was like watching one man transform into another entirely, and she had never needed to hide her intrinsic self in such a manner. It came to her to wonder if all members of the royal family were so good at pretending to be someone they were not, if they all did it so naturally that only those who knew them well could even see through the act.

“I can understand that,” she responded. “Though, I do rather think that many of the young ladies will have a new infatuation to gossip and giggle over for months to come now that you are going to be teaching here once a week. You are handsome and talented, and the taboo over being with… well… it just fuels their fantasies.”

It certainly fueled some of hers.

Not that she was going to say anything about that to him. Firmly had she suggested that they spend time getting to know one another rather than diving headfirst into a courtship dance, but that did nothing to remove the knowledge that he, an undoubtedly beautiful and powerful man, was interested in her romantically. In fact, that he was willing to wait on her for a chance at something more, to devote that much of his time and energy to her with no promise of more, only made him a more attractive candidate.

And he was breathtaking. In more ways than one.

Plenty of time had she spent in her own rooms, humming nonsensical melodies, deep and sensual, under her breath, thinking of his heated mouth upon her skin. Silly as it might have been, she wondered what it might be like for him to sing to her something erotic and forbidden, to whisper it against her ear as he pulled her in against his body, hidden away in the dim lighting of her bedchambers with his hands mapping her naked form. She had seen how masterfully those fingers might play across the strings of a harp, so steady and dexterous and beautiful to gaze upon as they moved, and, she wondered, would they play her body just as easily and leave her singing in return?

More than once, alone at night, she had grown damp and restless thinking about what it might be like to be _with_ him in that way. None of the other handful of men who had tried for her hand and failed had left her so breathless, so oversensitive in her skin, tingling and aching to be touched by more than her own clammy fingers.

In her deepest, darkest fantasies, she wondered what the calluses of a swordsman would feel like tracing over her breasts, pinching her nipples, and sliding down her sides. In the light of day, she could pretend to disdain his status as an accomplished warrior—and a sinful murderer with blood splattered all over those hands that so easily inspired heat in the pit of her belly—but, at night when the shadows took over and there was no other soul to see or hear her whispered confessions and whimpers of his name as she reached between her thighs, she knew that his strength was just as attractive as his musical prowess. There was something so terrifically seductive about knowing that a man who could be so heartless, cruel and vicious was being so gentle, tender and patient just for her.

And then there were the even guiltier fantasies of his passion growing so great that he broke loose of that patient gentleness and took her with all the ferocity that must be hidden somewhere beneath his quiet gray eyes. That his fingers might be harsh upon her as he opened her up and took her, that his kisses might become deep and consuming as he swallowed her moans, that he could pick her up and turn her any way he wanted easily, and she would only be able to whine and writhe in return. Those little wisps of erotic thoughts teased their way through her mind in the blackness of night, thoughts that even amongst other ladies might be considered dark and unacceptable, running rampant.

Even now, thinking about it, she was shivering slightly. Her hand was resting upon the arm of a killer, of a warrior, his steely muscle flexing even now under her fingers. If he felt her reaction, if he noticed her shiver, he said nothing.

“It would not be a first that maidens flock for attention that I cannot provide,” he told her, drawing her back to the topic at hand, sounding a little bit ashamed of the fact that he was considered to be so desirable. “It happened often enough when I was young. Back then, though, I was so focused upon my art that I barely noticed. And, back then, I was much better dressed and much less scarred than I am now. One would have thought that those would be detracting factors, but clearly I was hoping in vain.”

Vardamírë could relate to being wholly and almost exclusively focused upon her art. Never before had she been so utterly distracted, her head filled with melodies that she imagined sung in his voice, dancing with the lyrics of songs that described his beauty and charm, and it had broken her concentration more than once in the past weeks since Midsummer. If it took someone special to turn her head, so why would it not be the same for him?

 _Does that mean,_ she thought to herself, _that he finds me special as well? Just as much as he found Istelindë? More?_

 _Does that mean that he has imagined such things as I have in the deep darkness of the night?_ Her cheeks flared as she thought about it, wondered if he had imagined her naked and beneath his body, singing his name.

“Did you dress like a backwoodsman on purpose then?” she asked, looking down at his clothes, which were plain, well-worn and dappled with stains from dirt and grass, to distract herself from the lovely silvery shade of his eyes and the pale pink color of his lips. Add to that his boots, which barely looked fit to grace a manicured lawn let alone the pristine floor of the School, and he rather seemed to have rolled straight out of a farmstead.

“I had work to do this morning,” he countered, and it was clear from the smile that quirked his lips that he was only pretending to be offended at her critique. “We are laying the foundation for a new building. Slow and messy work on a good day, but with the rain it can be substantially worse. Added to that, almost half my brothers are currently out and about rather than home, so it is going slower than we would like.”

It was about then that they arrived at their destination. The School kept a modest and plain garden of mostly herbs, shrubs and elegant but understated flowers. Nothing spectacular compared with some of the public gardens or the lavish jungles of flowers tended by armies of servants upon the lawns of the nobility and royalty. Most of the shrubs and plants were simple green, and the maple trees were tall and shaded the grass and the meandering paths that traveled between different parts of the vast building, some vividly verdant and some of them naturally a dark and musky reddish-purple. The rain was sprinkling through the courtyard, but Vardamírë did not lead them straight out into the middle of the gentle rainstorm, instead banking sharply to the left as they exited outside and were assailed by an ocean of little wet droplets.

They found themselves at a bench beneath the overhang of the building, both letting out soft laughter as they trotted across the grass in the rain to reach the little corner of privacy. When they sat down together there was the sound of the rain tapping nonsensically onto the overhang, running down into little waterfalls and splashing against the cobbled ground, and Vardamírë found it soothing. All around her was the clean and pure smell of wet earth and grass.

Makalaurë settled close, brushing his dark hair back from his eyes in a single motion. “Are we out here to hide from rabid females?”

“A little bit,” she admitted. “Not just the women. Someone is bound to come and find us if we stayed inside.”

“And you wanted me to yourself,” he teased.

Blushing, Vardamírë glanced away and shrugged her shoulders. “Maybe,” she admitted. _Definitely,_ she said silently in the back of her mind.

“Now that you have me all to yourself, then, what shall we do out here in he rain, lovely Miss Mírë?”

Suddenly realizing how close he actually was—their shoulders were brushing one another’s, or would have been if her shoulder had been just a few inches higher, so she supposed she was really rubbing up against the side of his arm—and his face was turned fully towards her, head tilted to the side and looking down to take her in. Beneath the lamplights that were his silvery eyes, she suddenly felt a little hot and disheveled, and carefully brushed her own now-damp hair, turned dark silver from the rain, over her shoulder.

 _Friends,_ she tried to insist against her natural instincts, which found him to be painfully attractive. _Friends._

Which meant she was not going to have him lay his head in her lap, which had been her very first thought. Swallowing sharply, she said, “Perhaps you should give me that song you promised, Makalaurë.”

“And what would you have me sing about?” he asked, and she tried not to think of how his voice sounded impossibly lovely even when he was only speaking.

“Whatever you want,” she immediately answered. “Sing about the first thing the rain reminds you of, I suppose.”

His eyebrow rose slightly. “The first thing?”

“The first thing,” she confirmed.

Letting out a thoughtful hum, he leaned back and looked upwards towards the dull gray sky, towards the source of the falling raindrops. The look in his eyes was unfathomable, growing brighter the longer he thought, striking out against the shadowy world of cloud and rain that had them surrounded. Vardamírë let out a shudder at a cool gust of wind.

He glanced towards her, and she felt his arm wrap around the back of her shoulders hesitantly, pulling her close into the absurdly warm cocoon of his side. At her questioning look, Makalaurë grinned lightly. “Just so you do not get cold. Would not want that to detract from my performance, would I?”

 _Subtle,_ she thought with amusement. But she still did not resist, leaning further into his side and resting her head against his chest.

There was a gust of warm breath against her temple from his sigh.

And then he sang. Like an Ainu. Like golden light, fuller and more beautiful than any deep-voiced harp. Like the blackest of shadows, miserable and cold with despair. Like the land had been burned and turned black with poison and death as far as the eye could see. Like the ocean churned hot and turned red-stained by the blood of hundreds of thousands of souls. Like the world was ending beneath his feet, cracking open with split seams and spewing fire and belching ash and screaming in tortured agony. Like the rain poured down, and it stung his cheeks for the dust and sulfur and noxious gas that turned it acidic as it hung overhead in the clouds before coming back down to the earth. And it made the last of the green grasses of Beleriand wilt and turn brown, the last of the stubborn little white flowers hanging on to their last vestiges of life then wither at the edges and fall down to become rot.

And there had been no joy to be had, for all things had come undone.

And, of course, by the end of it she cried.

\---

Kanafinwë could have stayed like this forever.

When his voice trailed off into silence, he felt raw and emptied but conversely so much lighter. Though he was generally indifferent towards the rain, the first thing he thought of whenever he saw it was sorrow and destruction, of the long days crossing the blackened and destroyed wildlands while acidic rain sloshed down from the sky and turned the burn-scarred land to mud, of feeling entirely hopeless as he stared off into nothingness and lost himself in the sound of the droplets in the puddles and the splashes of horses’ hooves and the din of quiet and cynical voices whispering. He could have sung about all the sorrow in the world for an eternity without ceasing for the desolation it brought to his heart. Yet, now that he had sung his ode to the rain, it felt better to have let that stinging, crippling emotion come forward, to have shared it aloud with someone who was willing to listen, who he hoped might understand.

It was not that he trusted not his brothers, but they had never been the sort to wallow or wilt in the face of adversity. Their first instinct was anger, to rage against the unfairness of existence, to strike out at the source of their pain and suffering in retribution, whereas Kanafinwë was rarely moved to fury and harsh, impetuous action.

He was instead prone to languishing in his agony. It was something that he was certain his brothers disdained behind his back.

Vardamírë remained curled close. “It sounds awful,” she whispered.

“It was the way it was.” Because, yes, it _had been_ awful, but there was nothing to be done about it then and there was nothing to be done about it now. Beleriand had long since sunk beneath the surface of Alatairë, consumed by water, crushed beneath its massive pressure into rotting rubble beneath the black waves. Perhaps it was better that way.

Looking down at her, he was both saddened and, strangely, relieved to see his own crippling and dark emotion reflected back in her dark blue eyes. They were narrowed and red at the edges beneath her two-toned lashes, little diamond tears lingering upon the pale tips of the strands. Strangely, he wished to reach out and touch, to catch one upon the tip of his finger, to set it upon his lips and taste it upon his tongue.

It was just saltwater, really, but so much more than that at the same time. “It is in the past,” he murmured soothingly. “There is no need to cry for what has already come and gone.”

“Is that not all the more reason to cry for it?” she asked quietly, meeting his gaze with her own, now relaxed enough in his company that she did not shy away nervously from the strange starlight dappling the gray. “Should we not remember such things, mourn the beauty lost and honor what once had been rather than trying to forget all about the terrible things that have happened? Is it not better to share that than to bottle it all away?”

Kanafinwë, like many of his brothers, was a master of bottling his emotions away. Displays of joy, of sorrow, of fear, of anything less than cruel and cold control, had been severely frowned upon in his childhood. Until his ego became entwined with his art—before it became a way to prove his father wrong and showcase his skill and talent in defiance—he had loved it for the ability to pour out his thoughts, to be swept off his feet, to feel _better_ afterwards. Because no Fëanárion was _allowed_ to shed tears, or scream in rage, or openly laugh.

Music had given him all that. He had just forgotten how it felt.

It was nice to remember. His eyes fluttered shut, his nose filling with the smell of the rain and of sweet jasmine perfume as he turned his face to nuzzle into Vardamírë’s hair.

“You are, perhaps, wiser than I in such matters, Miss Mírë,” he murmured.

They lingered together, unmoving and partially twined, staring out into the rainswept gardens glowing green with health, the few flowers dappling it with snowy white—tiny, white lily-of-the-valley and white roses and little white, star-like jasmine. It was not really the embrace of lovers, but the sort of embrace that made Kanafinwë boneless and contented. Comforting rather than sensual. Welcoming of his sorrow rather than silently condemning.

None had ever given him such regard, unconditionally approving of anything and everything he felt, except perhaps his mother. A very long time ago, when he was terribly young and innocent, overflowing with joy and learning his way through scales and simple songs on his first harp. Before things had gone so terribly wrong.

Strange, for two women to remind him so much of his mother in so little time. One for her strength, the willful determination to see the good in others and remain optimistic in the face of adversity, that quality which once had burned in Nerdanel’s eyes until it had slowly been extinguished by his father’s cruel disregard. The other for her understanding, for allowing him to be who he wished to be—who he _was_ —without judgment or revulsion, a side of his mother that had diminished along with her strength of will and her hopes for the future.

Strange, he thought, that he was drawn to each in turn, sucked in and enchanted so easily. Or, perhaps, it was not so strange at all.

Much as he hated to admit it, he was his father’s son.

Remaining still beneath Vardamírë’s warmth and weight, Kanafinwë closed his eyes and listened to the rain and the sound of her breathing. It could have been minutes or hours, but he felt little need to move. Looking down at her some time later, face tucked in against his shoulder, he realized that her eyes were half-hooded and distant with dreams. She had fallen asleep nestled against his body heat. And he had not the heart to disturb her reverie, for he rather enjoyed being used as a pillow, rather relished the opportunity to wrap his arm around her just a little bit tighter and hug her close.

And then he felt her shiver.

Letting out a fond sigh, he moved to support her with one arm as he stood, peeling off his oilskin cloak and wrapping it around her to keep the water away. Her eyes only fluttered faintly as he pulled the hood up over her hair. “Makalaurë?”

“I am moving us indoors. We shall have to find somewhere else to hide out, I am afraid, for it grows rather cold outside and your clothes are damp.” Carefully, he lifted her into his arms, and she did not protest, instead pressing her cheek up against his collarbone. Without further ado, for waiting longer would not stay the inevitable deluge of cool water, he stepped back out into the downpour, ignoring the way it flooded his hair almost immediately, dripping cold and uncomfortable down the back of his neck, wetting his already-damp clothes.

The journey home was going to be unpleasant indeed. He could feel some water slinking its way into his boots. Little was more uncomfortable than wet socks.

Wrinkling his nose, he reminded himself that, this time at least, it was neither blood nor bodily fluids that was making his socks soggy and his boots squish uncomfortably with each step. More than one pair had had to be discarded after battle, too disgusting and too ruined to even bother with attempted cleaning. These, at least, were only contaminated with fresh, pure, clean rainwater.

Besides, a little bit of wet feet was well worth having Vardamírë nuzzle his neck as she was, her hair tickling his skin where it peeked out from her hood. It left him shivering, and not for any reason that had anything to do with the cold.

When they were inside, he gently set her down on her feet, seeing that she was passingly awake. Cuddled up into the depths of his cloak, many times too large laying across her shoulders, she looked tiny and entirely too kissable. Like a cute, small animal all wrapped up, warm and purring, within a cocoon of soft wool. The little yawn she gave as she rubbed at her sleepy eyes made him so terribly want to kiss her eyelids as well, and then the tip of her nose when it wrinkled up.

“I think perhaps it is time I departed since it looks like you could use a nap,” he said, unable to hide the silly way he was smiling down at her. “I will need my cloak back, however, or the rain might drown me on my way home.”

Cutely, she huddled further into its depths. “But I am warm,” she complained teasingly.

“Need I to beg?” he asked then, ignoring the urge to wrap his arms around her and pull her in against his chest, to squeeze her tightly and protectively and never let her go. “Do you not want your poor, waterlogged friend Makalaurë to make it safely back to his home in a single piece unharmed?”

“You would only be a little wet,” she countered, pouting slightly.

“Only a little!” He laughed and reached out to tug at the fabric. “Maybe Miss Mírë should get a cloak of her own rather than steal mine.”

She danced out of his reach, and he followed, heedless of the water he was trailing in his wake. His long, dark hair was fully damp again, becoming slightly wavy and tangling, sticking to his neck and leaving damp spots on the remaining dry patches of his clothing. For a few moments, he chased her in little circles, grinning like an idiot, letting her escape beneath the brush of his reaching fingertips because he could not bear to hear her bell-like laughter come to an end. Finally, playfully, he caught the end of the cloak and tugged her forward, wrapping an arm around her without thinking.

Suddenly, they were face to face, her looking up and him looking down.

Slowly, his wide grin melted away. He could see the shimmer of her skin, the streaks of rainwater in her silvery hair, the droplets upon her lashes and her nose and her lips. When his eyes fixed upon her mouth, parted and panting, a deep vintage rosy pink, he felt a jolt of heat flash down his spine and light up the pit of his stomach. This moment would have been the perfect moment to kiss her, to breathe in her scent, to relish in her moan as he slipped his tongue inside to explore her depths.

Clearing his throat, he stepped back. Because she had requested that they become friends first, and he did not want to do anything she did not want. Not even when he could see that her pupils dilated in clear interest. There was, he knew, a difference between intrinsic attraction and the desire for a romantic relationship.

“I, uh, have something for you,” he said, shifting from foot to foot nervously. “I know you said that you want to wait, so you may consider this a gift amongst friends if you would, but I am afraid that it goes against my upbringing to court a woman without formally declaring myself. I would feel rather as if I were disrespecting you to fail in the simplest of traditions, so I do hope you… that you might accept this.”

Nelyafinwë had given him free run of the jewelry that had once belonged to their mother. It had seemed only fitting that his first gift to Vardamírë would showcase both the wealth and talent of his family, but also that it had once adorned the breast of the woman of whom his singer so reminded him at every turn. It was not the usual colorful make that Fëanáro preferred, and it was clearly one of the man’s older pieces from his younger days, all slender chain and shimmering, flawless diamond that, even if the dim indoor lighting and beneath the overcast gray sky, seemed to shatter into a million rainbows. The gem resting at the center was huge, and it would have been worth quite a bit of gold.

He gave it to her without hesitation.

“Makalaurë,” she murmured, her face losing its levity, overcome with solemnity. She held it in the cup of her hand, looked upon it with stunned eyes, and then offered it back. “I cannot promise you courtship. You should not waste something so valuable on me.”

“I told you, think of it not as a courtship gift if you wish it not to be,” he insisted, wrapping her fingers over the jewel and pushing it back towards her chest. “Even without courtship, you are more than worthy of such a gift. It would not be a waste. Not at all. So, please, take it. If you desire, I would love to see you wear it.”

At least she did not try to give it back a second time. “Okay,” she whispered.

“Now, I need my cloak back,” he teased, slipping it off her shoulders and shucking it over his own. Loathe as he was to go, he sensed that she was tired and desired some space to think, and he did not want to smother her with his attentions. “I shall be back next week. Maybe sooner, if I have the time. Know that my heart longs to stay with you.”

“You should not say such things,” she murmured half-heartedly.

“Too late,” he answered with a boyish smile. “Until then, lovely Miss Mírë.”

When he kissed her cheek, he felt her breath catch, heard it shudder through her lungs. “Until then,” she echoed, “Makalaurë.”

He dared not linger, longed to reach out and grasp her hand, to press his lips to hers, to stroke his thumbs over her furrowed, dark eyebrows and smooth away her worries. But he sensed that such intimacy would not be welcome. Not yet.

She needed time. And he would not deny her that need.

With a deep bow, he left her. And left his heart behind with her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:
> 
> Eruhíni (Q, p) = children of Eru  
> Eldar (Q, p) = high-elves  
> Ainur (Q, p) = angelic beings  
> Fëanárioni (Q, p) = sons of Fëanáro
> 
> \---
> 
> Flower symbolism:
> 
> Lily of the Valley = returning happiness, choose the right path, innocence, purity of heart, humility, chastity, sweetness  
> White Rose = I will protect you, I tell the truth, protection, purity, honesty, truth  
> Jasmine = abundance, victory, hope, the moon, elegance, comfort, demure beauty


	49. Hold Me In Your Arms, Don't Let Go

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Asking for help when you need it is also a form of strength...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: PTSD, nightmares, insomnia, paranoia, crying, (semi-graphic) discussion of rape, depressed character, rape recovery
> 
> This is another one of those potentially triggering chapters in places. Please take care.
> 
> Maedhros = Maitimo = Nelyafinwë = Nelyo  
> Maglor = Makalaurë = Kanafinwë = Káno  
> Celegorm = Tyelkormo = Tyelko = Turkafinwë = Turko  
> Caranthir = Carnistir = Morifinwë = Moryo  
> Curufin = Atarinkë = Curufinwë = Curvo  
> Amrod = Ambarussa = Pityafinwë = Pityo = Minyarussa  
> Amras = Umbarto = Telufinwë = Telvo = Atyarussa  
> Finarfin = Arafinwë  
> Finrod = Findaráto  
> Irmo = Lórien

_Isilya, 57 Lairë (9 July)_

\---

It was as he crossed the city, huddled beneath his oilskin cloak and trying to ignore the feeling of unpleasant damp between his aching toes, that the messenger stopped him with hurried, frantic calls of “My Prince! My Prince!” that he dearly wished he could ignore.

Ever playing at a pleasant disposition and a kindly heart, he offered the man a small smile as he was approached, even though he dearly wished he could snarl his frustration with the cold, wet weather in the man’s face and ride off without giving him the time of day. “What can I do for you, meldo?”

Nervousness was in every line of the man’s body, but, as often was the case, Kanafinwë soothed it away with his gentle demeanor and a simple spell cast by his words. Compared to his brothers, his starry eyes were like the glimmer of light off the waves rather than a garish, burning white fire behind glass, and his smile did not carry the same predatory sharpness at the edges, the same toothy threat half-hidden behind slightly-parted lips. His voice brushed aside the last of the urge to flee in the stranger with its tranquil timbre to match his welcoming expression.

“I carry a missive for Princess Istelindë from his Majesty,” the messenger said. The letter was transferred swiftly to avoid dampening it in the rain.

“I can carry it the rest of the way.” Because, of course, messengers could run from one end of Valinórë to the other as long as they stayed on the main roads and traveled between the larger cities and towns. Try to get them to deliver letters to the middle of nowhere in the mountains, though, and they would balk at performing their duty.

Kanafinwë sighed and pushed away the cynicism and irritation. Instead, he wondered what might be in the letter. Uncle Arafinwë had been communicating directly with Istelindë for some time, mostly to do with her matchmaking endeavors. So far, she had not been particularly successful at trying to lure Telufinwë into seeing his girl again—Kanafinwë tried not to think about the dancer too much, but he would have to be stupid not to notice how dismal the youngest Fëanárion’s mood had been as of late, that he longed to see her again and denied himself out of a sense of guilt and self-sacrifice—but, perhaps, this was her next opportunity.

“Is there anything else I can help you with?” he asked quietly.

“No, my Prince!” The messenger bowed deeply—Kanafinwë was a bit surprised at the level of respect, for he knew his family was not well-received within the walls of this city—and slipped away into the din of raindrops in growing puddles between the uneven surface of the silver-sheened cobblestones. Distractedly, Kanafinwë watched him go.

And he wondered if, perhaps, something had changed. Even the tiniest bit. For the longest time, no Fëanárion graced these streets except for Nelyafinwë. Now that they had become a somewhat more common sight, at least amongst the normal folk who traversed the streets on their daily routes to their jobs or manned the carts and stands in the marketplace, Kanafinwë passing through the street in the rain barely turned a single head. They might glance at him and take note, but the ever-present whispers and staring had vanished, lost in the mist rising from the street as the rain hit the ground and shattered.

He wondered if his brothers, who were all taller and much more noticeably _strange_ in that same awful way their father had been, would have still turned heads. He wondered why the sudden lack of sideways glances and vicious, sibilant hisses behind cupped hands made him feel strange. Turning to look over his shoulder, he expected to see someone looking back with narrowed, suspicious eyes. But no one paid him any mind.

 _Maybe it is just the rain,_ he thought. _It does rather make it hard to see clearly through all the gloom._

Pushing it from his mind, he tapped his heels to his horse’s sides. And she carried him away towards the north with a soft nicker and toss of her head. They still had a long journey home, and Kanafinwë had other things to occupy his mind.

Like the idea of Vardamírë with her damp hair and her rosy cheeks and a diamond glowing like a star hanging around her neck, resting heavily between her breasts.

(And he most definitely did not imagine her wearing that necklace and nothing else.

Definitely not. At all.)

\---

Vardamírë knew she had to begin her afternoon classes in a little less than an hour. She knew that she should be reviewing her lesson plans and focusing on formulating new ideas for the up-and-coming Harvest Festival that was now only just three weeks away. Even if the recital was not going to be nearly as stressful as preparing all the children to sing in front of the royal family and the entirety of court, it still required significant planning and preparation, and she should not let it linger for too long.

Instead, she was sitting on her bed and staring at the jewel resting in her palm as though it might leap up and dance right out the window and off into the seemingly endless rainstorm. It looked as though it could have been forged of the purest water crystallized under starlight, not glowing but refracting and reflecting light with such glamorous ease that it would certainly not have been out of place upon the breast of a queen. It reminded her painfully of Makalaurë’s eyes. How, for a single moment in the dim lighting of the concert hall, he had looked her in the eye and winked with a glimmer of mischief in the depths of pale silvery irises.

Almost did she want to look away from the sight. Yet, at the same time, she felt inexorably drawn to glance upon it again.

It was a strange thing, indeed, to feel so rattled by an inanimate object. The piece was large and very heavy—after all, gemstones were rocks at the end of the day—and it was perfectly clear, of absolutely pristine make and cut without a single flaw that she could detect with her bare eyes. The diamond set in the silvery metallic cage was huge, the kind of stone she knew sold for more money than she had probably handled in her entire life. And Makalaurë, without hesitation, had just _given it away._ Like it was nothing.

Or, perhaps, it was that he had given it away _knowing that it was not nothing_ that had given her great pause.

Perhaps it was that he had told her, potentially without meaning to or even understanding what he said to leave her stricken into silence and floating in a misty haze of thought for hours to come, that, even if all they ever became was close friends, giving her an impossibly expensive courting give was _not a waste._

She was not certain whether she ought be flattered or horrified by that. If it was appropriate for her to feel her breath catch remembering his words.

_“Even without courtship, you are more than worthy of such a gift.”_

Feeling her heart rise up the back of her throat, she fiddled with it, ran her fingers over the face of the diamond again and again until its edges felt like a lover’s angular curves and planes. It was even cut in the shape of a droplet—she knew that was not what they called this sort of cut, but she could not get it out of her head, not with the sound of the rain still pounding upon her window—and was surrounded by an intricate array of many other diamonds of varying sizes spiraling off about it like abstract lace. Within its elaborate design, it held gems ranging from those the size of the nail of her smallest finger, bigger than anything set in even the most expensive jewels she cared to _contemplate_ buying on her own, down to faceted adamant so tiny that she wondered how anyone could have cut that even with a magnifying device to help salvage their eyes from squinting and their heads from aching. To even think about how steady one’s hands had to be…

It occurred to her then that Makalaurë most likely had not _purchased_ this piece of jewelry. Swallowing sharply, she turned it this way and that, looking for the little inscription artisans placed on their work to designate its original creator with pride. Looking to verify the frightening, shocking thought that had taken hold of her mind, that this very piece might be one of those created by the Spirit of Fire.

Instead of finding the seal of Fëanáro, which would have been enough to make a woman simultaneously blanch and blush, she found just a few tiny words. Even though they were etched into metal rather than written upon paper with a quill by a hand, they were so stylized that one could not help but realize that they were a copy of a person’s unique handwriting.

 _With love,_ they said, looping and elegant yet somehow not overstated, _C. F._

Her hands shook around the burden that felt suddenly many times heavier than its true weight. Not because it had been created by the most infamous of the infamous Kinslayers who had purportedly wrought all the terrible deeds of the First Age with his madness and his greed—she would have been an idiot not to realize that _C. F._ stood for _Curufinwë Fëanáro,_ which was the full given name of Makalaurë’s father—but because of who it must have been created _for._ It was very obviously a piece designed for a woman with all its curving, dancing lines, made in such a way that its creator could only have meant for it to be draped around a woman’s throat to lie low upon her breast where it would glow like a star over her heart. 

There were not many women this could have belonged to.

After all, this was a man whose mother had died when he was a babe in arms, whose seven children had all been male and almost all unmarried, who had hated his stepmother and all her children passionately and would never have wasted such a stunning piece upon any of the women of their lines. This was a man who, apparently, loved nothing and no one but for works of his own hands, who cared for nothing except the regard of his father and the reputation of his House in craft and in sovereignty.

Yet, here she held in her hands a love note from Fëanáro to his wife. An incredibly intricate, expensive, breathtaking love note that could probably have been sold for enough coin to buy several townhouses in the more affluent parts of Tirion. And, simultaneously, one so intimate that she almost blushed to look upon the script a second time.

_Makalaurë gave me a necklace that belonged to his mother. A necklace his father had given to his mother._

She was not certain whether that was a good omen or a doom.

 _Was I not the one speaking of honoring that which came before, the lost and forsaken beauty of terrible things, of appreciating what had once been and never forgetting out of respect and admiration rather than wallowing in the destruction that later had come?_ This, she asked herself as she debated whether or not she might actually drape the jewel around her throat and wear it where others might see. _Should I not wear it to honor what his parents must once have had between them, rather than letting it be spoiled by later deeds of ruin and darkness?_

_Should I even wear it at all? I have not accepted Makalaurë’s suit officially._

Yet, he _had_ said she could consider it but a mere gift between friends. Only that he had to give it to her because he had stated his intentions, and he was raised in court where one did not make advances upon a lady without having properly asked for her permission and gifted her with something of great value as was traditionally appropriate.

Somehow, she had not expected “great value” to translate into _this._ But there was no denying that it _was_ a piece of great value, and not just because the diamond set at its center could have allowed her to live comfortably without work for centuries to come. Rather, it had _familial_ value, unspoken but undeniable. Who knew what it might have meant to Makalaurë, what he had not said about it aloud, what was spoken only in the novels written between the distant stars of sorrow and nostalgia that lingered glimmering in his eyes as he gazed upon its coruscating shine? The last thing he had done before curling her fingers over its glow and pushing it back against her chest was give it a faintly sad but fond glance.

 _It would be almost disrespectful_ not _to wear it,_ she thought to herself, _when it obviously meant so much to him. To his mother._

It still felt so strange to hold it aloft. The chain was long enough that she needed not to undo a clasp to fit it over the crown of her head. Carefully, she ducked into the loop made from silver and adamant, letting it fall to rest upon her chest, pale and glowing against the deep blue of her gown. The chain almost instantly warmed against her skin as she pulled her hair out from where it was tucked beneath the metal.

Almost of their own accord, her fingers reached up to touch the jewel.

 _This is a love letter,_ she thought to herself.

Vardamírë was a woman who used her voice to communicate. Her thoughts, her emotions, the very essence of her being, they were deeply and fundamentally interlaced with the words that drifted from her vocal chords, powered by the air compressed from her lungs, vibrating out into the world in a splash of colorful abstract art that living beings interpreted as sound. Whenever she felt something, it always seemed that she longed to sing that emotion from the rooftop, to let everyone in the small city of a School below know what it was she felt.

Perhaps it was an instinct cultivated from spending nearly all her life amongst those who devoted their lives to the sacred pursuit of telling a story through sound. Who would bring feelings into being with little more than their voice, or the strum of their fingers, or their breath whispering over wood, or their hands directing a bow over wire. So very much could be evoked through that pure form of expression.

After all, the whole world had been born from the Music.

But, at times like this, she was reminded that there was no sound without silence. That so much could be said without ever saying anything at all.

And she did not feel like singing this feeling from the rooftops. Instead, she closed her eyes and leaned back into her pillows, and she felt all the things Makalaurë had said to her without speaking to her in the overwhelming silence broken only by the distant whispering of the rain. It was strange to realize that someone so revered and so abhorred and so demonized could be so vulnerable.

It was strange to realize that he trusted her enough to speak to her in that forthright, genuine tone of voice. That he trusted her enough to give her something that obviously meant a great deal to him emotionally. That he trusted her enough to say something so intimate, that she would not run about speaking it to every person she saw.

It was strange, and it made her want to cry. Just a little bit.

Clutching the diamond against her heart, she wondered if she might find a way to make him smile and laugh. If she might find a way to make him happy.

 _I should,_ she thought.

 _He would be so beautiful,_ she thought.

Her hand clutched tighter. And, maybe in the back of her fanciful mind, she wondered if ever Makalaurë’s mother had held the jewel just like this, crushed over her pounding heart as though in silent prayer. If they were star-crossed through time, her and Nerdanel, and if the older woman could hear her if she spoke, as though her words were transported through the annals of time and space.

 _I will find a way to make him happy,_ she promised.

Be it as a friend or as a lover, she knew not. But he had told her it mattered not, that she was worthy of his regard either way, and he had laid bare himself before her eyes.

She wanted him to know that he was worthy, too.

\---

Sometimes, his wife amazed him.

Well, really, _often_ she amazed him.

After all this time, one would have thought he was beyond being amazed by anything his spouse could conjure. But, for all that Findaráto had known Amarië for so very long a time, for all that she had been the rock upon which his faith and his will to survive had been built in the long days of Exile and the even longer days of suffering and death and recovery from his trials, she still found new ways to surprise him every single day. Be it something so small as her sudden poetic phrases dedicated to the many shades of blue in his eyes or something so powerful as the supportive love of her arms holding him from behind as he tried to hide the way he wept like a child after a nightmare, he still felt that same hint of wonder bloom in his chest. And he still fell in love with her all over again. Again, and again, every day.

Today was not a day for something small. Today was a day for something big, for something powerful.

Hesitant though his father had been to allow a woman into their investigation—hesitant though Findaráto had been, also, to bring such ill news to his wife’s attention, for it was never his desire to upset her or lend her his own heartache—Findaráto had been determined to speak the truth to Amarië and to bring her into the fold, had believed wholeheartedly that not only did he desperately need her to stand at his back and be by his side, but, also, all the women who had been hurt and betrayed needed her love and support in the face of such evil. He was not sure how much more he could take on his own of watching women suffer while he stood by like a useless lump wringing his hands and biting his cheek and wondering why all the negotiating experience and princely training in the world could not help him with this _one simple task._ It was only his hesitation, his worry over hurting his spouse by telling her these awful tidings, that was holding him back now. And he knew he could not afford to wait any longer.

So, in the early hours of the morning, after suffering from another nightmare that featured far too many red eyes and fangs and far too many girls crying and screaming as they were ripped to shreds before his very eyes, Findaráto had confessed to what all the secretive inquiries and visits had been about.

By the end of it, Amarië had almost been bawling, and he felt as though his heart were breaking for how much he hated himself for doing this to her. For how much pain she was in, hearing about the awful deeds slinking in the shadows of the underbelly of courtly politics.

Cuddled together, they had cried. And, even when she had stilled into restless sleep with wet trails still donning her softly rounded cheekbones, he had lain awake until almost dawn, until his head felt stuffed with cotton and could not be held aloft for his fatigue. Until, finally, Lord Irmo dragged him under the frantically churning waves of slumber and into his own personal hell.

Hours later, he had woken to find the bed empty. Outside, rain was pounding against the window in sheets, a heavy downpour that he was certain would last the entire day, hovering over all of them like a suffocating cloud of dark mood. It certainly did nothing to improve his own.

Feeling sick, he looked over at the empty patch of bed and wondered if he had spoken too much. If she had not been too fragile for such harsh and cruel realities after all. Had she arisen from bed to be apart from him, to have some time and space to herself to mourn? Or was she so upset that she could not stand to look at him for the ill news he had carried unto her doorstep?

Looking up at the ceiling, cast in the dim lighting of the overcast sky, he felt too exhausted and heavy in his limbs to move. This, he knew, was the feeling of despair and of guilt and of desperate sorrow.

And then she knocked on the door and he rolled over to see her in the doorway.

“Well,” she said matter-of-factly even as he blinked blearily to clear away the last vestiges of sleep from his weary eyes. “Are you going to get up? I thought we had work to do today, Findaráto! I have already prepared food for the breaking of fast, and then you said you were meeting with Lady Carnimírië two hours before midday, which is already less than two hours away!”

“Amarië?” he asked weakly, sitting up and wondering at how surreal he felt at the juxtaposition of the dark reality superimposed upon the blinding brightness of her lovely face. He blinked his eyes just to be sure he was not imagining his vision of a wife dressed and standing tall, hair pulled back, face set in a stern expression of determination rather than heartbreak or grief.

“You said you wanted me to come with,” she said then. “If you stay abed any longer, you are going to either miss breakfast or be late!”

“I…” He struggled for words. “I did not think you would be… Last night you seemed so upset, I was worried that I had overstepped…”

There was a moment of silence between them.

“You do not have to come if you do not wish,” he whispered, not wanting at all to force his problems upon her shoulders. “It is not my desire to upset you more than I had last night, Amarië. I know that such things are the last news anyone wants to hear, let alone spend day-in and day-out investigating, and I can—”

Her face softened just a bit as she came to the bed while he babbled, and she sat down beside him upon their shared mattress, pressing a finger to his lips to silence his words. “You are going to have to try much harder than that to scare me off Findaráto. I am your wife, and I want to support you. Even if it will be difficult. Am I not here to be at your back when you need me? Would you not be at mine were our places reversed?”

“I would be anywhere and do anything you needed me to do,” he immediately said, reaching out to grasp her hand with his own.

“Then you know how I feel,” she said in return. “It will not be easy to be there, to see and hear such awful things and know that—if they are the truth—they have been happening without any of us realizing. But you need me to be strong, and so do those poor girls. I am not such a dainty flower that I would quail to hear something so terrible. Most especially not if my loving husband needed me by his side.”

Findaráto breathed out heavily, and the burden upon his heart was lightened. Lifting her hand, he kissed her knuckles, once and then twice for good measure. “Ammelda, there are days that I wonder what I ever did to deserve you. And what I would ever do without you.”

“Well, you shall not have to find out.” She leaned in and kissed him on each of his cheeks and then upon his brow as well, and it took all his strength to resist pulling her back down into bed and kissing her lips. “Now, come along and get dressed. We ought not go into battle with empty stomachs, vennonya. It would help with your color, as well. I know that you slept not well. Not that anyone would with such a heavy burden upon their mind.”

He said nothing about how he had not just slept poorly but had barely slept at all. And all of that had been haunted by nightmares. He was quite certain that, just from examining the pallor of his face, she already knew.

Instead, he said, “Breakfast sounds lovely, vessenya.”

Giving him a smile, she stood and swept out the door in all her golden, sunny glory like a brilliant flowering blossom. Arising, he went to pull on his clothing, bathing in the smell of eggs and sausage wafting in through the open bedroom door, strong enough to overwhelm the faint zing of ozone that had seeped through the windows.

Somehow, just that tiny exchange made him feel so much better, so much lighter and so much more like it was truly possible to wade through the refuse of this terrible situation and come out sane on the other side. Less like he was going to spill his stomach bile all over the floor and the rug, less like his skull was going to crack open from the aching pain of sleep deprivation, and less like he was arising only to march off to yet another battle for which he was prepared not and would come away from bruised and battered and feeling as hopeless or more so than when he had begun. And all of that just from knowing that she would be coming with him, that she would support him through even this trial. He should indeed have had more faith in her, for she had proven herself to be an equal match to him in all things, if not more resilient than he could ever hope to be. 

When he ventured out into the open, dressed but with his hair loose, he found her setting the table and he went to her, giving her all the kisses that she deserved.

And, once more, he was amazed by the sight of her, burning bright against the dim gray morning peering in through their small kitchen window. The gloom outside had not a hope of extinguishing her inner beauty, her lovely and soft glow.

Carefully but swiftly with practiced ease, he wove a little braid in her hair and tucked it back behind her ear. “My thanks, Amarië. Vanya vessenya, I love you so.”

“I love you, too, méla vennonya.”

He closed his eyes and held her close, breathing in her soft vanilla scent. Forget the blasted rain. This morning, she was brighter than blazing Anar.

And he let her burn through him and light a fire in his soul.

\---

It was shocking how much of a difference the presence of sympathetic female could make. Findaráto had suspected it, but to see it in truth was jarring.

_I have been wasting my time trying to do this alone._

Within minutes of sitting down with Lady Carnimírië, of asking his first probing questions about how well she knew his three victims (potential abusers), the young girl was crying into her hands and Amarië was shooing him out the door to allow for some private talk between the ladies only.

Patiently, he stood just outside the door, listening to the hushed whispering therein but unable to make out the words. Just the two cadences—the jagged and upset tones of the young girl in hysterics and the soothing, crooning murmur of Amarië’s voice acting as counterpoint—of two separate women twining together in a quiet dance. After a few long minutes being subjected to the hiccupping sounds of a girl’s sobs slowly fading away into soft comforting, he was called back in by his wife.

She had moved to sit beside the girl on the sofa, and her arms were around the girl, who was leaning her dark-haired head against Amarië’s shoulder. The pair did not break apart when he reentered the room, for young Carnimírië seemed comfortable in the cradle of his wife’s hug, eyes fluttering and breath quiet and even but for the occasional sniffling.

“Melda,” his wife said, brushing back the girl’s dark hair, tucking strands behind the girl’s ear and then lifting up her tucked chin such that their eyes met. “I know it is difficult, but Findaráto needs to hear your words, too. I will be right here with you the whole time, and we can take a break if you need to stop at any point.”

Findaráto swallowed sharply. Though Amarië seemed to have the situation well under control, he did not think the news he was about to receive was in any way good. Or there would not have been so many tears.

Young Carnimírië let out a sniffle. “Okay,” she whispered.

Her eyes were red-rimmed when they met Findaráto’s, a dark, dark brown with just a hint of burgundy. No doubt, the gems that had birthed her lovely amilessë. The girl as bolstering herself to speak, struggling to find the correct words to begin, and Findaráto did nothing to push or force her, for it certainly was hard enough without the pressuring of the audience.

“I met him last year,” she told him quietly, sounding almost mousy for her hesitance, “When I was a debutante. I was being stupid and excitable, and I went along with the first man who told me I was beautiful because I had never had anyone tell me such things before. It seemed like great fun at the time, drinking and dancing with as many handsome men as paid me mind, but he was by far the most interested. When I left the dancefloor, he came with. And, when I stumbled out in search of the powder room, he followed me. At first, I had not even realized he was there until he was pulling me into another room and locking the door.”

Findaráto’s stomach flip-flopped unpleasantly. Still, he dared not say anything, dared not look away, for this girl deserved every ounce of his respect and attention for daring to speak out about her assault. Instead, he let himself be soothed by the way Amarië’s manicured hand rubbed up and down the poor girl’s back in lenitive waves, by the way his wife rocked the pair slowly back and forth like a mother with her daughter. It was that alone which kept him from either being sick or leaping to his feet in rage and pacing in his fury.

“He had me in an empty room alone,” she then said, voice breaking slightly beneath the words, and tears pooling and spilling over onto her cheeks again. It was hard to hear her sob. “I barely remember any of it because I was so drunk, except that he pushed me against the wall and would not let me move as he pulled up my gown and spread my legs.”

Amarië pulled the girl close, embracing her. “It is alright, melda.”

“I was such an idiot! I just let him do it because I could barely walk straight!” the girl wept. “Afterwards, he told me not to say anything, and I knew I could not! What if someone heard? No one would marry me then! No one would ever so much as glance my way twice! I would be _used goods._ Ruined!”

“It is certainly not your fault, darling one. You did nothing to deserve this, nor anything to ask for or request such treatment. Hush, it is alright, melda, hush…” Amarië cast Findaráto a look over the girl’s head even as she soothed the hysterics back into the barest vestiges of calm, just a thin layer of tranquil ice on the surface of churning waters of worry and humiliation and terror. “We will not say anything to anyone at court, melda. No one of our family would ever share your secrets with unguarded tongues.”

“She speaks the truth,” Findaráto assured the girl, though she refused to meet his gaze. “We will not share your name with anyone, but it is important to know that a crime has taken place. Important that we know what happened and who else knows.”

“I did not tell anyone,” the girl insisted. “Not a soul!”

 _If that is true, none of her family members would have acted out. They would not be suspects in the attacks._ Findaráto wondered, though, whether she had really been as discrete as she imagined that none of her relatives—her parents or her siblings or any other member of her family—knew what had happened or guessed. And then, beyond her family, if there were close friends who knew her well, who might have suspected something strange had happened.

“No friends who might have guessed?” he asked then.

“Only who might suspect,” she admitted, “Though I told no one. I was quite a wreck afterwards, and I went home immediately to bathe. To…” She hesitated, shrinking in upon herself. “I tried to wash him out of me. I never became pregnant—I had never been so relieved to know that it was the wrong time for me to conceive—but it still feels like he is there.”

At that, Findaráto shuddered, feeling like ice was crystallizing in his bones. Every second of every day, he felt Amarië with him, entwined against his fëa, like they had joined, and she left part of herself behind resting within his spirit. To have a feeling like that, but slimy and unwanted from an act of domination and torment, he could not imagine how something like that might feel. But he knew well enough that, in the Hither Lands, it had more than once resulted in men and women alike losing the will to live and escaping their bodies.

How would he have gotten through an interview like this without Amarië there? How could he have sat across from this poor girl while she wept and cringed in horror at what had been done to her, unable to lend her any comfort or reassurance? He could never have sat beside her, rubbed her back and told her that it was not, in fact, her fault, because she would never have believed a word that he said if she would have let him within ten paces of her at all.

And, hearing this… it made him wonder if the girl would ever recover fully. If _any_ of these women would ever recover fully. Which made it all the more pressing for him to figure out exactly what was going on and who was involved.

“If you are absolutely certain that there is no one else who would know,” he mumbled, watching as she nodded with her face tucked into Amarië’s shoulder, “Then I would ask if there is anything else you know. Anyone else who might also have been hurt in the same way that you were? Anything else you can share that might help us?”

“There have been other girls,” she whispered. “I know some of them. The sort who hear the warning too late, or who hear the warning and refuse to take heed.”

“Are you willing to share?” he asked gently.

“If you think it will help,” she answered.

“It would indeed help us a great deal,” he told her, meeting his wife’s eyes again. “We would appreciate it greatly, my lady, but if it would distress you too much, we do not need to discuss it right this very second.”

She sniffled again, shaking her head. “No, no… We… We should do it now.”

Amarië pressed a kiss to the girl’s cheek. “You are very brave, melda.”

“I do not feel brave,” the girl admitted, curling into his wife’s side and looking much younger than she must have been. “I feel like I have been a coward, like other women have been hurt because I dared not step forward. But I…”

“Think not like that,” Amarië soothed. “You did the best that you could to protect yourself, and there is no shame in that.”

The girl did not look as though she wholly believed those words, but she did not protest further, instead giving a diffident nod. “I hope he will never be allowed anywhere near another woman again,” she whispered. “Will you be able to do that, my Prince and Princess? Will he never touch another woman in such a way again?”

“If I have anything to say about it,” Findaráto answered, meaning every word. “We may be in search of his attacker, but we will not let this slide. The King would never stand for such ill happenings in his kingdom without exacting retribution.”

She swallowed and looked away. “Good,” she said.

And then she gave him names. More names of more women. More names that made his heart feel heavier and heavier, because how could _so many_ women have been hurt without anyone noticing it happening? How could all of them—him, his father, his brothers, his cousins—how could they all have been so blind?

 _We were simply not expecting to see such horrors here, in the holy lands of Valinórë,_ he told himself, wishing that that made him feel any better. _These are the sort of crimes only orcs perpetrate, or ruffian men, or other foul servants of the Dark Lord. The Fëanárioni would have lynched a man amongst their company who did something like this, for all that they could stomach murder without so much as blinking._

When it was all said and done, there was quiet between them. Amarië sat with her younger charge, murmuring soft words of comfort into dark hair. “You can come to me anytime,” his wife said to the girl, “You or anyone else who needs someone to talk to or someone to listen. My door is always open to you, osellë.”

“Thank you,” Carnimírië said into the golden forest of Amarië’s curls. “Thank you so much, my Princess.”

“Amarië,” his wife corrected gently.

“Amarië,” the girl repeated, snuggling nearer, disappearing within the safety of the cocoon of Amarië’s embrace entirely. It left a helplessly affectionate feeling blooming in Findaráto’s chest for this utterly amazing woman, and it took a nearly herculean struggle to keep the resulting gentle smile off his face.

It was almost a half-hour later that they left the girl, who was no longer weeping and seemed to be, while certainly not recovered, at least feeling better after revealing the details of her ordeal. On the doorstep, Amarië curled up into his arms and nuzzled their cheeks together, seeking his affection as he sought hers in return. The pair ignored the pelt of the rain tickling at their faces.

“This will be difficult,” he said, as if she did not already know.

“Difficult it might be,” she responded, “But I am glad to have taken part, to have done something to help. When it is all done, will not our home be safer?”

“Of course, it will be,” he agreed.

But, inside, he wondered if he would ever feel safe again. Because, if it had happened once, it could happen again. And who knew how many other men, unbeknownst to most of the gentle and temperate folk of Valinórë, might be dabbling in such black doings while skulking through the shadows?

It was impossible to erase from one’s mind the truth once it was known, no matter how much they wished to forget. Ignorance, as they said, was bliss.

But someone had to do this. And Findaráto had been called to be the one.

“Thank you again for being here,” he whispered against his wife’s ear. “I am glad to have asked for your help. You were breathtaking, ammelda. Somehow, you always do seem to know exactly what to say and do to soothe the heart.”

“Oh, do I?” She gave him a cheeky little smile, but it quickly faded into something soft and gentle as she reached up to brush at the raindrops upon his cheeks, to tuck back his damp golden hair behind his ear. “We will get through this. _You_ will get through this, as you have through all the hardships that have come before. And then, when it is all done, we will sit outside in the garden on a sunny day, and the sunlight will chase all the shadows away.”

“See, you have done it again,” he whispered, even as her words fluttered across the jagged edges of his dark thoughts, smoothing them down such that they no longer cut and tore at his mind like broken glass. “You always know just what to say.”

“Flatterer,” she accused, leaning up to kiss his mouth, ignoring the way the water ran between their lips in glistening streams and the way it seeped into their hair and clothes as they stood outside unmoving. “Do we have another task for today, méla vennonya, or are we homeward bound?”

“We have some time yet before any further meetings,” he murmured, leaning down to enjoy her lips again. “Time enough to spend a few hours at home.”

“And what would you have us do there?” she asked softly, her eyes meeting his own.

They were beautiful eyes. Most would have said he was being ridiculous, because so many of the Vanyar shared the same shade of deep, ocean blue or heady sapphire like the night sky. Findaráto himself had eyes of a lighter made, like the sunny midday sky, but he loved hers far more, felt like he could have fallen into their depths and happily sunk to the bottom where her soul was waiting, glowing somewhere behind her pupils as they widened.

“I would have you hold me,” he murmured against her lips.

Other things they could have done, but he was tired and damp and had just heard a girl talk about being raped. No desire did he really have for sexual intimacy in that moment, but only the intimacy of her comfort as she braided his hair, as she stroked over his brow, as she whispered his name like a prayer.

“I would have us lie down together, and I would have you hold me close as I rest. In no one’s arms would I feel safer.”

Her cheeks filled out with color, but her look was one of tenderness rather than embarrassment. “I think that sounds beautiful, Findaráto.”

Their fingers entwined. She pulled him away from the doorstep. “Let us go home.”

Squeezing her hand tight, he let her take him away.

\---

When Makalaurë arrived home, he was caked with dirt up to his knees, damp even through his oilskin cloak with his long hair in a tangled, windswept mess, and he was smiling as he whispered out a quiet song into the sheets of rain. It was his voice that had drawn Istelindë forth from the house, squinting through the mist to see him walking on by with his mare, carelessly stepping through ankle-deep puddles of mud.

 _So long as he takes his boots off when he comes inside,_ she thought fondly.

Last night, he had gone to Maitimo asking after their mother’s jewelry box. It had been sitting up above the hearth since they had brought it back from Formenos. The second brother’s approach had been almost hesitant.

_Gathered about the hearth, it was quiet. Istelindë had a quilt splayed out across her lap, and her hand worked in swift, diligent strokes, perfectly even from centuries of practice. At her side, her husband sat, not too bothered by the fact that half the blanket was spread out across his lap as he leaned near to her, an arm slipping around her. Her eyes fluttered with a quiet sort of bliss as she registered the warmth of his breath near her temple, as she felt him nuzzle against the side of her head and breath her in._

_With so many of the boys out of the house, the main room was much less crowded than usual. Carnistir was in the city, and no one could quite be certain where either Tyelkormo or Curufinwë were. The twins, as they usually did, preferred to linger upon the thick new rug near to the hearth, quietly harmonious._

_Makalaurë took up the much-sought-after armchair in the absence of competitive younger siblings. For a while now, he had been plucking listlessly at a small harp, filling the lull of conversation with whispering little melodies, all tangled and mixed together with that one that Istelindë knew was about a pretty girl with silvery hair and dark eyes. After hearing it so often, she could have sung it by heart, and would have named it Jewel That Is Made From Starlight._

_Those deep eyes, lustrous gray with just a hint of twilight, lingered upon the box that now adorned their mantle. The firelight did not reach above the hearth so well but, even so, it shimmered and gleamed with even the smallest amount of flickering red and gold shuddering across its embossed surface._

_Earlier that day, she had caught sight of Makalaurë looking inside. Guiltily, the second brother had let the lid fall closed, as if he should not have been peering within to glimpse its treasures. As if they were something private._

_Now, his fingers slowly fell into stillness, and it almost ached for its fullness. “Why did you bring Amillë’s box back?”_

_Maitimo stiffened slightly at her side. Istelindë reached down to grasp his forearm, just above where his hand had been sliced off. That touch which would once have made him so terribly uncomfortable, for it would have allowed her in too close and given her access to a part of his body that he despised, now left him languid instead. Many nights she had spent kissing every part of him, telling him that every inch was beautiful and worthy of her love, and this part was no exception._

_Carefully did her husband consider his brother, silver eyes blazing bright where Makalaurë’s had always been deep and soulful and dark. Not so dark now, though, as once they had been, Istelindë could not help but think, as she watched them stare at one another in silent stillness from across the room._

_“It seemed a shame to leave it behind,” Maitimo finally said, voice rasping and gruff. Mayhap his brothers could not hear it, but she detected the smallest waver in pitch. A sure sign that he was thinking not of the box but of its owner. She squeezed her hand tighter._

_Makalaurë looked back at the box again, and Istelindë could see the way the flickering light bounced off its resplendent surface and reflected through those dark eyes. Ever were they filled with sorrow when the second brother thought he could be open and naked in his grief, but even this sorrow held some amount of affectionate remembrance. “I suppose you are right.”_

_“I allowed Morifinwë to take something of hers to gift his Vanyarin girl,” Maitimo added. “I thought Amillë would be pleased to see her treasures bring joy again.”_

_If Makalaurë agreed with this, he did not say. His fingers strummed lightly across his harp, plucking and plucking in a shockingly unfamiliar tune. Something that Istelindë did not think she had heard before._

_But Maitimo seemed to know it. “You should take something for your girl as well. The singer. We all know you are going to visit her tomorrow.”_

_“She is not_ my _girl,” the second brother countered with a huff, and his next pluck was harsher than it should have been, perhaps the only expression of frustration that showed in his otherwise placid features. “Vardamírë has not agreed to a courtship.”_

_Istelindë had already heard such news, but it had indeed been just a little disappointing. Still, it was not an outright rejection. There was still a substantial possibility that something might blossom from a friendship rather than an immediate and swift whirlwind romance. Istelindë could not help but think of herself and Maitimo, who had spent many nights abed with one another exchanging secrets and laughter and quiet mourning before they had ever dared to broach the subject of becoming lovers. Sometimes, she thought, it was just a matter of intimacy and of safety and of trust._

_More than anyone she had ever met, she thought Makalaurë needed those things. From someone who could love him wholly and completely. If things had been different…_

_But, alas, she loved her husband dearly and was content. Now, if only she could see all her little brothers just as happy and fulfilled, that would have brought her the greatest joy, would have made her feel as though she were not surrounded by men who were slowly crumbling to pieces without support._

_She would not have to worry so much. Nor watch her husband worry either, hidden away from prying eyes where no one but she could see how much he cared._

_“Take something anyway,” Maitimo said then, voice insistent. “Consider it an order. It is only proper that you declare your intent and wait for her response. And a Prince of the House of Fëanáro does not skimp on such things as courting treasures.”_

_They were all excuses. So much with her boys revolved around excuses to hide their feelings. To hide how much Maitimo wanted to see his brother happy, how much he wanted Makalaurë to have a piece of their mother, how much he desired the second brother to succeed in his courting endeavors. To hide how much Makalaurë obviously desired all those things in return, to have a piece of his long-gone mother, to feel her close, and to share it with the woman he was so obviously infatuated with._

_Part of her was disheartened. Even after all this time, even without the two main “problem brothers” here, they could not bear to speak frankly to one another, so ingrained was the need for subterfuge, for the pretense of feeling nothing sentimental at all._

_The rest of her knew that she needed to have patience. It would come in time._

_Thankfully, the eldest brother’s “order” seemed to coax Makalaurë into venturing back into the jewelry box. It took so little time for him to find what he sought that Istelindë was well and truly certain he had been looking for that singular piece all along. That he probably remembered his mother wearing it and so it reminded him of her. That he probably imagined Vardamírë wearing it just the same._

_Barely did she see what he held in the cup of his palm. But, she knew, she would see it later upon the breast of his girl. No need to pry._

_Retreating back to his chair, Makalaurë continued on with his harping. And she did not wonder at why, suddenly, those two melodies—the Jewel That Is Made From Stardust and the Orchid That Blooms In The Night—were inextricably entwined. In fact, it made perfect sense. Beneath her fingers, she moved away from the edge of the quilt, her hand stitching of its own accord to add lovely, flowing lines and large, graceful petals. She would not finish the spontaneous pattern tonight, but she hoped that Makalaurë would play the same melodies again tomorrow night and the night after as well. For guidance._

_Closing her eyes, feeling her mate near, she let her hands work. And, for that moment, the world seemed to hold still as time stretched on forever._

The sounds of the door opening drew her from her memories. It was, of course, Makalaurë. He was bootless, and she guessed that they had been so mud-stained that he abandoned them out on the porch in the rain. Now, though, he stood upon the rug looking rather helpless as he dripped all over, leaving stains and little puddles of rainwater.

It was almost adorable, most especially given the sheepish look on his face. “Brother Makalaurë, let me get you a towel,” she offered, drawing his gaze.

“A towel would be most helpful, sister Istelindë,” he said with a wry twist to his lips.

Moments later, she had the thick fabric unfolded and wrapped around his shoulders, watching as he meticulously used the corner to squeeze water from his long, dark hair. “How was your first class?” she asked, wishing to broach the subject of Vardamírë rather desperately but holding back, starting small.

“Educational,” he said with a bit of snark, and it took her a long moment of staring at his pleasant smile—not even the half-hearted bitter sort that made her heart ache, but an actual _smile_ that reached his eyes in the form of a playful glint—to realize he was jesting.

“You!” she huffed, giving his arm a little smack. “But really!”

“Enjoyable,” he answered, serious this time, though his lips were still quirked upwards. “I might even call it _fun.”_

“I am glad,” she said. Because, truly, she was glad, almost to the point of beaming. As much as she wanted him to have a loving mate, as much as she hoped his courtship progressed well, Istelindë also wanted _this._ Wanted him to feel fulfilled rather than lost. Like he had a place in this world rather than that he should be lingering somewhere outside its edges. Like he was allowed to be happy, like sunshine breaking through the clouds after a long, stormy night.

“And how was Lady Vardamírë?” she asked then.

Their eyes met. “In good health. We spent some time together. She accepted my gift as one from a friend rather than a suitor. And, if that is all she ever wishes to be, I could live with that. If that is what makes her happy.”

Suddenly, Istelindë had the strange feeling he was not speaking about Vardamírë anymore. Her heart skipped a beat.

“I am glad for you either way,” she said quietly, leaning up to kiss his cheek, feeling the rainwater upon his skin transfer to her lips. “I wish you luck, brother Makalaurë.”

He returned the gesture. And, for the first time since well before the Festival, Istelindë felt as though the air between them had cleared. It was no secret that there had been lingering tension between them where once there had been easy camaraderie. No more lessons in herbalism. No more singing in the gardens in the evening. Like a gulf had split open between them out of shame and out of unrequited longing.

Until it was gone, she had not realized how much it ached.

“Ah!” he said, breaking the moment by reaching into his cloak. “I brought this back for you. The messenger caught me on my way out of the city.”

It was a letter. Istelindë broke into another wide smile as she saw her name upon the heavy parchment in a familiar hand. Her last attempt to lure Telufinwë into interacting with his precious dancer had been a failure. But, perhaps, this was another chance. With Pityafinwë’s help, perhaps she could convince the youngest Fëanárion to come out of hiding once more. To, if not pursue Amaurëa as a lover and potential spouse, at least pursue her as a friend. He desperately needed the support of someone so accepting and loving, someone who saw him neither as a child nor as a broken construct of the person he used to be.

“Thank you, brother Makalaurë,” she said, immediately breaking the wax seal on the letter and pulling it out. Her eyes swept across the page, taking it in.

“Oh,” she said with surprised unease, breathing in the message. Her hand trembled as it bore the sudden weight of the contents therein for all that they were written upon a page as light as a feather.

It had nothing to do with Amaurëa and Telufinwë at all.

And, reading it again, she felt a sudden anxiety churn to life in her gut.

“Oh,” she said a second time. “We have a problem.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:
> 
> meldo (Q) = friend  
> ammelda (Q) = dearest (one)  
> vennonya (Q) = my husband  
> vessenya (Q) = my wife  
> vanya (Q) = beautiful  
> méla (Q) = loving/affectionate  
> Anar (Q) = the Sun  
> melda (Q) = dear (one)  
> Fëanárioni (Q, p) = sons of Fëanáro  
> osellë (Q) = sworn-sister  
> Amillë (Q) = Mother


	50. Let the Hunt (Read: Suffering) Begin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some brotherly/cousinly bonding in the woods. Maybe. Sort of.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: sarcastic inner monologue, Curufinwë being himself and swearing a lot, PTSD, paranoia, insomnia, nightmares, alcoholism, severe withdrawal, vomiting/sickness, allusions to sex, half-hearted fantasies of violence, banishment as punishment, mention of premarital sex/pregnancy
> 
> Ecthelion's backstory (my headcanon of it, at least) comes to light here. It was mostly taken from Silm Prompts (if you're wondering where Fëanor comes into it, that's where it came from), as are many of my headcanons.
> 
> Maedhros = Maitimo = Nelyafinwë = Nelyo  
> Maglor = Makalaurë = Kanafinwë = Káno  
> Celegorm = Tyelkormo = Tyelko = Turkafinwë = Turko  
> Caranthir = Carnistir = Morifinwë = Moryo  
> Curufin = Atarinkë = Curufinwë = Curvo  
> Amrod = Ambarussa = Pityafinwë = Pityo = Minyarussa  
> Amras = Umbarto = Telufinwë = Telvo = Atyarussa  
> Fingon = Findekáno  
> Turgon = Turukáno  
> Aredhel = Írissë  
> Argon = Arakáno  
> Glorfindel = Laurefindil  
> Ecthelion = Ehtelion  
> Egalmoth = Aikambalotsë  
> Celebrimbor = Telperinquar

_Menelya, 47 Lairë (29 June)_

\---

The first day of their hunt would have been more productive if Findekáno had not spent a good part of it vomiting into the bushes.

Just thinking about how much time they were wasting—and how fast Turkafinwë could travel while leaving a near-silent trail—made him wonder if he was ever going to leave the forest again or if he was doomed to roam with his cousins through the wilderness for months on end. They were already so far behind it was almost not worth bothering with any of this ridiculous tracking nonsense at all.

The trail left behind by Írissë was, if not obvious, then not particularly _hidden_ either. It was clear that she had been discrete, but the signs of her presence were there to one experienced in hunting and tracking, if a bit faded after several days. Even Turukáno’s two bookends, Laurefindil and Ehtelion, had no trouble following after her, taking the lead up front while the others trailed behind. Turukáno, looking his normal irate self, then Curufinwë and Aikambalotsë, who pretended that each other did not exist, and then Arakáno at the rear practically dragging his older brother, who was white-faced and shaking.

“Well, this is going well,” Curufinwë commented sharply, hearing the retching start again, which, inevitably, led to the entire party pausing and waiting until it was finished.

He exchanged glances with his brother-in-law, who seemed just as miserable and reluctant to participate in this whole charade of cooperation as he was. The pair then glanced over their shoulders at poor Findekáno, whose face was hidden from view as he knelt in the dirt, back visibly heaving with his fast breaths and choking coughs.

Well, they all knew their cousin was a complete lush who drank constantly, first thing in the morning when he opened his eyes until he went to bed at night, every single day. Now that he had gone a few hours with little more than a sip or two of their limited alcohol supply, it was truly not surprising that he was violently ill. Curufinwë had seen this before, not only in the Atani—for some of them, excessive drinking was almost an art form, as was the regrettable fate of spending the next morning emptying their bodies of the poison ingested—but in his own men as well. Alcohol, indeed, was a brilliant way to forget about the feeling of having red blood splattered all over one’s hands and evil deeds tearing through one’s blackened soul. It was just a shame that it was not permanent.

Blandly, not feeling nearly so sorry for his pathetic cousin as he should have done, he wondered what Findekáno needed to drown away in drink. Nolofinwë’s perfect son had always been a bit of a wild thing, but it was only after rebirth that he had gone to such excess.

After a few minutes, Findekáno waved his youngest brother away. “I am fine,” he choked out, voice hoarse and rough from the strain. Stumbling to his feet, he wiped his mouth on his sleeve and made a face quite contradictory to his normal enthusiastic and outgoing personality. “We should continue while it is still light out.”

 _It would be easier to continue if you had simply not burdened us with your presence._ Curufinwë wrinkled his nose and abstained from saying what he actually thought, well aware of the fact that Findekáno was probably the only thing standing between him and a sound beating from Turukáno and his ridiculous goons. He was not even certain that Aikambalotsë would not have helped them along given the chance.

But none of them would act out in front of Findekáno.

Slowly they continued on, and Curufinwë’s eyes swiveled across the ground. Silently, he noted the second trail overlapping the first, nearly invisible. He would not have seen it at all if he did not know many of his brother’s tells, having hunted by Turkafinwë’s side many times in the past. Tiny things. Like a double-imprint in the grass where his brother had intentionally matched Írissë’s footsteps to hide his own. Like the small scuffs in the dirt where the tip of his bow would have dragged against the ground as he knelt. They were unrecognizable unless one looked for them specifically.

“You have been quiet.”

Curufinwë blinked, turning to stare at his brother-in-law. _Is he… starting a conversation? With me?_ “Pardon?”

“You have been quiet,” Aikambalotsë repeated. “Too quiet. Normally, you would have had something vicious and inappropriately sarcastic or unpleasant to say by now.”

 _Oh, I have had plenty of things to say,_ he thought to himself, narrowing his eyes upon the strange interloper. He was still not certain whether his brother-in-law was here by request of his wife to watch his back or if Aikambalotsë had only agreed to come along in order to make his existence harder as punishment for daring to ease his way back into Lindalórë’s life.

“Why are you here?” he asked snidely in place of answering, baring his teeth as his upper lip curled. It was the sort of expression that often left grown men shivering and leaning away in discomfort. “We both know you hate me. And I cannot imagine you want to reconcile with cousin Turukáno. He has been looking back here every few minutes for hours now, and you have been ignoring him.”

Those blazing green eyes flashed towards Turukáno, who was most certainly near enough that he could hear their conversation. Judging by the way his shoulders stiffened, he was listening, waiting to hear what Aikambalotsë was going to say.

“I have no intention of making friendly with a man who places his pride above his duty to those he should protect with his life,” Aikambalotsë snarled, and the venom in his voice, in the vibrant and sickly green of his eyes, far outstripped Curufinwë’s own disdain for his condescending and bitter half-cousin. “At least you and your brothers, for all that the lot of you are rabid murderers, are not liars or traitors to your own people. Ever have you been truthful about your cause and about your actions, no matter how ugly they might be. And ever have you protected your own, even if it was at the cost of innocent lives.”

Ahead of them, Turukáno flinched sharply.

And Curufinwë, for his part, wondered if any of that was true. Certainly, his family had never tried to hide what they were, had never tried to explain or excuse away the evil deeds they had wrought in the name of their salvation and retribution for the death of their grandfather. Lying was simply not their way.

But, personally, the fifth brother rather felt like his own actions—his fierce protectiveness of his own family at the cost of many lives beneath his silver blade and beneath the sharp edges of his words—were nothing more than a pitifully late attempt at undeserved redemption. An attempt to avoid making more mistakes, to avoid being a failure again. Because he had betrayed the most important people of all. His son. His wife.

His purpose was different now. To do the best that he could to reconcile with his wife, to make up for what he had done. Certainly, he did not seek forgiveness.

He wondered if Turukáno did. If the former King was hassling and bothering his former vassals out of the ravenous need to be forgiven for his crimes, to quell the stinking, rotting, festering wounds left behind by guilt. From experience, Curufinwë knew that they did not heal, knew what it was like to long to get down on his knees and beg for forgiveness because, some days, the pain was too much to bear. But he also knew that he did not deserve it, and he dared not ask for that which he did not deserve to receive.

Maybe Turukáno did not deserve it either.

“That is business between you and him,” he finally said, voice no less vicious, not hiding the small amount of enjoyment he took in seeing Turukáno brought low. “For my part, I would say that he has always been this insufferable.”

They fell into silence, both sets of eyes boring uncomfortably into Turukáno’s back. If it made his cousin uncomfortable, the man did nothing about it. Did not dare turn around and look at them again. Pretended they were not even there.

And then Findekáno started throwing up again. And Curufinwë did not bother to stifle his groan of annoyance.

 _Just fucking wonderful,_ he thought harshly. _This is going to go well._

At his side, Aikambalotsë let out a long-suffering sigh.

\---

The first night, no one could decide who should stay awake keeping watch.

Curufinwë was tempted just to forgo the whole thing—this was Valinórë, after all, so there was little danger of being suddenly overrun by orcs in the night—yet it was still the wilderness. Bears, wolves and other such carnivores still stalked between these trees, and they had certainly made meals of unwary travelers before.

To be honest, Curufinwë was more concerned that, if there was not a night watch, he might get dragged off and pummeled half to death by his cousins. Except, there were not very many potential choices for who would stay awake, and no one person could be the unfortunate miser forced to keep watch every night. Eventually, they would all be required to take turns staying up. Which meant, at some point, he would be expected to lie down and fall asleep with _Turukáno_ watching over him in the night.

 _This is going to be miserable._ He was fully prepared to barely sleep for the entire duration of the awful, painful quest. _Turkafinwë owes me for this, that bastard._

Sitting all around, they stared at one another.

“I shall take the watch tonight,” Aikambalotsë said, sensing that Turukáno would protest if Curufinwë volunteered and Curufinwë would protest if anyone else did.

No one protested.

In the background, Findekáno was back to throwing up. By now, there could not have been anything left for him to empty from his stomach. And, of course, between each bout of throwing up, he was taking little gulps of wine, trying to stay the detoxification. They all did their best to ignore the rather distasteful noises.

That was how Curufinwë fell asleep on the first night. To the sound of the fire crackling and the crickets chirping and cousin Findekáno throwing up his guts into the undergrowth.

Maybe tomorrow would be more productive.

But he was not holding his breath.

\---

Predictably, he only made it about an hour—perhaps two, judging by the height of Isil’s crescent—before waking to the darkness, sliced open by the soft orange glow of a dying fire. Upon his breath was a sharp gasp, but he swallowed it down and stayed quiet, eyes blinking rapidly as he took in his surroundings.

No one else was moving. Near the fire, Aikambalotsë was sitting up, staring off into the distance, and his green eyes were almost acidic beneath the firelight. Shockingly, for a long moment of fatigue-induced haze, Curufinwë almost thought that it was not his brother-in-law sitting there silently, brooding into the night, watching over his sleep. Instead, for that tiny span of infinite time, it was Telperinquar gazing down into the flames. His heart leapt into his throat with a guilty pang of hope.

And then it crashed back down to earth, and it _hurt._ Because his son would never be here with him willingly, not now. Because Telperinquar’s last action had been to disown his father and family, to leave bruises splattered all over Curufinwë’s rightfully deserving face.

 _Do not be ridiculous,_ he told himself, sitting up and trying not to let the ache get the better of his senses. He and his son had not been on speaking terms even before his death, but that was no reason to lose his composure where anyone could see.

Somewhere, hundreds or thousands of leagues away across Alatairë, his son was on his own. Not that his boy needed him around. Telperinquar had been an adult already before the Exile, and he had only grown more independent and mature in the long years that had come after, fully diverging from the bloodthirsty legacy of his father’s family.

For all that their estrangement hurt in ways that Curufinwë had, until then, scarcely comprehended could even exist, nothing had ever relieved him more either. Given the carnage that had befallen Doriath and the Havens of Sirion afterwards—and the scars it left upon the perpetrators, forever marking them as irredeemable monsters—he could have gotten down on his knees and thanked Eru for his son taking his own path and abandoning their march to ruin. And he would pray to whoever would listen—even the fucking Valar, if that was what it took, no matter how much that thought made his skin crawl in rage—that it was enough. That Telperinquar was exempt from the curse of the Dispossessed. That, somewhere far away in an unknown place, his son could be happy and free.

Staring as he was, eyes distant but as bright as the stars overhead, of course Aikambalotsë noticed. The man’s head turned, light striking cheekbones that were not so sharp as his son’s, features that only partially matched in the shape of the eyes and the length of the nose but otherwise were foreign.

The illusion of his son was then thoroughly shattered. “You are awake,” his brother-in-law said quietly, and his voice was not as deep as his nephew’s.

There was really no point in attempting to sleep again. Not for some hours, at least. Not until the images that still writhed and screamed in the back of his mind fully dissolved back into the shadows from whence they had come. If he tried to rest now, rolled over wordlessly and ignored his brother-in-law like his more ornery half wished to do, he would just be awake again within the hour and feel all the more terrible for his troubles.

There was no protest from Aikambalotsë as he moved to sit a few feet away by the fire instead. “Did you truly come along because Lindalórë asked?”

“How did you know that?” his brother-in-law asked sharply.

“She was jesting about it in the afternoon. I did not think that she was being serious at the time.” _Eru, what I would give for a strong drink right now! She had been serious!_ “Given that you have expressed more than once your disdain for myself and my family, I doubted that such a thing would ever occur.”

“I do not like you,” Aikambalotsë said without hesitation, “But I do love my sister. And, for some Valar-forsaken reason, she loves you.”

 _Does she?_ Curufinwë did not really think he deserved her regard. Nevertheless, it brought him no small amount of joy to think that she might still feel genuine love for him after what he had done, that he might not be doing this all only to reach the end and have her turn her back upon his love, that she might come back to him and they could have the same happiness together that they had once enjoyed before he had mucked it all up.

 _Well,_ he thought, fingers fiddling with a hunting knife that he pulled from his boot, _it would not be exactly the_ same. _But it would still be beautiful._

Wistfully, he sighed. He did not deserve her. Not in a hundred thousand yéni.

“You did not seriously think I came along for my own enjoyment, did you?” his brother-in-law continued, unaware of Curufinwë’s thoughts.

“I thought you might have come along to find a way to get rid of me,” the fifth brother answered bluntly, plucking up a piece of firewood sitting upon the edge of their ashy little fire and tearing long, jagged lines across its burnt bark. “Out here in the middle of nowhere is the most likely place for the lot of you to do it and get away with it. All manner of accidents could occur out here in the wilds.”

“Do not give me any ideas,” his brother-in-law answered, eyes narrowed in annoyance. “Not all of us are maniacal murderous lunatics like you and your kin. Besides, Lindalórë would lynch me if something happened to you.”

“I do not need a babysitter,” Curufinwë spat. “Especially one that cannot be trusted.”

“If I wanted to do something reprehensible, I would have done it while you were sleeping,” Aikambalotsë countered, not in the least bit bothered by the Fëanárion’s nasty temperament or startlingly sharp words. “Lindalórë insisted. Said she wanted her husband in one piece when he returned home.”

“And you just went along with that?” Curufinwë leaned back with a snort.

“As I said, I love my sister,” his brother-in-law said, eyes turning back to the smoldering fire, almost out but still glowing. “I am no more immune to her ways than you.”

Once upon a time, the suggestion that he was easily manipulated by his wife probably would have had Curufinwë’s hackles rising and his pride smarting. Young and heavily influenced by his own father’s sharp disdain for men who were swayed by a pretty face and the fire in their loins, he would have snapped and snarled that _no,_ he was definitely _not_ one of those hare-brained morons who fell all over themselves to keep their wives happy. Like Arafinwë, for example, who was known for his mild personality and inability to say “no” to his beautiful Telerin bride.

But Curufinwë had long since acknowledged that there were more important things in the world than his pride. Instead of feeling insulted by the suggestion, he let out something that might have been laughter, just a short bark of amusement. “I suppose that is true. If ever there was anyone who could pull my strings with such ease, it would be her.”

“Definitely her,” Aikambalotsë agreed. And his voice was distant. Wistful.

“We are all brought low by the women we love,” Curufinwë said, feeling that same bitter amusement as he looked up at the cruel and cold sparkle of the stars. “What about you? You are even older than I. Still no wife?”

The glare he received was less-than-scathing. More tired than anything else.

“There was a woman,” Aikambalotsë admitted. “I never said anything to her. She was well below my station, not of our people, and very much not interested in me besides. That vivacious, wild sort of woman who looks at you down her nose and scoffs even though she has a good half-a-foot shorter.”

“Sounds a lot like Lindalórë,” Curufinwë said. Eru, but he remembered the long days and even longer nights thinking about her, when she had haunted his every thought, dogged his every step, reminded him with his every breath that she was not by his side, that she may never be again and there was no one to blame but himself and his stupidity. In those cold days of Exile, when he believed he might die and never be allowed rebirth, he had cherished even those moments, hating himself and simultaneously finding himself grateful that he had made her stay behind, that she did not have to suffer their fate at his side. That she was _safe._

Even then, with all those things giving him icy cold comfort when he was alone with his cursed thoughts, he had missed her so terribly it sometimes made him feel as though he might drop dead from heartache. _Imagine that?_ His silent smile was wry and cold, but the heartlessness was directed inward. _A Fëanárion dying of heartbreak? Atar would have rather died than allow something like that to stain the family’s reputation._

_Is that what he feels without her? That feeling like something is broken and missing?_

Glancing at his brother-in-law, he could see that the man’s features were softer. Nostalgic in the way of a man picturing long-past moments of bliss. “What happened to her?” he asked nosily. Because, of course, he had to ruin that moment of quiet contentment on the other man’s face. It was beginning to make his skin crawl.

Immediately, a shadow blocked out that happiness, and he felt his tension drain away. Irritation stared back at him. Familiar territory.

“Not that it is any of your business,” Aikambalotsë snarled, “But I truly have no idea. She made it out of Ondolindë and to the Havens, but many of the Sindar went their separate ways then. I never saw her again. And I am glad that she went.”

 _If she had not,_ Curufinwë thought, _you may have had to watch her die._

No one had been left at the Havens of Sirion alive when it had been sacked by the followers of the House of Fëanáro. No one salvaged but for the two little younglings that Kanafinwë had taken under his wing out of guilt and pity. It had not mattered whether they were of the Sindar or the Noldor or any other clan for, in the eyes of their aggressors, they were each and every one the same. Regardless of sex, of age, of bloodline or of reputation, they were all of them nothing. There was no discrimination in killing those who stood between a Fëanárion and the completion of their Oath.

“I hope she stays away,” Aikambalotsë added. “She would never have been happy here. With me. Like this. She would have found it stuffy and stifling. Like Lindalórë does. Like Írissë does. She would have fit right in with them.”

It was almost funny that someone like this man, who so very strongly advocated against the women in his life having such wild and reckless freedoms, would fall victim to one of their compatriots, a fellow wildwoman far below his status as the heir of one of the wealthiest bloodlines in all Valinórë, who could not have cared less about his wealth or his family name. And it was sad but true that, if what he said was so, she would never have been happy here with him. That he would have suffocated all the beauty out of her.

“Is that why you are helping us?” he asked then in a fit of sudden realization, turning his eyes upon his brother-in-law. “Lindalórë and I?”

Aikambalotsë would not meet his gaze. “I want her to be happy.”

 _So do I,_ Curufinwë could not help but think, his heart racing at the thought of Lindalórë’s smile, of her brilliant laughter. _So, too, do I._

And they said nothing else between them. Curufinwë was lost in thoughts of his beloved wife—as he was certain his companion was lost in thoughts of the woman he had never even told about his admiration—and neither of them particularly desired to speak. The sharp longing struck as a blade between his ribs. Had he not been coerced into staying here, into hunting his brother and cousin, he would have gotten up that very moment and departed back to Tirion to see his wife, never mind that it was the middle of the night.

Thousands of nights past, though, had he endured this very pain. Trapped and held back from that which he held most beloved by invisible bonds. A few more nights would not kill him. Staring into the fire, he endured.

Just a while longer.

\---

_Elenya, 49 Lairë (1 July)_

\---

By the third day things were hardly any better.

Curufinwë stayed well away from everyone as much as he could manage, exhausted from two long and sleepless nights and unwilling to make small talk with his undesirable companions while a headache pounded through his skull with sharp, incessant hammer-strikes. No doubt, the first person who addressed him would feel the lash of his barbed tongue, because his mood was poorer than it had been since before Lindalórë had reinitiated their courtship and started letting him woo his way back into her good graces. Poor enough that his venomous sneer had even Aikambalotsë skirting around him warily.

Halfway through the day, mostly spent in silence but for some heated whispering, and the only concession was that Findekáno was no longer being sick every hour. Instead, the eldest cousin was sluggish and had the gray pallor of death over his face. Dull blue eyes blinked steadily as the older man struggled.

 _At least we are making some ground._ Curufinwë knew they were still on the right trail, but it made him wince to think of how quickly his brother would have covered this terrain while their large party was stumbling along, loud and clumsy as a wounded and blood-loss-stricken stag. And leaving behind just as much of a trail as one, too. An idiot could have followed the mess they were leaving as they trampled about, and someone with even less mental fortitude than that could have followed the reeking spots of alcohol-laced vomit liberally littering the woods.

It was while contemplating the rather dismal state of this doomed quest that he heard a small exclamation from the front. “White fabric!” Ehtelion called back to them, holding up the scrap between his fingertips.

Írissë’s. No doubt about that. But, in all the many long centuries he had known her—and he had hunted alongside her and his brother not a few times but many—he had never seen her tear one of her precious white gowns while crouching and darting through the undergrowth. Not once. Approaching, his eyes took in the area nearby, narrowed suspiciously. Sure enough, not but a few yards away another little piece of fabric floated lazily through the air, caught on a branch that was far too high to be snagging any woman’s skirts.

Purposeful.

Curufinwë did not like it.

“This is bait,” he said aloud, drawing the eyes of his companions. Turukáno scowled in his direction as though offended that he had dared to speak. But Findekáno, for all that he had all the color of a week-old corpse, seemed thoughtful rather than irritated that the Fëanárion had spoken his unwanted opinion aloud, with the fact that he had stated it almost as a fact rather than a suggestion for which the others should consider.

“Bait,” the oldest cousin repeated, darkened eyes looking about and spotting the other bits of fabric, the too-obvious footprints, the disturbance of the undergrowth. “Perhaps you have a point, Curufinwë. It seems rather careless for one of Írissë’s skill.”

“But bait for whom?” Turukáno asked sharply. “We have seen no signs of anyone else either in the area or following her trail.”

“Do not be daft,” Curufinwë snapped in return, earning himself aggressively squared shoulders as Turukáno’s chest puffed up in offense. “Turkafinwë has come this way. He is just much, much better at hiding his presence.”

“And, yet, _you_ know he has been here,” his cousin snarled out sarcastically.

“You hunt and track and sleep on the ground in the dirt with a man for hundreds and hundreds of years and you learn things about his habits. And tells.” Curufinwë looked at the ground, found familiar scuff-marks where his brother had probably knelt to examine the smudged footprints left in the detritus of dead leaves and moist, cool earth. He rubbed them out with his toe—though not before several pairs of sharp eyes caught the movement.

“If your brother has been this way, he has a significant head start.” Ever the rational one—except, perhaps, in matters regarding the insanity of following someone was bitterly cold and egotistic as Turukáno Nolofinwion—Ehtelion stated what they were all thinking out in the open. “Tracking them will become significantly more difficult if he has found Írissë and started covering their tracks.”

“Difficult,” Curufinwë agreed, “But not impossible. It is more the challenge of catching up to them that we must face. We are moving slowly.”

None of them said anything, but Findekáno still let out a sound that might have been distressed. Or, at the very least, resigned and tired. “I am slowing us down.”

It was so very unlike the cheerful eldest son of Nolofinwë that Curufinwë found the tone of voice, the slumped shoulders, the concerned and upset frown, all of it to be strange and unusual. Ever was Findekáno almost bubbling with excitement and optimism, more than ready to make merry and have a good laugh and dance the night away in celebration of being alive. It was the primary reason he was so incredibly _annoying._

But he also spent all his days being so drunk that the fifth brother wondered how it was he stood straight, let alone managed to walk or dance, with how much liquor he consumed by the hour. It had never really occurred to Curufinwë to think that Findekáno’s bright, wild, valiant personality was anything but his natural disposition. To think, even for a moment, that those positive, beautiful qualities of his cousin might all just be an effect of a permanent alcohol-induced stupor was disconcerting. And saddening. Not that he would ever admit that last part aloud, for the very idea of expressing _pity_ for a Nolofinwion made his spirit shudder. Once, he might have felt more concern, if only because Findekáno was his eldest brother’s best friend. But those days were long past, and his harsh dislike of the eldest Nolofinwion disrupted any attempts for sympathy to exert itself in Curufinwë’s psyche.

He still believed that his eldest cousin had betrayed his friendship with Nelyafinwë by standing back silently while Nolofinwë bullied and disrespected the very man with whom he was purported to be best friends. After going through all the effort to do the impossible and rescue Nelyafinwë from certain long and painful death at the hands of Morgoth and his legions—with no shortage of potentially lethal dangers involved in the endeavor, going so far as to cut off his cousin’s hand out of pure desperation to salvage the broken man—Findekáno had suddenly stepped back and looked the other way like a craven worm while Nelyafinwë was treated like absolute shit by his supposed family.

It made little sense to Curufinwë, that Findekáno’s devotion had suddenly turned to cold distance. But, compared to other matters of great importance of Exile, it had seemed a trifling and petty thing, chalked up to Findekáno being just as much of a rat as his father and younger brothers. A liar and a deceiver. Curufinwë had settled comfortably into the role of hating this cousin as much as he despised all the others, if not more so.

It took all his strength not to respond to Findekáno’s words with _“Yes, obviously you are slowing us down, you useless drunken lout.”_

Instead, he looked up at the branches and wished they would fall down and bash him in the face. Maybe, if he was unconscious, they would just leave him here until he came to alone in the dirt and he could crawl back to the mountains and beg Nelyafinwë for forgiveness like the spineless coward he actually was. It might just be less painful than watching this mess unfold.

“We do not have time for this,” Turukáno said, sounding more than mildly annoyed. “Let us be on our way.”

Findekáno winced. Curufinwë did not particularly care about the hurt look that crossed those features which had not smiled in almost two days. He just wanted to keep moving while the sun began its curve downwards across the bright sky. With a disgusted sound, he skirted around his cousins and companions loitering aimlessly in the undergrowth and wandered off after the trail of white bits of fluff, suspecting that he was not particularly going to like what he found at the end of the trail.

A woman luring a man away into the wilderness? He strongly suspected that Írissë’s intent had been to rile his brother up and then tup him in the grass like a wild thing. Which meant that they were either about to stumble upon the cousins in a very indecent situation indeed or, given that they were many days behind in their chase, they would find unpleasant and dried crusty evidence of coitus in some Eru-forsaken clearing in the middle of nowhere. Curufinwë might have been more eager to see the look on Turukáno’s face if it were not for the fact that he was going to have to put up with the man’s tantrum afterwards.

Judging by the resigned looks on the faces of Ehtelion and Laurefindil—half-hidden behind Turukáno’s broad shoulders when Curufinwë glanced back so see that they were trailing after him like ducklings—they were preparing for the worst as well.

 _At least they know him well enough to predict his reactions,_ the Fëanárion thought with no small amount of bitter amusement.

It was thus that they set out.

After another four hours of tracking Írissë’s blatant trail through the woods, of ignoring the way Turukáno muttered expletives and insults under his breath like a demon belching black smoke, and then of watching two trails split as Turkafinwë’s trail ran to cut Írissë off in her flight to the northwest before circling back east in an exhaustingly long arc, the troupe finally came upon a river rumbling peacefully to its own tune through the trees. It was broad and clear and seemed perfectly innocent. More specifically, however, they then came upon a riverbank with a spot of sand and grass that looked extremely disturbed and very much _not_ so innocent. One would be a moron not to guess at what exactly had disturbed this particular spot given that there were finger-gauges and no small amount of tangled hairs and bits of white cloth and other dried things in the clumped sand left behind.

Predictably, Írissë and Turkafinwë were nowhere to be found. No doubt long gone judging by the age of the trail he was looking at. Curufinwë stared at their steps heading off into the undergrowth with a growing sense of doom falling down as a curtain over his black soul. It made his spirit ache with misery.

Also, predictably, Turukáno threw a massive fit the moment he realized that Turkafinwë had, in fact, caught up to his sister first and—Curufinwë had little doubt—been mauled by her as a result. Quite happily so, if he was forced to guess. The second Nolofinwion stormed off in the opposite direction to cool his head, and poor Ehtelion the Level-Headed followed on his tail to try to mitigate his temper and lure him back to the group without anyone getting punched in the face or any harsh words being exchanged.

Then Findekáno threw up again. Because, of course, the Universe and its Creator must dearly hate them all and wish ill upon them for their terrible sins. And what way could it make this situation worse but to add the smell of vomit to the mixture.

Curufinwë wondered that he could not just slit all their throats and be done with it.

\---

Tonight, Ehtelion would be taking the night-watch.

The first night, Curufinwë had managed a couple hours of sleep. Aikambalotsë was certainly not his favorite person, and he would not have trusted the man at his back in battle, but he also knew that Turukáno held no more of the man’s favor than he did, so Lindalórë’s brother was to be considered a moderately neutral party with no gain in attacking either side while they slept. Part of him—and he would never admit to this aloud to anyone but Lindalórë—was grateful to have woken up, to have been able to speak frankly with his brother-in-law, to have learned something about the man to which he might relate.

To know that his wife’s brother wanted her to be happy. Even if it meant letting her choose to be with Curufinwë.

The second night, Findekáno took the watch. That night, Curufinwë woke to the sound of his cousin being sick and then groaning softly into the night. But quietly enough that it would not wake anyone else. He had rolled over to face the other direction and laid awake until dawn. Findekáno might be a metaphorical backstabber in the fifth brother’s opinion, but he was too sick to stick an actual knife in Curufinwë’s back.

He did not like the idea of Ehtelion taking the watch. Aikambalotsë was neutral. Findekáno was too pathetic to be dangerous. Ehtelion, though, was solidly at Turukáno’s back.

Curufinwë did not sleep. Laying on the cold ground, his hip was digging into a rock unpleasantly, his eyes felt like they were filled with grit and sand, aching and burning when he tried to let them fall out of focus, and his head was spinning around and around in circles of endless, cursed thought. There had never been a time in all his many long years of hunting and tracking, of traveling the wilderness, that he had had neither one of his brothers nor a number of his trusted followers at his back and guarding his sleep. For all that he faced away from the small fire and away from Ehtelion’s form sitting upright nearby with vigilant silver eyes, he still listened for even the smallest crack or snap of a twig or leaf underfoot, still waited with tension painfully in the back of his neck and seeping into the stiff agony of his shoulders to hear soft breaths draw nearer or to hear the shuffle of near-silent feet in the grass.

It was stupid.

No one would truly attack him in Valinórë. Or so he would have liked to tell himself. But the muscles under his skin were twitching and buzzing, his fingers curling and uncurling, his legs aching to shift in discomfort. He wanted to get up. To pace. To stare at Ehtelion. To convince his ridiculous brain that nothing untoward was happening so he could damn well fucking _sleep_ because he was _tired._

Eventually, he gave in to the primal fit of anxiety, sitting up from his position on the cold, uncomfortable ground. Ehtelion’s sharp silvery eyes followed his movements as he stood, stepping almost delicately between and around splayed-out sleeping bodies to reach the light and warmth of the fire. Without comment, he sat before its glow, turning to expose his back to the flame, letting the heat seep into the tight pain of the muscles in his shoulders and about his spine.

“You have no need to worry,” Ehtelion told him, quiet for the first few minutes but inevitably breaking the silence. Curufinwë desperately missed the days of traveling with Turkafinwë, who, when contented, would go happily for _days_ without bothering to make small talk, who was comfortable with understanding silence.

“Do not talk about things you do not understand,” he said with no small amount of hostility, glaring over his shoulder.

“I swear on my honor, I would not harm you in your sleep,” Ehtelion continued, and his eyes were like mercuric gems in the night. They reminded Curufinwë too much of other eyes for comfort, though they were just a hair dimmer than those that haunted the fifth son’s most insidious nightmares. “I know you think lowly of me—of Turukáno and anyone that would associate with him—but we are not your enemies. We are here only to bring Írissë home safely, not to bring you or your brother harm.”

As if a single sentence could erase thousands of years of distance. Of harshly-spoken accusations. Of lack of understanding. Of being blamed for the sins of his father.

Of not being recognized and treated as his own fucking person. Of watching his brothers subjected to that same cruelty.

_No. No, it could not._

“Turukáno can go and hang,” he muttered resentfully, arching his back in the hopes of absorbing more heat, of driving away the ache pulsing upwards along his spine. “And so, too, can you, liar. The minute we catch up to Írissë and Turkafinwë, Turukáno will have my brother at sword-point and threaten to slit him open and gut him like a pig. As if he has somehow done something horrible and against Írissë’s will. As if _any_ of us could do anything to that woman against her will. And you will all loiter around watching it unfold but pretending not to see because you would rather not intervene on behalf of a Kinslayer.”

When Ehtelion did not deny it, Curufinwë let out a little hiss of frustration and wondered if he should just take off in the night on his own.

“That is not true,” the bastard finally said, voice soft and light, meant to soothe away the jagged edges of Curufinwë’s discord. Instead, it just made his wildly-fluctuating temper—made worse by his paranoia and lack of sleep—grow more violent and manic.

“It is,” he snarled. “You are a child of Indis, a descendant of that _bitch_ who would seek to do nothing but ruin our culture and dethrone my family in favor of her own firstborn and his descendants, and you stand by their backs like some disgusting slavish thing bound to their will through blood and desperation. Because no one would have looked twice at something as lowly and unwanted as you but for him. Because no one has ever treated you decently despite your birth but for him. Because no one has ever offered you any friendship of value but for Turukáno and you _owe him your allegiance._ Think you that I know not of your family ties, of your illegitimate birth, or of your shameful bloodline? Think you that I know not that you would be nowhere and nothing if he had not taken pity upon you and adopted you into his fold like a lost little mutt of a starving street dog?”

For all that Ehtelion’s blood would be considered tainted—no one even knew who his father was, and Curufinwë wondered snidely if the man himself even had an idea—it was painfully obvious to anyone that no child of the House of Finwë had ever looked more alike to their progenitor than this child. One born out of wedlock to a Princess mother and a nobody, no name, nonexistent father.

“I was not raised in court, and my mother had no quarrel ever with your father or his line despite their differences,” Ehtelion corrected calmly, unmoved by the barrage of insults and cruelty. And Curufinwë hated it, because he was terribly used to his glowing eyes and his toothy grimace of a smile and his violently sharp words making others _nervous_ and _defensive._ And this man was somehow neither. “Nor would I let my _friendship_ with Turukáno sway my morality. He is my close friend and my brother in name if not in blood, but not my sovereign any longer. He does not own my body or my mind.”

“Could have fucking fooled me,” Curufinwë responded in a tone that might as well have been forged of sharp, broken glass.

“Despite what you think, I know the difference between evil creatures and desperate men,” the bastard child said then. “And I know the difference between someone born evil and someone fallen into its grasp. I know you are not some demon descended from some fey, monstrous phantom in the night who breaths out cursed air and seeks to slaughter all who step within reach. Turukáno may think what he pleases, but his thoughts have no bearing on mine.”

“And what _does_ have bearing on your own, then?” the fifth son asked snidely. “Your disowned whore of a mother?”

The only sign that the crude wording bothered Ehtelion lingered in the tightening of his lips and the slight narrowing at the corners of his eyes. Most likely, he had heard much worse before from many lips besides, and he hid his hurt well.

Curufinwë still felt that small, pathetic, sharp pang of vindictive satisfaction at knowing he had poked his finger into an open sore. It was a victory, if a tiny and insignificant one.

“In fact, she rather does,” the man agreed, still sitting upright, face blank, voice serene. He was composed and unflappable in a way that reminded Curufinwë of his grandfather, like a ghost staring out of the night, as if the shared appearance were not already unsettling enough. But this man was not crowned in jewels and sapphire robes, not wearing a benevolent smile of joyous affection but with eyes for only one and no other.

“Oh really?” Curufinwë scoffed.

“When my mother was pregnant with me, she was disowned and banished from court. A pariah with nowhere to go and no one to support her, with no way to make her livelihood and none—not even her brothers by blood—willing to even speak to her let alone assist her in making her way in the world,” Ehtelion said. “They all pretended that she existed not but for one single person. Might you guess who?”

 _Where is this going?_ Half of Curufinwë just wished this man would shut up and take his tranquil self somewhere else to irritate someone else. Not in the least bit because it was rare to meet a man so immune to his sharp tongue and that, somehow, was more annoying even than Findekáno’s bright fake smiles and warm fake hugs could ever hope to be.

“Who?” he bit out. “Keep me not waiting, bastard.”

Ehtelion’s lips quirked, and he looked up at the trails of smoke curling up towards the dome of the stars. “Your father, naturally.”

_What?_

“Pardon?” Curufinwë blinked nonsensically in Ehtelion’s direction. “Have you been eating strange fungus or mushrooms?”

At this, his unofficial half-cousin just snorted quietly. “Why does it surprise you that the most rebellious, ill-behaved, uncontrollable, irreverent and disobedient man to perhaps ever grace the face of Eä with his awful presence was the one who blatantly flouted the King’s order to wipe my mother’s existence from all records and pretend she had never been born?”

“Because my father would not have cared for even a second about some woman being pregnant and homeless, especially a woman whose mother was of the Vanyar and whose eldest brother was Nolofinwë.”

Because Fëanáro did not _like_ people or _help_ people. It was not in his nature.

“Amillë said they rather got along for two half-siblings who felt mutual hatred and camaraderie for one another.” Ehtelion shrugged, as if his words were _not_ disturbing and unsettling. “He said nothing. Gave her a key to a house just beyond the borders of Tirion without so much as a word. I grew up there. The heraldry of your family hung over the mantlepiece until the day I was grown and departed to live away from my mother.”

It was wrong. Curufinwë did not like it. Did not want to imagine it.

“What has this to do with anything?” he finally asked, wondering if he should try to call a bluff, if Ehtelion was fibbing, if this was some elaborate way to mock the House of Fëanáro. Or if, more disturbingly still, it might be _true._

“If the man who brought about all the misfortune, torment, war and suffering of the last Age of Eä is capable of occasional acts of basic human decency—if even Curufinwë Fëanáro, the monster who haunts the dreams of every unfortunate Exile to ever be struck down by the charismatic enchantment of his wicked tongue, the man who was willing to sacrifice thousands of his own kin upon the altar of his revenge, could be moved to act kindly for no reason but that he might upon his own whims even just once—then certainly his sons could not be worse creatures. Surely, there must be something in you that the Valar saw when they decided to allow you to be reborn into this world. Surely, you are not the root of all evil.”

So matter-of-factly was it spoken that, for a few long moments, Curufinwë could not think of anything to say. Granted, he knew that there were things about his father that he had not known or understood, that the man had changed over the years for the worse, that there were most likely many private thoughts and feelings and doings that Fëanáro would carry secretly in his breast until the End of All Days. But it still seemed so wrong. So strange. So _foreign._ To imagine his father capable of random, charitable, almost loving _kindness…_

“I should dearly wish to again name you liar,” he finally said.

To which Ehtelion just laughed at him again. “Would you? But we both know that you would be able to smell my lie from leagues away. You know I speak the truth.”

 _That is the most horrible part about it,_ Curufinwë silently agreed.

“So, now that we have established that I do not, in fact, believe that you will make wither and blacken all that you touch or deign breathe upon,” the bastard said, “I would reiterate that I have no intention of doing you harm. Regardless of what Turukáno desires. Without his friendship, I might never have risen to such a position of importance. Without the random kindness of your fey sire, I might not even be alive to have had the chance.”

Carefully did the fifth son examine Ehtelion, the bastard Son of No Name whose greatest claim to fame was the defeat of three Valaraukar and the undignified fate of drowning in a fountain. “I do not like you. Or trust you. Do not mistake that. But I suppose I believe that you speak the truth. This time.”

He hated seeing smugness in another man’s eyes. It made him want to gauge them out. Or a quirky little smirk upon another man’s lips. It made him want to split them with his fist.

But he did neither of those things, instead grumpily turning away from his companion and staring out into the blackness of the night. And, if their silence was just on that side of comfortably neutral, he would at least pretend in his mind that his fingers itched to reach for his knife rather than longing to grab a blanket and curl his body up in its warmth beside the fire under those watchful silver-sheen eyes.

“You can sleep safely, cousin,” Ehtelion then reassured. Curufinwë twitched with discomfort at being so easily read.

But _Eru_ was he tired.

“Fine,” he grumbled. “Perhaps a few more hours would be wise.”

And that was what he would have gotten. Another four hours of peaceful, undisturbed, warm sleep curled near to the soothing heat radiating from the smoldering fire. Except, at that moment, Findekáno chose to suddenly roll over and vomit.

Except, it did not really sound like vomiting. It rather sounded like choking.

And, instead of sitting up straight, his cousin was convulsing.

And, thus, it was that, on the third night, everything went completely to hell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:
> 
> Atani (Q, p) = men (of the race of Men)  
> Alatairë (Q) = Belegaer  
> yéni (Q, p) = elven years (each yén = 144 solar years)  
> Atar (Q) = Father  
> Amillë (Q) = Mother  
> Valaraukar (Q, p) = demons/Balrogs


	51. She Cries to the Heavens

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More plot happened. Whoops.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: betrayal for the sake of monetary gain/reputation, misogyny, talk of forced marriage, semi-graphic mention of previous assault, panic attacks, vomiting, shock, fear of assault (underlying but there), female masturbation, talking during sex (it's healthy guys), oral sex, trust issues (that are getting resolved slowly), casual sex vs. sex with a trusted partner
> 
> More plot happened with Lindalórë. The sad reality is that family is not always redeemable, and being blood-related to someone does not always equate to them loving you or looking out for your best interests. Now that her husband and brother are out of the way...
> 
> On the other hand, sex scene ahead. If you sense that Tyelko has extreme trust issues throughout, you'd been entirely correct.
> 
> Maedhros = Maitimo = Nelyafinwë = Nelyo  
> Maglor = Makalaurë = Kanafinwë = Káno  
> Celegorm = Tyelkormo = Tyelko = Turkafinwë = Turko  
> Caranthir = Carnistir = Morifinwë = Moryo  
> Curufin = Atarinkë = Curufinwë = Curvo  
> Amrod = Ambarussa = Pityafinwë = Pityo = Minyarussa  
> Amras = Umbarto = Telufinwë = Telvo = Atyarussa  
> Aredhel = Írissë  
> Egalmoth = Aikambalotsë  
> Fingolfin = Nolofinwë  
> Turgon = Turukáno

_Elenya, 49 Lairë (1 July)_

\---

They were tucked away quietly together in an oak tree. Last night had been most pleasant, and Írissë was in a languid, syrupy sort of mood, only too happy to lazily stretch out in her loose shirt and undone trousers over the top of her lover’s long form. Her fingers traced across his chest slowly, etching invisible curls and patterns into his skin through the thin cloth of his undershirt, finding a nipple and circling its disk to the sound of his soft, pleased hum.

On her back, she felt his fingers doing the same. Invisible geometric patterns were traced down the length of her spine, slow and lingering. Closing her eyes, she wondered at them, what it would be like to have them inked into her skin, exotic and sensual, and if that would make his blood rush as much as the idea of him carrying _her_ marks made her blood steam.

Then his hand stilled, and his fingers curled, tugging lightly at the edge of her ragged, sweat-stained shirt.

“They have sent someone after us,” Tyelkormo informed her blandly.

This was hardly surprising news. Írissë did not really question how he knew. Perhaps from the birds. Perhaps from a wayward deer. Perhaps from a gossiping tree. In many ways, he was better at communicating with the natural world than he was at communicating with people. This was, after all, the first time he had spoken to her in words rather than the silent language of his body in more than a day.

She blinked open her eyes and lifted her head up from where it rested against his shoulder, looking up to catch sight of his face. It was upturned, eyes focused somewhere far off in the boughs of the towering trees overhead.

“How far behind are they?” she asked, “And how many are their numbers?”

“Many,” he told her, eyes finally sliding away from the sight overhead to meet her gaze like a pair of twin blazing stars. “The trees do not really care to count exactly, but they are rather upset at the noise. The group is approaching the river still heading north, following that ridiculous breadcrumb trail you left scattered all over in the woods.”

 _Still rather far behind then,_ she thought to herself, relaxing once more.

“You are an accomplished woodsman,” she said, “As am I an accomplished woodswoman. It would take an experienced tracker to find even traces of our trail since then. They will lose us and go back to Tirion having found nothing.”

“That depends on who is amongst their number,” he corrected quietly.

Írissë knew that none of her brothers were all that terrible accomplished in such matters. There were many hunters amongst their people, but few with personal stakes in tracking down a wayward Princess, and fewer still who could compare to Tyelkormo. In fact, she could think of only perhaps two, and both were his siblings.

“Do you think one of your brothers is amongst them?” she asked, refusing to be even slightly alarmed by the possibility.

“It is not beyond the realm of possibility.” He shrugged nonchalantly.

Frowning, she sat up fully, straddling his belly. His eyes sparked with interest. “Why would your brothers be helping my family?”

“Boredom,” he suggested, as if that made perfect sense.

She huffed with annoyance. “Well, we shall have to leave them a little bit of a surprise, then. If they are talented enough to track us to this point, that is. I still have my doubts. What say you to that, cousin?”

“Sounds like it could be entertaining,” he agreed, leaning up to press his lips under her chin in a brief little kiss. Easily did he lift her right up off his belly, setting her aside in the crook between two massive arms of their friend oak. “What did you have in mind, dear cousin?”

“How about we have a bit of a race?” she suggested, a smile growing on her features despite her annoyance at the persistent pursuit of her family trying to bring her back home. “Each of us should go in opposite directions, run a ten-mile trail through the densest, messiest and most midge-infested part of the woods we can find, and then meet back here. First back gets to pick the tonight’s activities.”

“Rude,” he commented, his grin turning sharp and nasty in a way that would have made normal men and women shudder. “I like it. Let us go.”

Laughing, the pair scrambled down from their perch in the friendly oak. “As fast as possible,” she reiterated, looking off to the east. “Tonight, we are going to try something fun. Because we both know who is going to win.”

“How know you that I would not simply allow you the honor?” he shot back teasingly, abandoning his pack and his bow in the grass to mark their starting and finishing line. Carefully, he ground his heels into the dirt to leave behind a blatant sign of his presence. One that only an idiot would miss.

“You could not win even if you wanted to,” she countered. “Ready?”

“Certainly,” he purred, watching as she shivered in response to the low, deep growl of his voice washing over her skin.

 _Oh yes,_ she could not help but think. _I have ideas for tonight. You are mine, Tyelkormo._

They took off in opposite directions, leaving the clearing and the friendly oak steeped in silence and the distant sounds of birdsong.

\---

Something did not feel right.

Lindalórë typically ignored the guests of her parents coming to and from the house. Most of them were business partners of her father’s, spending their evenings discussing the trading of gemstones or the making of jewelry and other finery, and there was very little about that which she truly held any interest in eavesdropping upon.

This, though, was different.

From the upstairs window, she watched the newcomer arrive on their doorstep, heard from down the hall the sound of voices rising up towards the ceiling. Her father’s and another man’s. Normally, this would not be at all an interesting occurrence except for the fact that Lindalórë knew this particular man. And she also found this particular man to be particularly distasteful and would rather have put her hand on a hot stove than spend an evening being subjected to his awful presence.

That tended to be the case when he had once tried to convince you to annul your marriage and marry him instead because it would be “fruitful” and “enjoyable” and “good for all parties involved”. And then threatened you with assault when you refused. And then tried to kiss you on the mouth while eight cups of wine into a party and slapped you when you shoved him hard enough to spill his damn drink down his front.

Narrowing her eyes, Lindalórë stepped closer to the open doorway, listening to the voices coming nearer as the pair of men ascended the stairs.

This man was not the first nor had been the last to try and marry into the House of Helyanwë after the Darkening, seeing an opportunity in the abandoned only daughter of the House’s Lord. Lindalórë was aware that many would consider it a prize to be welcomed with open arms into a family that so easily displayed and toted its wealth, bandying gold and gems about like pastries at a party. She was aware from a young age that that meant many men would try to marry her for the sake of becoming part of her family rather than out of any real love or respect for her as a person. It was that which had driven her to become the bitter, waspish and sometimes unpleasant woman she was today.

Thank Eru for Curufinwë Fëanárion. If he had not come along, she knew not what she would have done or where she would have ended up. Married to this man or to another like him, perhaps. Now, she would rather have died than marry a “safe” man with a “good” reputation who would treat her like a piece of meat in their bedchambers and like a china trinket on a shelf that he owned—a pretty possession to be displayed and bragged about—whenever he was not trying to put his cock inside her and get her with child.

It was not only her general dislike of the man which left her suspicious, however. More so, it was the fact that said man was _not_ one of her father’s typical business partners. They had, in fact, not communicated at all in the many long years since she had splashed wine all down that bastard’s stupid silk tunic. Not that she knew of, anyway.

Before that, they had only spoken as a potential suitor and a father.

So, what were they speaking about now?

Cautiously, she crept down the hall, looking out for a potential ambush from her mother all the while. The pair of men holed themselves up in her father’s study, the door just barely cracked open. “…surprised that you have contacted me about such matters, my lord.”

“You expressed interest once, and I think we could mutually benefit from such an alliance,” her father answered.

“With all due respect,” her ex-suitor said, smarmy voice making her alternately desire to vomit or punch him in the nose as hard as she could, “Your daughter made her dislike of my person very clear the last time we spoke.”

 _Damn right I did,_ she thought sharply, fingers curling until fists, her nails digging into the fleshy part of her palms. Creeping closer, she could just barely make out her father moving about behind his desk, setting out two glasses and pouring some of his finest liquor. One for each of them to enjoy.

 _It would be better dumped down the sewer,_ she thought viciously.

“My daughter has made many questionable choices in her life,” her father stated then, and Lindalórë bit her lip against the retort that wanted to scream its way off her tongue. Pressing it up against the back of her gritted teeth, she tried to let the insult wash over her like water over stone. “To say that her opinion in this matter is the end of the discussion would be foolish. If she had her way, she would stay married to a cursed Kinslayer and cast shame upon our family’s reputation for the rest of time.”

It hurt. It always did. But this was worse than just the insults, than just knowing that her father thought she was a moronic woman who should place the reputation of her family above her own personal happiness, who should sacrifice her marriage for the sake of making _him_ and _his business_ look better in the eyes of the public.

“It has been a constant stain, that we are tied so tangibly to the House of Fëanáro,” her father continued, discussing it in such a casually annoyed way that she had to fight back tears of rage. “If Lindalórë were to remarry, however, we would demonstrate that we have, indeed, cut all ties with those accursed folk, that we are not in the least bit so equally stained or cursed through association.”

“So, you came to me?” the disgusting slime-slicked pustule of a man asked.

“Not so many men are willing to risk marriage to a woman who once laid in the bed of a Kinslayer. Who once bore one from her womb.” As if they were not discussing her body and her intercourse with her husband and the birthing of her beloved child like it was some sort of business dealing, they sat across from one another at the desk. “Some might think that it could bring ill luck, being with a woman who was once the daughter-in-law of Fëanáro.”

“She is beautiful. And fiery. A challenge. It would be an honor to be her spouse, to wash away such a stain.” Thinking about those words and what they implied made Lindalórë shudder, her skin crawling with discomfort.

“The hope is rather that, once she is respectably married, she will be well-behaved and no longer causing trouble with all this sneaking out windows and unchaperoned jaunting with men business.” Her father made a sound that very much displayed his disgust at such behaviors. “If I agree to allow you my daughter’s hand, I would expect it to no longer be a problem.”

Feeling sick, Lindalórë backed away. Not so far that she could not hear them any longer, but off to one side of the door. Leaning back against the wall to steady herself, she continued to listen. No matter how much she wished that she could run away.

As if that would make this conversation—this _business deal over her future_ —no longer exist. As if, by turning away, it would all become some terrible nightmare.

But she was most definitely not asleep.

Instead, she was listening as the man who was willing to marry her despite her _taint_ from being bedded by a Kinslayer talk to her father about making her _more obedient_ and _less mouthy_ as though she were a prized animal that needed to be trained rather than an adult, rather than a person. Her arms wrapped around her torso at the sudden feeling of cold, her head spinning as the air seemed to all be pushed from her lungs.

“I would never allow such behaviors from any woman to whom I was married,” _that man_ said in response, giving a little laugh. That sort of sharp, vicious sound that signified nothing good. Humor at the idea of violence. A threat rising in the back of his throat. She remembered the way he had left bruises on her upper arm from grabbing her, an ache in her shoulder from shoving her against a wall, and a red stain upon her cheek from the slap of his broad palm.

From her one unpleasant interaction up close and personal with this particular man, Lindalórë well and truly knew already what his favored method for “teaching a woman her place” would be. It made her want to be sick all over the expensive woven carpet.

_Why is this happening now? Why is this happening at all?_

“You will have some time to try and convince her,” her father said, “But, rest assured, it will happen. No matter how resistant she is to this arrangement. It is for the best. For her and for this family.”

“Of course, my Lord,” her would-be husband said. “I would drink to that!”

“Aye,” her father agreed. “We shall drink to that.”

And Lindalórë fled back to her room. Closed the door and locked it tight. Because she was terrified that someone might come and force their way in. Went to her wardrobe and put on a robe and a shawl to combat the chill of her fear. Went to her private bathroom and locked that door, too.

_What am I supposed to do?_

Sitting on the cold floor, curled up with her back against the tub, she tried to wait for the panic to cease. But the sound of her hyperventilating breaths echoed through the tiled room.

Until, finally, she emptied her stomach at the porcelain throne and cried.

\---

Írissë was quite pleased with herself today.

Her own messy trail, laden with kicked stones, perfect footprints and all manner of other disturbed detritus, was a twisting and turning labyrinth through dense wilderness. Through the thicket, across at least three streams with unsteady banks that sucked at the feet if one knew not where to step, skirting around a lake through the marshy cattails, over at least four or five patches of half-hidden poison ivy and then back around past a hornet’s nest, the three streams and the thickest thicket she could find within five miles. Even for a more experienced person such as herself, it was an ugly hike, and she was panting and sweating with exertion by the time she made it back to the camp that she had shared with Tyelkormo.

More pleased was she to find that he was not back yet. Smugly, she stripped herself of the mess that was her clothes, leaving nothing but her drawers and a chemise behind. Tonight, or tomorrow, they would need to find a stream to wash clothes. No doubt, his would be just as much of a mess as hers.

Not that she cared. Smiling in satisfaction, she collapsed backwards into the grass and stretched herself out, breasts arched up towards the sky, rosy tips visible through their thin fabric covering. Now, to wait for her lover’s return.

_What should I do to pass the time?_

Snorting with laughter, she pushed her hand down into her underthings, tracing her fingers slowly about her inner thighs. The skin there was impossibly soft. But, when she dug her fingertips into the meat of her muscle, she could feel the sting from old bruises where Tyelkormo had grabbed her thighs just beneath her buttocks and squeezed tight as she rode him wildly, head tossed back in bliss as she sang towards the stars. As his hips arched up into the cradle of her body and he groaned and strained beneath her, feet digging into the ground to steady himself as he rolled his hips up to meet her downward strokes.

 _Hm… what should I have him do for losing our little race?_ Her fingers stroked upwards, tracing around and around her vulva as she began to swell and tingle between her legs. A slow stroke up the center of her slit left her moaning softly.

Curling her fingers inwards, she nestled them into her body, rubbing them up against the anterior walls, imagining that they were his tongue instead.

 _That is not a half-bad idea._ Sighing, she let her eyes roll up towards the sky. _It would be lovely to have his tongue inside me…_

Her legs squirmed against the grass, spreading helplessly as she drove the fire in her blood higher, as she tried to delve deeper with her fingers and reach that place inside her where she wished to desperately feel him touch and nudge. Around her digits, her inner walls fluttered eagerly, almost hungrily.

Because, after her first orgasm beneath his mouth—and a second one—would it not be lovely if he would lick his way deep into her until she moaned and gasped her way into a third?

Having teased herself into wetness, warmth and sweat gathering upon her skin as her breaths began to come fast from her parted lips, she reached down to peel off her drawers, kicking them aside into the grass. Hot, slick wetness trailed down her inner thigh as the arousal in her lower belly swelled at the caress of cold air upon heated flesh. Shuddering, she cupped herself, pressing with the heel of her palm upon the swollen hardness of her clit, and her hips rolled upwards as she imagined it was his grasp possessively upon her. Squeezing her there the same way she would have manhandled him, claiming her as he smirked down at her with that look on his face, the one with narrowed, blindingly bright eyes full of mischief.

 _Tell me what you want,_ he would have murmured against her skin in that same devilish tone of voice that made her writhe beneath his weight as he bore down upon her with all the wild and untamed power of an ocean wave crashing upon the shore.

_Tell me what you want, Írissë…_

“Tyelko…” she breathed, eyes fluttering shut as she imagined his heat over her, as she imagined it was his thumb fluttering across her pearl, circling around her entrance.

 _Tell me,_ he would demand again.

“Inside me,” she gasped out. “Your mouth on me, your tongue inside me…”

Everything was so warm, so languid in the summer heat as the sun was sinking downwards. Spreading her legs wide, she gasped at the feeling of broad hands upon her hipbones, thumbs stroking over the sharp corners and moving down to cradle her groin. They slipped between the petals of her outer folds and spread her open.

Gasping, her eyes flashed open. And he was there, kneeling between her widespread knees, watching as she stroked her wet core, dipping her fingers inside.

“Tyelko,” she whispered.

“It seems you won, írima melissë,” he told her. “I suppose that means that I am at your service, my lady.”

“I suppose it does,” she answered with a smirk. “I think you can guess where to start, melindo.” She spread her legs further and arched her hips upwards demandingly. With hunger did his eyes travel downwards, over the contours of her flushed face and her parted lips, her arched throat and her tender breasts, across the planes of her belly to stare between her thighs like a starving man looks upon a gourmet venison steak.

“I think I can,” he answered, leaning down to put his mouth upon her. And her voice pitched high in a whining moan as he licked his way inside.

This was going to be enjoyable indeed.

\---

It took three hours for Lindalórë to feel as though her brain were no longer spinning apart and melting out of her nose. Kneeling on the floor in her bathroom, she had ignored twice when someone had knocked on the outer door to her chambers, uncontrollably weeping each time with her hand over her mouth to stifle the sound of her hiccupping cries.

Now, she was just exhausted and cold.

_What am I supposed to do?_

It did not feel safe to leave these rooms, but she could not feasibly stay here forever. No idea had she whether or not _that man_ had gone already or when he would be back, but she did not want to be caught unawares somewhere in the house with him _alone._ Knowing that her father was ready to more or less _sell her to him_ in order to _mend_ the family’s smudged reputation in the eyes of the “pure” and “wholesome” people of Valinórë—who she knew were no more pure and wholesome than Fëanáro’s black heart had been—she did not trust that there was anyone to come to her aid.

Once, she would have suspected that Aikambalotsë was just as untrustworthy as her father had now proven to be—Trying to “save” her from her husband, indeed! Out of love! What a laugh!—but she liked to think she had learned different. That he had helped her sneak about with her lover, that he had gone to guard Curufinwë’s back in the wilds, that he seemed to be invested in her happiness…

If he were here, she would have felt safe leaving her rooms. She did not want to regret sending him along to safeguard Curufinwë against his cousins, but she wished…

 _What point is there to wishing now?_ Tears gathered at the corners of her eyes, and she tried to stifle the next onslaught of weeping before it could begin and prevent her from thinking clearly and drag her down into exhaustion. She already felt desperately tired but too frightened to even think about sleeping.

_Options… What are my options?_

It would be easy to find her if she fled to the cottage. That would be the first place that her parents looked for her.

She could not force her presence upon Írissë’s parents. Not after what she had done, how she had lied to Nolofinwë’s face, how she had potentially put her former best friend in danger. She might not agree with Nolofinwë or his ways, but she regretted now that perhaps she had been hasty in her treatment of him when he was likely only worried and frustrated with his wily daughter and her tendency towards disappearing acts.

Her mother would not be able to help her much, if at all, even if she were willing.

Aikambalotsë and Írissë and Curufinwë were all out in the wilderness somewhere. Her brother, her (once) best friend and her husband were all out of reach.

There was, she supposed, her husband’s family.

Swallowing sharply, Lindalórë laid her head against the wall, letting the coolness of the tile seep into her temple. It had been a very long time since she had had any direct contact with any of Curufinwë’s brothers or cousins other than Turukáno and Turkafinwë, both of whom were also out there somewhere in the wilderness.

Breathing shallowly, she tried to calm herself.

Who would know where to find Curufinwë’s brothers? She knew that they lived somewhere up in the mountains to the north of Tirion, but she had no means of getting there, or even of sending a message there, and no way of knowing when next one of the seven (reduced, she supposed to five) would be in the city to receive a letter besides.

 _Think,_ she ordered herself. _Think. What should you do?_

She could not run if she had nowhere to go. That would be foolish. Her parents would know that she had found them out—or, at least, her father would know she had found him out, for she knew not at all whether her mother was involved—and they would be much more careful to watch her if they suspected she might follow in Írissë’s footsteps and run away to safety. If she was going to run, she needed to get it right the first time, disappear without anyone knowing to whence she had gone, and leave no trace behind.

Which meant she was going to have to stay here.

It was the very last thing that she wished to do. She would need to be careful, would need to be alert at all times, would need to make absolutely certain that she was never with _that man_ alone for even a moment. No doubt, her parents—or, at the very least, her father—would try to push them together.

Taking a few deep breaths, she straightened her shoulders. First thing she needed to do was figure out how to contact her husband’s brothers. If anyone knew how to send a message or where to send one from, it would be Curufinwë’s extended family.

Tempting as it was to try her luck climbing down from the balcony and taking off to hunt down one of his cousins—any of his cousins—as soon as she could, Lindalórë resisted. For the most part because she would probably break her neck trying to climb down alone.

She also needed to establish whether or not her own mother was her ally or her enemy.

Swallowing sharply, Lindalórë pushed herself up from the ground, trying to ignore the way her knees were quivering and her hands were shaking and her palm slipped on the bathroom doorknob three times before she managed to get the door unlocked and opened. A glimpse of herself in the mirror revealed that she was pale-faced with dark rings beneath her red-rimmed eyes, and her hair was a mess, rumpled from where she had pressed it up against the wall.

She tried to right it, though her hands were still shaking too hard to be of much use. It was rearranged at least to the point where it looked acceptable enough that she could venture out into the hallway and listen to see if their “guest” was still about. It was late, almost the evening she judged by the dimness of the light filtered in through the balcony curtains when she walked shakily back out into the main bedchamber. One could only hope that _his_ business with her father had long since concluded and he had gone on his way.

 _Tea,_ she told herself, biting her lip. _If anyone asks, I have a headache and I am getting myself some chamomile tea and returning to bed._

Slowly, she opened her door, wincing as it creaked.

There was no sound from down the hallway. Nor any far-off voices. Creeping further down the hallway, she listened for the sound of her father’s voice but heard nothing as she approached the study. The door was closed, and no light shone from the crack beneath.

She let out a long breath.

Continuing, she descended the staircase, making certain to be quiet as she went. Still nothing. It was not so late that her parents were likely yet abed, though. So long as she could stay quiet, perhaps she could go back up to her room with some food and tea and not leave again until she had some idea of what to do.

The soft sound of voices filtered through the air as she crept closer to the sitting room. Her father’s. Her mother’s. Peeking around the corner, she spotted one of the maids with a tea tray leaving the room and quickly hid until the footsteps faded at the other end of the hallway. The very _last_ thing she wanted was for her name to be announced like a visitor’s at the door, for she doubted she would be able to stomach an entire evening in the presence of her parents now without screaming or crying to throwing up all over the rich, thick woven rugs. In the presence of a man who wanted her put in her place so that the _family business looked well._

Lindalórë did not know that she had ever felt so betrayed. Even though she should not have been surprised, even though she had suspected it for a very long time, to hear it confirmed…

 _Do not think on it,_ she told herself desperately, tasting bile on the back of her tongue. _Do not think on it now._

And then the presence of a third voice made her heart stutter. She could swear that, for a moment, it stopped altogether. _He_ was still here.

Almost immediately, she fled back up to her room. _Hang food and tea!_

It took all her strength to stay quiet, to not run up the steps, to stay calm as she walked silently down the hallway and slipped into her rooms. Only when she had the door firmly locked behind her did she feel like she could _breathe_ again.

Quickly, she crossed the room and sat on the edge of her bed, curling her trembling legs underneath her body. Her eyes felt distant and blurred, like everything in the room swam in and out of focus for long moments, oscillating between sharp reality and the hazy phantasmagoria in which the walls bled black and red in the fading light of sunset. Lindalórë put her head down on her bed, cheek pressed to the coolness of the sheets, using the cold on her hot skin to stay the feeling of nausea.

Staring at the far wall, she watched as the gold and the red bled away into dark purple and gray. And then into black with a streak of silver light. The tiniest sliver of Isil.

No one came for her.

Even then, knowing that it was nighttime, that _he_ must have gone by now, she could not rest. Her heart throbbed at the base of her throat, hard and fast no matter how still she lay.

What she would not have given to feel Curufinwë beside her, to have his arms curled around her as he nuzzled into the nape of her neck, as he pressed little sleepy kisses against the soft skin of her shoulder. If he were here, lazily snoring into her ear while holding her close, she knew she would have felt safe and secure.

She knew he would never have let anything awful happen to her. He would rather have died.

Closing her eyes, she struggled not to cry. And she prayed he would be back soon, with or without Írissë.

Because, as soon as he was within reaching distance again, as soon as she could see his beloved face once more and kiss his beloved chapped lips, she was going to take him back and have them never be so parted again. Enough of this punishment nonsense. Enough of the bitterness that was keeping them apart. If she had just done that from the start, if she had just moved back with him to live in their old cottage full of old memories or up into the mountains where no one could reach them, she would be safe right now and not trapped in a house that waged war upon her and her love. She would not be alone with no allies and nowhere to go and no one to turn to.

_If I had just…_

But wishing was not enough to make this better. Wrapping her arms around herself, she continued to stare blankly at the wall until the silvery streak of moonlight slipped out of view and left her in darkness.

And until the first light of dawn crept across the wall.

And through the knock of the maid on her door first thing in the morning she did not even stir. No power in the heavens or upon Eä could have made her move at this moment, let alone drink tea and eat breakfast.

She just stared at the wall until the maid went away.

\---

When he arrived back, the sun was lowering and the shadows of the trees in the thicket and grown long and tangled across the ground in an array of dizzying stripes. He had departed from the clearing going due west and circled back around to come from the south, intersecting the path of Írissë in several places, catching sight of the poorly-hidden footsteps and disrupted undergrowth signifying her passage. He knew that she was ahead of him, knew that she would beat him back, could tell that he was perhaps twenty minutes or so behind her in the race.

Before he even breached the sanctity of the small clearing, he could hear the soft song of feminine moaning and heavy breathing. Heat flooded his belly immediately, swelling low in his loins, and he knew that he would find something beautiful when caught sight of her cast in the tangle of the forest shadows.

“Tyelko…” she groaned out, long and low.

Eru, though, she was lovely. He stumbled out of the wilds and right into a dream with her spread out in the grass like a feast.

Írissë was lovely in a way Lúthien bloody Tinúviel could never have been. Stripped down to her chemise, thin enough for her pebbled nipples to poke through, her legs spread and her hand dipped down between her thighs to cup her dark-furred sex. Her drawers and clothes were scattered about in the grass, and her wild hair mixed with the shadows like black flame.

“Inside me,” he heard her gasp, order with a hint of desperate need. “Your mouth on me, your tongue inside me…”

Entranced, he knelt between her legs, reached out to touch the slicked softness of her inner highs, the bony hardness of her hips. His thumbs stroked through the soft dark hair of her mons, tracing over the swells of her outer labia and pressing her folds apart to watch as she stroked her clitoris and circled the damp, dark pink opening beneath.

“Tyelko,” she gasped, eyes opening to look up at him, burning bright with need.

“It seems you won, írima melissë,” he whispered huskily, looking down at her splayed body with that same insatiable fire taking over his blood and that same blissful calm consuming his mind as had consumed him each and every time before. “I suppose that means that I am at your service, my lady.”

“I suppose it does.” Upon her lips was a quirky, sly little smirk. She knew damn well what she was doing to him. “I think you can guess where to start, melindo.”

Just like that, she opened her thighs wider, invited him home in the space between. Everything about her, the way she was arched and wanton in the grass, the way her swollen lips—bitten by her little white teeth—were parted, and her slender neck covered in old bruises was bared, and her breasts were offered up like a sacrifice to the skies. The way her belly flexed with each motion of her fingers upon her sex, and the way her entrance quivered as he looked down at her intimate flower. All of it left his throat closing and his tongue feeling swollen and longing for a taste, for it was inviting and entrancing, and she looked like an Ainu made from the purest snow laid out _all for him._

“I think I can,” he answered, leaning down to breathe in the salted but sweet scent of her natural musk and the spice of her sharp arousal.

Eagerly, he dipped his tongue into her, felt her whining cry and the grip of her hands in his hair, and wondered at why his belly felt as though it were filled with roiling, twisting fire. Why, when this act had never particularly enticed him before, was it suddenly mouth-watering when it was Írissë spread out in the grass, when it was Írissë pulling his hair sharply, when it was Írissë whose hips squirmed beneath his grasp?

This act, like all the others they had tried, he had done before many times before to pleasure his female companions, and he was skilled with the application of pressure, knowing just how to stroke his tongue inside her to make her inner thighs jerks in tandem with her loud gasp of his name. It was a matter of pride, having the ability to pleasure the women he laid with, though he had never held more than a passing attraction to any woman he had been with before and had never desired further attachment of an emotional sort. Intercourse was about satisfying the itch in his belly and his blood, about having a mutually enjoyable and natural but altogether fleeting joining, and then both parties went their separate ways satisfied and unbound. Until now, Turkafinwë had never bothered to bed the same woman more than twice.

Too often, he would grow bored with their scent and their body. With the way they moved or spoke his name. Too often, he would grow annoyed with their noise, the way they insisted upon speaking when all was said and done. Too often, he turned them—sometimes cruelly—away when they broached the possibility of love-play and mutual satiation becoming something more.

Somehow, he had expected the same with Írissë. That he would find her after the satisfaction of the hunt and the chase, and they would make love-play in the grass, but it would feel dull and disappointing compared to their frolicking at the Festival. That he would satisfy her but the need to be with her would diminish in his blood, and they might go back to how they had been before, understanding one another well enough to be companions or even friends but without the white-fire need stalking their footsteps.

She had defied his expectations. Here he was, several days and many rounds of coitus later, and the burn for her had diminished not at all. There was none of the dull disappointment, none of the lingering boredom, none of the voices creeping in at the edges of his thoughts.

Licking his way deep into Írissë, he wondered that her little bleat of “Tyelko! _Do that again!”_ as she bucked her hips did not make him wrinkle his nose in annoyance. He wondered that the twist of her fingers in his hair, stinging pain upon his scalp, had his back arching and his cock throbbing and his toes curling rather than bringing forth the first vestiges of sharp revulsion as it always had before.

He had never particularly liked this act, no. But, as he pulled away and flicked his tongue across Írissë’s swollen pearl, as he looked up and met her pale eyes and felt her hands urging him to repeat the motion, he wondered that seeing her as such was different.

Leaning down, he sank into her again, deep and eager to reach as far into her as he could with just his tongue. And it left his own hips grinding downwards, his mouth vibrating with a groan, her taste bitter upon his tongue and flooding his senses. And he wanted to help her reach orgasm. He wanted to see her as she fell. He wanted it more than he wanted to breathe. His eyes rolled up, staring at her face as her eyelashes flickered open and shut and open and shut, as her breaths became heady gasps.

“I am… I am going to… Tyelko, Tyelko, I am…” She groaned, long and low, and her hands held him in place while her hips arched up, and his whole world was narrowed to her face and the smell of her need and the way he felt her flutter around his tongue.

And then she was shaking all around him, her legs clamping over his shoulders, his hands digging bruises into her thighs. Entranced by her shaky cry, by the rhythmic tremble of her belly as she rippled around him, by the way her eyes rolled back and her back curled in, he stayed on his knees and swallowed her down. Until her gasps turned into little chirping cries. Until her fingernails scraped over his scalp. Until he felt her muscles fall limp and her body unraveled and lay limp and long and lovely in the grass.

Licking his lips, he tasted her, felt her wetness on his chin. Blinking down at her sex, he could see her throbbing.

And, for all that he felt like someone had set a fire between his thighs, he did not immediately crawl up her body and join them together. Instead, he looked at her face, all flushed about her cheeks and her swollen, cranberry red lips, bitten at by her teeth as she struggled against her cries. “Well,” he said hoarsely, “As agreed, my lady, I am still at your service. What would you have me do now?”

 _If it were anyone else,_ he found himself thinking, _you would not have bothered to uphold the bet at all. If it were any other woman, you would have overwhelmed her by now, would have taken control of the situation and would already be taking her hard and fast in the grass._

Normally, he did not have any patience for these sorts of games or for being ordered about by some strange woman fancying herself the tamer of a wild and wicked Kinslayer. It was not that no woman had ever tried to play those sorts of games, but that they always left him feeling cold and dissatisfied, his ardor fading instead of growing hotter in his loins. Yet, there was none of that feeling of being controlled or manipulated here. It was the way she smiled down at him, pushing herself up onto her elbows so that she could look at him lying belly-in-the-grass between her shaking knees, that captured and held his attention, that registered as genuine affection. He did not want to look away from her, did not want her to be overwhelmed and lost, did not want her to regret or to be upset or be driven away.

He wanted… He wanted her to enjoy herself. Not as a means to an end. Specifically, to _his end._ Just… because he did.

_How strange._

“Would you…?” Her voice was still shaky, still quiet and trembling, just a little hesitant. “Would you do that again? I… That was good, Tyelko. Again?”

He blinked up at her, surprised. Never had he encountered such a request. Most women were almost too embarrassed to allow him to perform oral sex on them the first time—with the rare and sometimes unpleasant exceptions who wanted nothing more than to have a powerful man servicing them with his mouth—though it was almost always a good way to get them excited, and he usually only used it to prepare them, to rile them up before the main event. Cocking his head to the side, he thought about it, about how it had not been at all as unpleasant as usual, and about how desirable Írissë had looked during the act, and how debauched she looked after, and…

“You do not have to,” she said quickly, and he was a little unsettled to see the tiniest bit of embarrassment then shine through, as though there were something wrong with her eagerness to be pleasured. “Eöl was not fond of doing it often either. Besides, you must be ready by now, so it is only fair to move on.”

“I did not say I would not do it again,” he countered, narrowing his eyes.

_If it were anyone else…_

“Do you want me to?” he asked then, kneading her thighs with his broad, callused palms, smoothing them down over her soft skin. “After all, Írissë, this is your night. A bet is a bet.”

She bit her lip. “If you do not mind, then. Would you… again?”

“Okay,” he agreed, looking back down at her sex, feeling thrilled in a way that he was not quite familiar with. Her scent was stronger now even than before, and her taste sharper on his tongue as he laved it over her clit and listened for her airy gasp. Her legs had fallen open around him, but her heels now dug sharply into the grass as she pressed up into his mouth. The hands that had grown gentle in his hair tightened again, twisting as she writhed in his grasp.

Smirking up at her, he pressed a firm kiss against her pearl and then sucked. Satisfaction bloomed in his belly at the buck of her hips. “Tyelko!”

“Írissë,” he teased, breathing over her sex, nuzzling into her warmth. “Is this what you are after, vanya?”

Her laughter was soft, and her fingers massaged against his scalp. And her gasp was beautiful when he lapped again at her clitoris, watching how her muscles tightened and shuddered, how her hips swiveled and her thighs tensed, how her eyes fluttered with bliss. And then, contact again, lower and slower over her folds, up over her loveliness. “Mm… Tyelko…”

It was slower this time, and he found himself enjoying each time he brushed her in her most sensitive place, each time she let out a little whining cry as a result and struggled just a little against the powerful grip of his hands that held her in place for the sensual attack. The flush spread down her body, hiding demurely beneath the last thin veil of the chemise she still wore, but her face was bare and her cheeks were turning redder still, her lips once more struggling against the urge to fall open beneath her singing moans. She bit the soft skin to stifle them, and he pulled away.

“Let me hear you,” he murmured, leaning down to lick her again, all the way up her slit, just brushing her clitoris again. He shuddered in response to her sweet little mewl.

Her head pressed back into the grass with his next stroke, her eyes clenched shut. But, this time, she did not try to stifle her loud, vibrating moan. Turning his attention fully upon her, tasting her deeply again, giving just a little circle about her pearl with the tip of his tongue on the upstroke, he thought that, perhaps, this was not so terrible.

Well, his cock certainly did not find the noises she made terrible. Or the headiness of her scent as it filled up his senses. Or the taste of her need on his tongue, sharp and sweet both as he focused in around her entrance where he knew she would be sensitive. Quite the opposite, in fact, as it loudly demanded attention and ached and complained at his neglect when all he did was rock his hips into the grass and otherwise ignore the need.

Slowly, they fell into rhythm. And he could feel her tension slowly building, could feel her clit stiffening, could taste the new dampness upon his lips as her hips rocked upwards in slow waves to match his attentions. Eyes fluttering shut, he fell into her body. Into the sound of her cries and the scent of the earth.

Licking deep into her, he savored her almost-scream into the night. Offset the motion by drawing away, then flicking his tongue on her pearl to hear her gasp, then slowly diving back in to the counterpoint of her groan. Again, and again, until he reached up and felt her belly quivering beneath his palm as he laid it just beneath her navel and pressed down. Until he hoisted her leg up over his shoulder to get deeper and she let out something that might have been a sob as her whole body bent like a bow beneath his touch.

“Tyelkormo,” she hissed out. “Eru, it is not even fair, how are you…?”

 _Not fair?_ Were he not so focused on her pleasure, he might have laughed, for how many times in the past days had he thought the same thing about her as she straddled his hips and took him down to the root? As her mouth swallowed his sex down and made his body sing and shake? As the sound of her voice brought gooseflesh upon his skin, sensitive and burning with the desire to be _touched?_

 _It is good to know that the helplessness is mutual._ The images of her body, the knowledge that he was driving her crazy… Fuck, this was the closest he had been to reaching climax without directly touching himself or being touched since he was a stripling!

And it was just because of her. Because of _Írissë_ and no one else.

Almost viciously, he sucked hard upon her sweet spot, feeling her jolt sharply beneath his mouth as she squealed, and then sank in deep and felt her come apart.

And he drank her down as she dazedly mewled his name. And it was fucking _perfect._

Until she was done, moaning with little aborted twitches of her hips and thighs as he pulled away and washed her sex with his breath, traced his tongue over her one last time. He wondered if his face was glistening with her climax beneath the sliver of the moon when she looked down at him from above.

She certainly looked beautiful. Sleek and shimmering beneath the silver light, stained in places with pearlescent pink and deep cranberry red. “Satisfactory, my lady?” he panted.

“You know it was,” she accused, but her lips were caught in a hazy smirk.

Leaning down, he rested his cheek against her inner thigh. “Now what?”

Her throat bobbed with a thick swallow, and he could read the indecision in the cant of her swollen lips and the shuffle of her anxious feet in the grass. It occurred to him then, with no small amount of amusement, what exactly it was that she wanted.

“Again?” he asked with a raised eyebrow, a little skeptical but also a little flattered and a little curious to see if she would even be conscious enough to do anything else after a full day of walking with only a short afternoon nap followed by a rigorous ten-mile hike through the wilderness and three orgasms beneath his tongue in the grass.

And her look was sheepish. “Maybe?”

Releasing a little huff of a sigh, he rolled back onto his belly and pushed her legs further open from where they had fallen. “Very well.”

And he could not help the little twitch his cock gave when she almost jumped in pleasure beneath the first touch of his tongue. The satisfaction curled hot and heavy in his belly and flared outwards into a pool of golden light under his skin.

The sound of her cries echoed up towards the stars and filled the heavens. And they were all because of him. All _for_ him.

_All for him._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:
> 
> írima (Q) = desirable  
> melissë (Q) = female lover  
> melindo (Q) = male lover  
> Isil (Q) = the Moon  
> vanya (Q) = beautiful


	52. Poisoned Knives and Pure Spite

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Because Curufinwë is obviously made of only these two things and nothing else. If you were looking for any decency--let alone kindness--it is not there. Obviously.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: DT (the shakes), vomiting, seizures, delusions/hallucinations, threats of violence, panic attack, PTSD, insomnia, memory of violent/bloody death, alcoholism, unrequited love, past falling out, emotional manipulation, dysfunctional family politics, unhealthy coping mechanisms
> 
> Here we get to see the top layer or three of Findekáno's mountain of emotional/mental problems. You can make something of a guess of what's going through his head. Curufinwë definitely makes some assumptions but has no idea what's actually went down between his brother and his cousin.
> 
> Maedhros = Maitimo = Nelyafinwë = Nelyo = Russandol  
> Maglor = Makalaurë = Kanafinwë = Káno  
> Celegorm = Tyelkormo = Tyelko = Turkafinwë = Turko  
> Caranthir = Carnistir = Morifinwë = Moryo  
> Curufin = Atarinkë = Curufinwë = Curvo  
> Amrod = Ambarussa = Pityafinwë = Pityo = Minyarussa  
> Amras = Umbarto = Telufinwë = Telvo = Atyarussa  
> Fingon = Findekáno  
> Turgon = Turukáno = Turno  
> Aredhel = Írissë  
> Argon = Arakáno  
> Fingolfin = Nolofinwë  
> Finarfin = Arafinwë  
> Egalmoth = Aikambalotsë  
> Ecthelion = Ehtelion  
> Glorfindel = Laurefindil  
> Celebrimbor = Telperinquar

_Elenya, 49 Lairë (1 July)_

\---

There was not really time to contemplate what was going on, or who was potentially choking to death, or whether Curufinwë truly wanted that person to live or if he would ultimately be happier if they rolled over and died on the rocky, uncomfortable ground in the middle of these Eru-forsaken woods. In such sudden, panic-stricken situations, the instincts took over and left the body with no choice but to follow. Whether it was the instinct to run someone through with a sword to stay alive because _they were coming after you and if you did not defend yourself you were going to be lying in a puddle of bodily fluid on the ground helpless as you choked and died_ or whether it was to get someone to _breathe Eru-damnit_ so that they would _stop making that noise that meant blood was bubbling up the back of their throat and he could not stand to hear it again and no one fucking deserved to suffer through that and…_

Harshly, he remembered that sound. Remembered it echoing in his ears as he scrambled on the ground. Remembered trying to breathe and failing. Remembered trying again and choking. Remembered knowing he was going to die and knowing no one was going to help and fearing the onset of blackness at the corners of his eyes as he drowned in his own blood.

And he needed that noise to stop. _Now._

Curufinwë was swearing and jumping over the sleeping bodies scattered around the clearing, only to land heavily on the ground beside Findekáno’s jolting form, hands reaching out to grasp the man’s tunic and turn him over. His knees protested with sharp pain as they collided with the earth ungracefully, and he ignored them soundly as he took in the sight of his cousin’s gray face and glassy, bloodshot eyes.

He did not like Findekáno. There was no denying that. But that did not stop him from forcibly rolling the man over onto his side and smacking him sharply between his shoulder blades in hopes of getting him to cough up whatever was lodged in his throat so that he could _breathe._ Again, and again. And then, on the fifth sharp jab, the choking became heaving, the body curling and jerking, and he held his cousin’s head turned to face downwards so that the vomit came _out_ and did not get sucked back in.

It was disgusting, but not the most disgusting thing that Curufinwë had ever been forced to deal with. At that moment, he did not particularly care about a little bit of sick, because he found the tremors shaking through Findekáno’s sprawled form to be much more worrisome.

When there did not seem to be anything else coming out, he jerked Findekáno’s head around to face him. Eyes open, but distant with a sort of trance that would have been sleep except for one did not _sleep_ through being this violently ill. Over his shoulder, he felt the presence of others, but did not have time to care about what they were doing, instead focusing simultaneously on trying to get a reaction out of the limp form of the potentially dying man and on trying to calm the tremors running through his own hands and to slow the heartbeat slamming against the inside of his ribs.

“Findekáno!” Shaking yielded no response, though the violent tremors were slowly diminishing. “Cousin! Fuck you, Findekáno! Wake up!”

A sound slap on the cheek at least drew out a groan. “R-Russa…?”

 _He thinks I am Nelyafinwë! Do I actually sound like Nelyafinwë?_ The half-hysterical though crossed his mind briefly as he shook Findekáno about the shoulders again. “No, it is Curufinwë, you bastard!”

“Russa…” Findekáno rolled towards him, probably through the bile he had wretched up, and Curufinwë almost collapsed under the sudden weight. Other hands—he could see Turukáno off to one side trying to help steady the maybe-not-drunken-but-sick man and Arakáno on the other—kept him from being crushed underneath the woozy form, but Curufinwë still wrinkled his nose and twitched in sharp irritation as hands grabbed at his clothes and his older cousin used him as a pillow.

Slowly, as he realized that Findekáno was _not,_ in fact, dying, his heartrate slowed. Annoyance at having panicked settled in. That he had reacted so viscerally on instinct brought a flush of humiliation to his face, because these men were not his family—not his brothers or his son—and he should not still be minutely trembling with the aftermath of a rush of adrenaline over someone he did not even like potentially choking to death in their own vomit.

“If he throws up on me,” Curufinwë said cruelly, “I am going to stab him.”

Turukáno sent him a dirty look, but it was mitigated by the worry plain as day in those pale eyes. Carefully, the pair of brothers peeled their third off the angry Fëanárion, and Findekáno fell back into the makeshift net of their arms with a loud groan, eyes fluttering spasmodically, twitching and pushing at the ground as if trying to hold himself up but failing miserably all the while.

“C’mon, Russan— Russa— Russandol-l,” Findekáno was muttering, his eyes fully open but unfocused as they rested on Curufinwë. There was recognition there, but the fifth brother was approximately one hundred percent certain that Findekáno only _thought_ he was recognizing Nelyafinwë and failing miserably. Fuck’s sake, they did not even have the same hair color! “S’just a bit a— of-of fun. Why’re y-you always… always such a _spoilsport,_ hmmmm?”

And then he was slurring and rocking forward again, and Curufinwë could have sworn his cousin was trying to slobber all over his face and neck. Only it just ended with a very awkward full-body hug with Findekáno lying on top of him, nuzzling against his shoulder like a giant cat, and he was suddenly making more bodily contact with his male cousin than he had made with his wife in a very, very long time.

“Off,” he hissed, now furious that he had even bothered to try to help at all when his only reward was being drooled on. “Get him the _fuck_ off me!”

“Findekáno,” the youngest Nolofinwion was saying, trying to capture his older brother’s scattered attention. With a sigh, he almost bodily lifted his brother and dragged him away to prevent the older Nolofinwion from launching himself into Curufinwë’s lap a second time. “Findekáno, Nelyafinwë is not here…”

“S’right there, Ara. You b-blind?”

“Come here… come on…” Long-suffering, Arakáno sat his older brother up against a tree, sending them all a look caught between helplessness and annoyance. “Do we have any wine left at all?”

Clearly, this was addressed towards the rest of them. Naturally, after digging through their own belongings, and then through Findekáno’s, they had four empty wine bottles between the lot of them and not a drop of alcohol in sight.

Now that his cousin was mostly no longer in danger of dying but _was_ hallucinating, still mumbling about Nelyafinwë and rocking back and forth slowly, Curufinwë recognized the withdrawal. It was the fucking _third day_ and Findekáno had gone through all the available alcohol they had on hand. Of course, he had. And now he was going to be going without for the foreseeable future.

 _If it is any consolation,_ he thought to himself bitterly, noting that he _did,_ in fact, have drool on his tunic and that it most likely would stink of vomit, _he will be experiencing the worst hangover of his existence for approximately the next week._

Unfortunately, they were going to be dealing with it. And him.

 _Fuck this,_ he thought to himself, wishing he could just flop down on the ground, look up at the stars, and burn away into nothingness.

Naturally, Findekáno decided that this was the absolute best time and place to start singing. Only, obviously out of his mind as he was, his voice was too slurred to make out the undoubtedly debauched lyrics, and Arakáno had to very literally wrap an arm around him to keep him from tumbling over sideways into the bushes.

Meanwhile, Curufinwë wished he had just let the ass choke.

“Now that your brother has _mauled me,_ can you not even give me space to _breathe_ without having a Nolofinwion in my damned face?” he growled out, sitting up to find that Turukáno was still sitting beside him looking more concerned than he had any right to be—for either Curufinwë’s sake or Findekáno’s.

Almost nervously, Turukáno bit at his lip, glancing towards his siblings some meters away. Arakáno was doing his best to quiet the eldest—who was still alternating between shouting and singing and whispering, who was still babbling on about Nelyafinwë this and Nelyafinwë that under his breath but using that ridiculous nickname while doing it—with a soothing, soft voice all the while keeping the clearly disturbed man from trying to crawl off in search of someone else to bother. Or, perhaps, trying to keep him from trying to find Nelyafinwë again, given his damn fixation.

“You… are not going to ask about… _that?”_ Cautiously, Turukáno motioned towards his brother, who was now trying to strangle Arakáno with a hug and give him a kiss.

Curufinwë would rather not think about it. Looking at the mess that was Nolofinwë’s eldest child, after being manhandled and hugged and kissed by said Nolofinwion, currently in a state of altered consciousness in which he clearly believed he was in the presence of his former best friend, the fifth brother was fairly certain that he could guess at what was going on, and he would rather pretend that he had absolutely no idea. Life would stay much simpler if he did not know a damn thing about Findekáno’s personal problems.

“No,” he said simply.

He had enough problems without dealing with his cousin’s problems as well.

“Do you… think Nelyafinwë knows?” Turukáno asked then, looking incredibly uncomfortable bringing the subject up at all. “Do you… think he would help?”

And, immediately, Curufinwë felt his lip curl up in fury. “It is not my brother’s responsibility to fix whatever mental deficiencies your idiotic older brother has developed. Regardless of whether or not they stem from this… this…”

With a sound of disgust, he stood up and stalked away, unable to even _look_ at the mess before him, unable to help the fury that wanted to spew from his tongue at the mere suggestion that Nelyafinwë should somehow be responsible for fixing Findekáno. His older brother owed the eldest Nolofinwion absolutely _nothing,_ and certainly did not need to be dealing with Findekáno’s obvious trauma on top of his own. Not now. Not when he was just starting to get better after an endless stint of self-deprecating hatred, when he was fucking _smiling_ more often than not, when he was happy and thriving with his new wife, and…

Frustration spilled from his lips in a snarl. _Fuck all of this!_

“I meant it not like that!” Turukáno trailed after him, and he was damn lucky that Curufinwë was too exhausted to have enough energy to do more than hiss like an angry cat rather than clawing out the man’s eyes like one. “I just meant… if they could just _speak.”_

“And how would that help anyone?”

Curufinwë had no idea what the falling-out of Nelyafinwë and Findekáno had entailed, did not know if it had happened as a result of Nelyafinwë’s failure to prevent Fëanáro from abandoning Nolofinwë’s people at Araman or if it had happened as a result of something untold that had come to pass during the harrowing rescue at Thangorodrim when Findekáno had cut off Nelyafinwë’s hand or if it had happened sometime afterwards in the midst of all the rest of the chaos as the world came apart. All he knew was that a once-close friendship had seemingly dissolved overnight, the pair almost outright refusing to so much as make eye contact, let alone speak. And, for once, having looked at his eldest older brother with his missing hand and his gaunt face, having heard his hoarse voice and seen the flash of unspoken terror in his eyes burning into madness, Curufinwë had not pressed. He had left his brother’s personal life and personal relationships well alone, and that was the end of that.

No one in their right mind pressed Nelyafinwë in those ways. Most of them did not dare to do so even now. That was how he had gotten himself into this mess in the first place, by stepping on his older brother’s toes.

“I… I do not know if it would. Help, that is,” Turukáno admitted, almost wincing at the sharp glare he received. “But nothing else has.”

Looking back at Findekáno, at how his cousin was rather pathetically now clinging to poor Arakáno like a limpet, cycling swiftly and disconcertingly between apparent joy and almost violent restless nervousness, he wondered. He wondered if it would help either of them. He wondered if there was any point in bothering.

“The moment we return to civilization, he will just drown himself in an ocean of alcohol again,” Curufinwë said slyly. “Forget about it.”

And he walked away. Because that was the only damn sensible thing to do.

He needed at least another five hours of sleep before dealing with this pile of _shit._

But, of course, the sleep did not come.

\---

_Anarya, 50 Lairë (2 July)_

\---

If it were happening to anyone else, Curufinwë probably would have found the whole damn thing to be absolutely hilarious. Most especially because it involved Turukáno dragging his elder brother about like a ragdoll looking as horrifically miserable as they both deserved. However, it became significantly less entertaining when Findekáno called him by his older brother’s name and tried to suffocate him every time he came within a meter of the loon.

And it made it painfully, unpleasantly obvious what may very well be the problem underlying Findekáno’s excessive drinking. Or one of them, anyway.

_And here, I used to think he was a bit of a flirt with the ladies._

Curufinwë was beginning to think he had not known his older cousin very well. And that he had not known much about the relationship that Findekáno had shared with his oldest brother.

It was strange to think about.

Halfway through the morning, it also became obvious that no one was going anywhere until Findekáno was no longer periodically seizing or having vivid hallucinations, and they all settled in to watch the pitiful spectacle unfold. With brutal speed was he switching back and forth between his vibrantly wild personality and someone who honestly seemed like he thought the world was falling apart at the seams, someone who laughed with such sharp self-depreciation that made one’s jaw ache, someone who smiled broadly and painfully and looked like they wanted to cry or bash their skull in against the nearest rock. One or the other.

“Where is Russandol?” Slurring, Findekáno looked up at his brother with hazy eyes. “I need to talk to… talk to Russa…”

They had told him about fifty times already that Nelyafinwë was not there. And he either could not remember or did not believe them or simply was not connecting the real physical world with whatever was going on in his head. Or maybe all of those at once.

And it was clear that Turukáno was getting desperate.

“He thinks you are Nelyafinwë. Just let him say what he wants to say and be done with it,” his cousin almost begged, looking like he was torn between pulling his own hair out or reaching over and pulling Curufinwë’s out instead as punishment for refusing cooperation in all this ridiculousness. “In a few days he will be sober and none of it will matter. He will not even remember what he said.”

“It does not matter now!” Curufinwë snapped, tired of the wheedling, tired of listening to Findekáno’s moaning, and tired of Turukáno wanting to foist this horrid joke off onto his shoulders like he _owed_ it to them to help. “I do not like you, and I do not like your brother. As far as I am concerned, you can both hang! His emotional mess of a psyche has nothing to do with me and is not my responsibility to fix—or Nelyafinwë’s, for that matter!”

It brought him an almost vindictive pleasure to see Turukáno suck in air sharply between his teeth, to see a red flush of rage spread across that pale skin, to watch his cousin’s hands curl into fists as the harsh words bored down into him and left him writhing in hatred, left that vivid emotion burning in his pale eyes. “Findekáno is like this _because of your brother!_ Because of your _rotten family!_ Everything you touch, everyone you speak to, every word you say, all of it is _poisoned_ with your lies and your filth! And you will not even take responsibility for the lives you ruin! Do not make me laugh! The debt you owe us—owe me, and my father, and my brother—is _immeasurable!”_

And _fuck_ Turukáno for knowing how to rile him up in return. He was not Turkafinwë, unflappable in the face of insult, or Kanafinwë, level-headed until pushed to the very edge of his patience, or Morifinwë, who did not possess a truly vicious bone in his entire body no matter how much he wanted to rage and hate their cousins.

No. Curufinwë had exactly one weakness. And it was his family. His brothers and his wife and his son. And he could stand nothing less than insults thrown upon them like spit and rot and trash. His mouth was dry from the swiftness of his breaths, and his body shook, but the adrenaline was from fury rather than panic, and it made him want nothing more than to reach for a sword and show Turukáno exactly what happened to fools who decided to incite the tempers of the Fëanárioni.

“We owe you _nothing,”_ he snarled, curtailing the violent urges enough to only shove his cousin back. “Nelyafinwë was _loyal_ to his ridiculous bond of brotherhood with your brother, with your clan, and you did not _deserve his loyalty!”_

“Oh yes, so loyal,” Turukáno returned with an ugly snarl, shoving his way back into Curufinwë’s space, bringing their faces so close that they could easily kiss. Or try to rip one another’s faces apart with their teeth like animals. “I suppose that is the reason why the people of Nolofinwë and Arafinwë spent two decades _freezing_ and _starving_ and _dying_ in a frozen wasteland! Because of Nelyafinwë’s _loyalty!”_

“You know nothing about it.” And he did not, not from Curufinwë’s point of view. Not about the fact that none of them had known or even suspected their own father’s treachery. Not about the fact that they had all been terrified of the man their whole lives and more so still after he had clearly lost his mind in grief and lust for vengeance. Not about the fact that they had gone forth with every intention of sending the ships back to their cousins. Not about the fact they had all stood in horrified silence when their father told them the truth of his plans, when he had spat it in Nelyafinwë’s face while the eldest stood stark and lost and wordless with shock. Not about the fact that there had been _nothing they could do_ short of direct disobedience.

And look where that had gotten Telufinwë!

“I know enough,” Turukáno hissed out. “I know my brother has been pining and moaning after your damn brother for almost as long as he has been alive, that he has been a faithful and loyal friend, and that it earned him nothing from your brother. He was _useful_ to your family and nothing else, and _your brother destroyed him!”_

Curufinwë could not stand it. He could _not stand to hear it!_

“Speak about Nelyafinwë again,” he gasped out, breathless, “And I swear to Ilúvatar himself that I shall cut out your tongue, fiend. _I swear it!”_

“Enough!” They were pulled apart, but not before Curufinwë saw the blood drain from Turukáno’s face. Not before he saw the whites of his cousin’s eyes. Not before he grinned toothily in the satisfaction of inciting primal terror in his prey. And then Aikambalotsë was yanking him back by his tunic, and Ehtelion and Laurefindil were pulling his cousin away as well, blocking the other man from sight.

“Enough,” his brother-in-law said again, broad hands on Curufinwë’s shoulders. And all he could feel was his own body, his own rage vibrating like a monstrous parasite beneath his skin, his heartbeat pounding beneath the ringing in his ears, his breath coming in fast and heady waves of oxygen to feed the fire. “Enough, Curufinwë.”

 _It will never be enough,_ he wanted to say, wanted to scream and rage and curse and cry. But the wildfire fury in his blood was passing already, drifting away and taking part of his spirit away with it. Without the bloodshed and the battle to fuel the high, it always faded. Left him feeling shaky and bare and shattered, like his spirit was too great and too hot for its mortal cage. He felt it burning at the edges of his flesh, and then cooling like a red-hot iron dropped into snow, so fast he shivered.

“I cannot allow him to speak of Nelyafinwë that way,” he breathed out. “Out of all of us, Nelyafinwë _loved them the most._ He deserved their love and they repaid it with hatred. And that… that… it is disrespectful to everything Nelyafinwë is and was. I cannot allow it.”

“Let it be. They are words only, spoken in anger and in foolishness,” Aikambalotsë soothed. And Curufinwë hated how much his brother-in-law sounded like Lindalórë. For just that split second. Like a voice of reason.

He hated them. All of them.

Findekáno for not being the friend Nelyafinwë deserved. Nolofinwë for not being the mentor and father they had all needed. Turukáno for foisting their father’s sins upon them. All the others for silently allowing it to happen even though they all knew who was truly responsible for the shattered bonds and the cruel abandonment that had transpired. Even now, they did not want to admit it. The Fëanárioni had committed their fair share of crimes, but breaking the bonds of the brotherhood sworn between the House of Fëanáro and Nolofinwë had been their father’s decision and their father’s alone.

If Nelyafinwë had been their leader, it would never have happened. That, when he _was_ their leader, he took the blame for it anyway…

There were few good things in the world when Curufinwë was growing up. Not his parents. Not his artistry. Not the house. Not the court. Not the responsibilities or the duties or the bloody prince-ship. Sometimes, not even most of his brothers.

But there had always been Nelyafinwë. 

His older brother had been good, had deserved better. And Curufinwë had learned that he could not let anyone trample upon his family members, could not betray anyone he held dear again, needed to protect them with every last breath in his lungs and hair on his head and cell in his skin. Because he was _not_ good like Nelyafinwë, and he was willing to put his horrid temper and his sharpened sword of a tongue and his cruel disposition to good use so that no one else need be put in that position of being desecrated again. Because it was the greatest injustice of all that Nelyafinwë should be the one to suffer for Fëanáro’s crimes without anyone to lean on, and he could not allow it to continue. _Could not._

And he just hated them all. Himself included. “I am not sorry. I meant what I said.”

“You should not have said it regardless,” Aikambalotsë scolded, sounding more tired than angry about the spontaneous oath.

“And Turukáno should not assume that I can be coerced into assisting his idiotic drunken brother with personal problems,” Curufinwë hissed out, shuddering at the very thought of sitting through being groped and hugged by Findekáno, who was currently barely conscious and would undoubtedly reveal a number of private things that should not be shared.

“Calm down.” Curufinwë _hated_ being told to calm himself, _hated_ being ordered about like a child, but he also knew that his brother-in-law had a point. It was that alone that prevented him from shoving the other man out of his personal space. “We are going to be stuck with Turukáno and his family until we complete this ridiculous little mission, so it would be for the best to get along and not let our tempers get the best of us.”

“Stop sounding rational,” he groaned out hatefully. “I will not cut out anyone’s tongue—unless they do something to truly deserve it—but I am not obligated to help Turukáno’s mentally disturbed brother sort out his alcohol-soaked brain. Findekáno got himself into this mess, he should suffer the consequences.”

“I am not asking you to,” Aikambalotsë said, voice monotone but green eyes rolling up towards the sky at the show of stubbornness. “Must you make everything so difficult? How in the name of all that is holy does Lindalórë _deal with you?”_

Curufinwë’s eyes swiveled across the clearing. To where Arakáno had managed to get Findekáno laying down again, patiently working to keep his eldest sibling from trying to wander off in the midst of his strange reverie. To where Turukáno was now sitting, Ehtelion at his side and Laurefindil standing over them like a large golden shield. A shield protecting Turukáno from Curufinwë’s obviously violent rage or preventing Turukáno from leaping to his feet and doing something foolish, it was hard to say. The Nolofinwion was still red in his face, eyes wide and glowing bright, lips pursed tightly into a cold white line, but he did seem to be calming swiftly beneath Ehtelion’s soothing.

He licked at his dry lips. “I like her.” _And I behave for people that I like._

“Can you at least abstain from threatening anyone else?” Aikambalotsë asked, arms crossing over his chest.

“We shall see,” he responded with a sneer. “Just keep Turukáno and his self-righteous, egotistic, ignorant _suggestions_ away from me, and it will not be a problem, will it? It is only when he opens his damn mouth and spews forth ridiculousness and insults that I want to see it tongue-less and sewn shut.”

Even at his back, he could hear Aikambalotsë’s long sigh.

But he did not care. Petulant it might be, but Curufinwë did not even want to _look_ at any of his cousins at that moment.

Wandering off into the woods, he found himself a tree, climbed up into the crook of its arms, and waited for the vibrations still racing beneath his skin as lightning currents to finally cease. After that, perhaps, he would be able to look at Turukáno without wanting to rake his fingernails across that stupid face.

After that, perhaps, he would be able to look at Findekáno without feeling his stomach twist with dread.

\---

It was hours later that Turukáno approached him, and Curufinwë wondered if his cousin had developed some sort of deficiency from too much cranial hemorrhaging during death-by-being-crushed or if the man simply had no concept of when to leave a dangerous and potentially deadly predator alone. One way or another, it did not stop him from shooting a look down from his perch in the massive tree, one that would have torn clean through his cousin in a shower of gore and blood if it were a blade.

Tempting. He had throwing knives on his person. Tempting.

“What is it that you want _now?”_ he griped instead, looking down his nose at the other man, knowing from the way Turukáno’s jaw clenched and his eyes narrowed that the gesture was not appreciated.

 _Good,_ the fifth son thought vindictively, _it is not meant to be._

“I should not have spoken of Nelyafinwë thusly earlier.”

 _Those words_ were enough of a surprise that Curufinwë actually sat up from his otherwise lazily-sprawled posture, leaning over to take a better look at his cousin, just in case Turukáno had suddenly sprouted wings or grown a tail or some other strangeness. That seemed more likely than what he _thought_ he was hearing come out of his cousin’s mouth. Obviously, the second son of Nolofinwë must have contracted _something deadly_ if he was behaving in a manner suggestive of a quality like humility. Those words had almost stunk of _an apology._

“Did you not hear? I said that I should not have—”

“I heard,” Curufinwë interrupted sharply, lips curling of their own accord into that smirk that he knew made his unfortunate prey shiver with either fear or with rage at his cruel disregard. “What should I care? You do not mean what you say, and you would not be here lying to my face if you did not want something from me. So, what do you want?”

“I am not lying,” Turukáno ground out. “You and Turkafinwë both belong in the Void, and I would not hesitate to put you there myself had I the power to do so, but Nelyafinwë is of better make. What I said about him before was untrue.”

The pair stared at each other.

“Findekáno has ever been loyal to his friendship with cousin Nelyafinwë,” Turukáno added almost hesitantly, looking just as uncomfortable with talking about the pair and their strange relationship as Curufinwë was when thinking about it. “I did not ask you for your assistance for my sake, but for his. If he thinks he has spoken to Nelyafinwë and said what he wants to say, maybe he will be calm, and this delirium will pass more quickly. Or, at the very least, with less shouting and anxiety on his part.”

They stared at each other some more.

“Please,” Turukáno finally ground out. And it sounded like saying that singular word hurt more than any stab wound ever could.

Satisfied with his cousin’s level of groveling, Curufinwë leveled him with his meanest smirk, knowing from the red flush that danced high on his cousin’s cheeks that he had incited mortified fury just as intended. “Since you have asked so _very nicely,”_ he purred, “I suppose I could be convinced to help _just this once.”_

He waited for Turukáno to finish the song and dance of humiliation. And he was not disappointed. “My thanks,” his cousin growled, sounding more like he wanted to be saying _“Damn you and every breath you take, you miserable bastard son of a whore.”_

“Very nice,” the fifth son complimented. “We all suspected you were incapable of politeness and simple pleasantries, but I see you have proven us all wrong.”

If he was going to do this favor, he might as well get satisfaction out of this awful transaction in whatever little, petty, childish manner he could manage. After all, this favor was for Findekáno and, by extension, Nelyafinwë, and it had nothing to do with pleasing Turukáno. His cousin, still standing in shocked stillness, did not immediately follow as Curufinwë clambered own from his perch and made his way back towards camp. Judging by the tremble in the man’s limbs and the slight glint of teeth behind his lips, his cousin was imagining the feeling of satisfaction he would get from giving Curufinwë a black eye.

Even that tiny spark of satisfaction, however, dimmed at the knowledge that he was going to have to deal now with Findekáno. It was debatable whether having Turukáno backed into a corner and begging for his help was worth the trouble of what would follow.

Stifling his sigh, he peered back into the clearing where camp was made. Laurefindil and Ehtelion were nowhere to be seen—hunting, he assumed—but Aikambalotsë was sitting near the fire and Arakáno was watching Findekáno nearby. The eldest cousin was swaying drunkenly, except that Curufinwë knew that this was not drunkenness. The tremors, the shaking, the pallor, the restless movements. In the few hours he had spent away, cooling his temper and deliberately thinking of anything _but_ his damn cousins, the Nolofinwion had gotten worse. As soon as those heavily dilated eyes found him, Findekáno tried to rise to his feet. “Russa?”

 _Pathetic,_ was his first thought. It left him tempted to forgo the whole thing and just leave Findekáno to the long and miserable process of detoxification.

But it also left his lingering resentment slowly slipping away. It was easy to be furious with Turukáno, who was in his right mind and fought back. It was harder to be unpleasant to a man who could not even stand let alone give as good as he received, who was so out of his mind that he could not even tell Curufinwë apart from his older brother. And, he supposed, this man had once been Nelyafinwë’s best friend, and his brother would have wanted Curufinwë to provide aid in whatever way he could. He thought, in any case.

Grudgingly, he could admit—if only to himself—that he did not want to risk disappointing his older brother. Again.

With a resigned sigh, he forced a stretched smile onto his face. _You bloody well owe me for this, Nelyafinwë._

The look Arakáno gave him as he crossed the clearing and sat with his cousin was caught halfway between helplessness and utter relief. At least, this time, Findekáno made no attempt to kiss him or anything of that sort, mostly just leaning in against his chest, arms coming up around his shoulders and clutching at his tunic with sharp tugs. Somewhere between crawling out of his skin with discomfort and just feeling miserably sorry for his cousin, he motioned with his chin for Arakáno to make himself scarce.

“Russa,” Findekáno was murmuring against his shoulder. “’M sorry, Russa. Sorry, sorry. W-will not d-do it… do it again. P-promise.”

“Shut up,” he grumbled, trying to get comfortable on the ground with the long, lanky body spilled all over his lap. Findekáno certainly was clinging, almost cuddling, and it felt entirely unnatural and strange.

But Curufinwë remembered more than one occasion as a boy—even as a young man—doing this very same thing to Nelyafinwë, who had never even once sent him away or disregarded his need for comfort or shielding. All the brothers, when they were young, had gone to the eldest at some point or another, sniveling and clinging and searching for physical support from someone he knew to be _safe._ Someone who was more a father to them than Fëanáro, because Fëanáro did not allow embraces even when his children were young, let alone when they were grown, and could not stand for any show of weakness at all, let alone tears.

The last time Curufinwë had held someone like this, to comfort through such obvious emotional turmoil, it had been his son. When Telperinquar was more a boy than a man. Lindalórë had always been his son’s preferred parent, understandably, but, on the rare occasion, he had been called to coddle and comfort.

Out of practice, he did not really know where to put his hands, allowing them to fall onto Findekáno’s back. That was where they were meant to go for this comforting thing, no?

“Promise,” Findekáno was repeating. “Promise, promise, promise, I w-will not.”

It was on the tip of his tongue to say that he had not even the slightest idea what Findekáno was referring to—something between himself and Nelyafinwë from a time and place that had long since passed them all by—but he kept silent. Leaned back instead against the trunk of a tree and let Findekáno babble like a child with all the capacity for mental clarity of a concussed soldier on six glasses of the best wine they could scrounge in the hellish wastes of Beleriand in the later days of Exile. Curufinwë truly had seen dying men with fatal headwounds, plied with alcohol to dull their pain as they slipped away, talking more sense than this.

He was not certain if that made the whole situation worse or better.

“It is fine,” he finally ground out. “I believe you, Findekáno.”

His cousin gave a thoughtful hum and made an aborted move to sit up, thoroughly thwarted by Curufinwë’s grip holding him in place. “’M sorry I lied before,” his cousin muttered. “Really, am… am… gonna keep it th-this time.”

 _No, you will not._ It sounded like something Findekáno had promised a hundred times—a thousand times even—and never kept. The words were to ingrained to have been a one-time occurrence. _Whatever it is you promised, you never kept it._

“I believe you,” he repeated calmly, looking straight ahead over the top of his cousin’s head with blank eyes.

That, at least, seemed to calm Findekáno back down.

“’M sorry,” his cousin apologized again, and his fingers dug sharply into Curufinwë’s back. “W-wha… wha’ever I did, Russa, ‘m sorry.”

 _I have no idea what you did or did not do,_ Curufinwë found himself thinking, wondering if Nelyafinwë could have made heads and tails of this frantic mumbling, of these slurred promises, of these desperately whimpered apologies. Maybe his brother would have had no more idea than Curufinwë did. Or, maybe, Nelyafinwë would have known exactly what all of this meant, would have known exactly what to say to soothe away Findekáno’s lingering fears and anxieties, to brush aside whatever monstrous construct it was that rose up now that the space always occupied by the haze of drink and false merriment was drained dry and left that hungering void in its wake.

He had that way about him sometimes. How many secrets must the Nelyafinwë of old have known and hoarded? How many times had he held one of his cousins or brothers just like this and listened as they screamed or cursed or cried? If Curufinwë were this out of his senses, babbling all sorts of nonsense into his brother’s chest, he wondered what he would have said and if Nelyafinwë would have understood his words.

Probably, he would have begged for forgiveness just like Findekáno. Like a worm. For being such a spineless coward and a failure. For looking and acting just like their father.

So, who was he to judge?

“Wha’ever I did t-to make you hate m-me,” Findekáno said again, face pressed fully into Curufinwë’s tunic, muffling the already nearly-inaudible words to almost-gibberish garble, “I… ‘m sorry.”

If he were truly as cruel as people made him out to be, Curufinwë would not have hesitated to lie with all the blasé grace and easy guiltlessness that his father had always so breezily managed. He would have said that he did _not_ hate his cousin—that _Nelyafinwë_ did not hate his cousin—and, later, if Findekáno remembered, he would have cruelly told the man he had lied through his teeth get him to shut up and quit slobbering like a toddler.

Truthfully, though, he did not really know if Nelyafinwë hated Findekáno, and lying never sat well on his tongue. Once, of course, Nelyafinwë had loved this man enough that the very first thought on his mind upon making land at Losgar had been to ask his father if Findekáno could be the first of Nolofinwë’s company for whom they returned in their stolen ships. But much had happened between that time of blissful naivety and now.

No idea did he have about how Nelyafinwë felt after being rescued from an otherwise slow and cruel death by their valiant cousin. After weeks of unconsciousness, lying listless in the Healing House, the oldest Fëanárion had seemingly one day pulled himself back from the brink of death, crawled out of bed, and pushed himself to the edge of sanity rebuilding his mind and body from the ground up. But, never once, had he publicly thanked Findekáno for being saved. And no idea did he have about how Nelyafinwë had felt after Findekáno’s death. His older brother, like the rest of them, had drifted off into the battle madness and the drive to accomplish their mission and the blood-rushing electricity of the hunt, and there had been no tears shed where anyone else could see if any had been shed at all. Maybe, by then, Findekáno’s sacrifice during Nirnaeth Arnoediad had been meaningless and purposeless, serving as nothing but another body upon the crumbling and rotting altar to salvation cultivated by the bloodstained hands of Kinslayers.

Clearly, Helcaraxë and all that came after had not destroyed Findekáno’s love for Nelyafinwë, though. That much was a given now that Curufinwë had this crying, crumpled up remnant of a man squeezing him half-to-death in the middle of nowhere. The fact that the other men present to play audience to this farce of a comforting session were visibly doing their best to pretend nothing was happening at all—not even glancing in the direction of the Fëanárion and his limpet—was of paltry reassurance.

 _You must say something,_ he urged himself with no small amount of viciousness. _Say something, you bloody coward! How hard could it possibly be?_

“Russa?” Findekáno was trying to struggle his way into sitting position again.

“Just…” Curufinwë took a deep breath, resisting the strong urge to hiss in displeasure and just hold his cousin down until the man stopped his damn squirming. “I… heard you. Just… hold still. You are ill and you should not be up right now.”

“But…” His cousin gave up the struggle and stayed still— _thank Eru_ —but he could almost _feel_ the confused, scrunched-up face that Findekáno has made pressed up against his collarbone. Like his cousin understood those words but, somehow, simultaneously did not. Like Findekáno wanted to listen because everyone listens whenever Nelyafinwë gives an order but was driven still by the incessant need to speak his words and hear reassurance from that source of comfort. “But Russa, ‘m… ‘m…”

 _If you apologize one more time,_ he thought.

 _Have some damn patience,_ he thought in response.

 _Go hang,_ he thought in response to that response.

“I forgive you, alright,” he muttered, hoping (praying) that no one else was listening though he knew that they all were. “Now, rest, and you will feel better.”

Just like that, Findekáno settled upon him with all the grace of a sack of bricks but, perhaps, a few less pointed corners. “Okay,” he agreed, yawning. “Night, Russa.”

It was the middle of the day still, but Curufinwë did not argue. “Goodnight.”

Not five minutes later, Findekáno was letting out little huffing sounds that might be snores, almost smothering himself against Curufinwë chest in the process. And the fifth brother just sat still and wondered how in the name of Eru he ended up here. In the middle of the woods surrounded on all sides by his most hated enemies, cradling his cousin against his chest like a child and serving as the source of comfort he never had been and never could be.

 _Ridiculous,_ he thought to himself, wanting to shove Findekáno off but not daring now that the idiot was finally asleep.

If anyone ever spoke of this aloud, he really _would_ cut out their tongues, he decided. Not that it would do much good given that Turkafinwë would mock him about it for the rest of all time. Just one more reason for his older brother to assume he was going soft.

 _You have always been soft,_ his inner voice snarked.

And, predictably, he told it to jump in a fiery chasm and burn. Not that it ever listened.

\---

“How did you know that it would work?”

Ehtelion should have been working on skinning and gutting the rabbit he held in his hands, their imminent dinner alongside the deer Laurefindil had brought down only a short while ago, but he was busy watching the drama—or, rather, lack of drama—unfolding on the other side of the clearing in the afternoon sunlight instead. Hearing that familiar voice so near, he turned to look at his dear friend of a great many long millennia. Turukáno looked like he had sucked on a lemon and then swallowed it down for good measure. Such a sour face.

It made Ehtelion smile affectionately. Just a bit.

“You have a bad habit of assuming you know everything about someone, missing the important details, and then casting your judgment upon them far too soon,” he answered honestly and without heat or overt criticism. It was not that Turukáno was hot-headed constantly, just that he had not been raised to be humble to second guess. The man was prideful, intelligent and, sometimes, quite wise when it came to certain things in life. But when it came to his blind spots—one of the greatest being his cousins by Fëanáro, followed closely by his younger sister—he could be rather dim and quick to assume.

“I hate it when you do that,” Turukáno grumbled, the sour look fading into sullenness. “Your strange, enigmatic routine makes you look and sound entirely too much like Grandfather for comfort, Ehtelion.”

“I had no idea,” he responded, though he had heard almost that exact phrase what must now have been hundreds, if not thousands, of times.

“But, truly, how did you know,” the other pressed. “Curufinwë is not known for reacting out of pity, and he has no reason to like Findekáno besides. In fact, he has outright expressed disgust for myself and my brothers many times before.”

“And I suppose none of that dislike had anything to do with how tactless you are with your own words against his brothers,” Ehtelion chastised with a crooked smile, enjoying Turukáno’s returned glare and the way his cousin fidgeted uncomfortably at hearing the truth. “Curufinwë goes out of his way to do things—even things that he desperately hates or fears—for the sake of protecting and pleasing his family.”

“He does not consider us family,” Turukáno was quick to point out. Most likely because Turukáno was loath to consider any Fëanárion family in return.

But Ehtelion was not so quick to dismiss. “Tell me, Turno, why do you think cousin Curufinwë is here?”

“Because Atar tricked him into it.” Indeed, on that first day, Turukáno had shared the story with them, snickering about it all the while, quite pleased to see Curufinwë getting his just desserts after the whole mess of an incident at the Midsummer Festival. “He has no choice in the matter if he wants to get back on Nelyafinwë’s good side. Atar will not give him the chance to publicly apologize for aiding and abetting Írissë in running away until he helps us find her.”

Even now, he sounded pleased at that. And Ehtelion could not deny, what with Curufinwë’s unpleasant nature, he could understand the sentiment.

“The only reason Curufinwë went to talk to Uncle Nolofinwë in the first place was to ensure that his brother was first in line for a chance at Írissë’s hand in marriage when—if—we manage to bring her back.”

 _In other words,_ Ehtelion thought to himself, watching the observation click in his normally intelligent cousin’s brain, _Curufinwë could have skipped talking to Nolofinwë at all, but jeopardized his own chance at a quick and less painful public apology to make sure Írissë was not going to be married off to someone else first thing when she returned to Tirion._

“He was watching out for Turkafinwë’s interests.” Naturally, Turukáno was not all that pleased—he believed that any number of men at court could make better husbands for his little sister, failing to account for the fact that she would probably look at most of the pampered men at court and think of them as bunnies to be slaughtered rather than intellectual and physical equals with whom she could engage in companionship—but understood.

“And, by posing your inquiry as helping Findekáno, who is close and dear friends with Nelyafinwë, he is looking out for his oldest brother’s interests by accepting. It was a bit of a gamble, but it turned out successfully in the end. The apology and the polite request for assistance also helped. The word ‘please’ can have a great deal of sway.”

“Sometimes, I dislike you,” Turukáno told him blandly as they both looked over at the pair huddled on the ground. 

Findekáno, now, had gone quite still and appeared to be fast asleep with the afternoon sunshine warm upon his back as a blanket and Curufinwë crushed beneath him as a pillow. The second brother scowled at the sight, annoyed. They had been trying to get Findekáno’s withdrawal restlessness and tremors to calm enough for him to sleep all morning and into the early afternoon. Apparently—though perhaps unsurprisingly—all it took was Findekáno wholeheartedly believing that he was in the arms of the man he loved and trusted more than any other to get him to relax enough for the sleep to overcome the vivid, surreal and, in some cases, violent and disturbing delusions.

No matter how much it annoyed Turukáno that they needed Curufinwë’s help, Ehtelion could also see the spark of relief in his friend’s otherwise cold eyes. Could see the way his proud cousin’s shoulders slumped and his mouth softened. Just ever so slightly.

“No, you do not,” Ehtelion countered, pleased when his counter did, in fact, bring a tiny smile to his cousin’s lips, further shattering the icy and hateful front. “Besides, now cousin Findekáno is resting and you do not have to listen to cousin Curufinwë complaining and griping about the lack of progress. Two birds, one stone, no?”

“I suppose,” Turukáno agreed. “I am simply surprised.”

“Surprised that dear cousin Curufinwë is not only made of poisoned knives and pure spite after all?” he teased in response.

“Something to that end.”

 _To get you to see more in him than the demon you wish him to be is such a pain,_ Ehtelion thought, though more with fondness than unkindness, for he knew that his friend—his brother in all but full blood—was a stubborn man ill-suited to changing his ways. _Now, to get_ Curufinwë _to see more in you than a prideful and self-righteous bastard…_

Well, it would take time. Luckily, they had a lot of that on their hands.

Smiling, Ehtelion turned away and went back to the business of skinning his prey.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:
> 
> Fëanárioni (Q, p) = sons of Fëanáro


	53. When There Is Nowhere To Go

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lindalórë tries to make a plan, and it falls apart almost immediately as plans often do...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: betrayal for monetary gain, lack of familial support, dissociation, shock, panic attack, misogyny, harassment, intimidation, fear of sexual/physical assault, violence (choking, biting), almost sexual assault
> 
> This is another potentially triggering chapter that includes a violent assault and an almost-sexual assault as well. Read responsibly.
> 
> Maedhros = Maitimo = Nelyafinwë = Nelyo = Russandol  
> Maglor = Makalaurë = Kanafinwë = Káno  
> Celegorm = Tyelkormo = Tyelko = Turkafinwë = Turko  
> Caranthir = Carnistir = Morifinwë = Moryo  
> Curufin = Atarinkë = Curufinwë = Curvo  
> Amrod = Ambarussa = Pityafinwë = Pityo = Minyarussa  
> Amras = Umbarto = Telufinwë = Telvo = Atyarussa  
> Egalmoth = Aikambalotsë  
> Finarfin = Arafinwë

_Anarya, 50 Lairë (2 July)_

\---

Another knock on the door came an hour later. Lindalórë had not moved a single inch from where she collapsed in her bed. Hearing the noise, she wondered whether her skin would fall off and her muscles unravel if she dared to shift upon the sheets. It felt as though they would, that they were melting right off her bones from sheer dread.

“Go away!” she called out, and her voice came out as weak and tender as she felt at that moment, more of a pitiful whimper than a shout. “I do not feel well…”

“Should I fetch the Mistress?” the maid asked through the door.

Did she want her mother right now? Did she want anyone anywhere near her right now? The thought of being touched even gently, of hearing useless and empty platitudes, of being told she was being ridiculous and short-sighted yet again and if only she would just cease to be stubborn it would make her life so much better… it made her stomach swoop downwards in an unpleasant freefall of disgust and bitter hate.

“No,” she whispered out.

Dismissed, her maid retreated. What might or might not have been said to her parents, Lindalórë knew not. But she was happy to be left alone.

For the whole day, she barely left her bed.

And she knew it could not last.

\---

_Isilya, 51 Lairë (3 July)_

\---

“My lady,” the maid asked again the next day. “My lady, are you feeling any better?”

“No,” she said after a lingering moment, wondering if she should get up and wash. For the last day and night, her mind had revolved around and around in circles, trying to find a way to escape this complex net. The longer she could stall, the longer she could avoid her suitor and prevent him from attempting to woo or otherwise convince her, the better, for that would give her husband time to return to her side if she were lucky. If she were not and he was not coming home any time soon, she would still need as much time as she could salvage to find a way out of this horror without him at her side. 

Still, she knew that she could not stay locked up in this room for days on end, no matter how much she wished that she might never move from this spot until Curufinwë was with her, at her back safe and warm. Yesterday, she had only opened her door but once to fetch a food-laden tray and made no appearance elsewhere even in the manor. Her parents were not entirely unused to her hiding away for a day every now and again. Perhaps even two on the rare occasion. But they would be getting suspicious if she tried to hide any longer.

When she heard the maid leave, she slowly pushed herself up and looked about her room. Still dark, still perfectly organized, still looking as unwelcoming and cold to her plight as it had the night before. Seeing it, knowing that it symbolized nothing more so than her imprisonment, she wished she could turn away.

Instead, her gaze wandered towards the closed balcony door. Tempting.

 _You have nowhere to go,_ she reminded herself, hating how it made her heart sink. If she had the skill for survive it, she would happily have taken off into the wilderness. But she was a creature of the city, born and raised to expect a clean bed for sleep each night and dinner to be pre-prepared and not wearing its skin, dead and butchered and cooked and laid out for her upon a table. She would starve. _You do not even know where Curufinwë is,_ she added cynically, _and no way to find him even if you_ could _survive on your own in the wilderness even for a short time._

Disheartened, she rolled over and hid beneath the covers, blocking everything from sight. For just a little while longer, perhaps, she could pretend that everything was fine.

And then came another knock. Her stomach heaved.

 _Of course, I should not be so lucky as that,_ she thought morosely.

“My lady,” called the same maid from before, voice gentle. “My lady, your parents have requested your presence in the blue parlor downstairs. You have a caller.”

She already knew who the caller was. And she wanted nothing to do with him. Just thinking of going anywhere near him—near his leering eyes that stripped her naked and his twisting mouth that looked not unlike it would be at home upon a slathering beast—made her feel like she might be sick again, though there was nothing in her stomach to empty.

Another knock. “My lady?” the concerned voice called again.

 _Pull yourself together,_ she scolded internally, slowly pushing herself up into sitting position and hating that her fingertips trembled across her sheets. _You cannot lie here all day pretending to have gone deaf. You know you would have to face this—face him—again, that you would have to play the poised but distant daughter and unwaveringly loyal wife in the face of this farce._

Even though she was frightened, even though she felt terribly alone—like a soldier marching into a vast and unknown territory, weaponless and without companionship or protection in a desolate battlefield dotted with countless stalking foes—she could not lie here and do nothing. Doing nothing was the very same as surrender, and Lindalórë was not one to surrender to her fate without a fight.

“Tell them that I am up and dressing,” she answered, grateful that her voice came out firm rather than shaking.

“Yes, my lady.” Footsteps vanished down the hall.

And Lindalórë stumbled to her feet and into the bathroom, taking a few minutes to get her knees to stop shaking and her feet to feel as though they were firmly set upon the ground. Her hair was a mess, her face was sweat-slicked, and she most likely smelled just as awful as she felt. Looking in the mirror, she could see that her face was grayish and drawn. Tempting though it was to march downstairs as she was now—maybe such disheveled disregard for her appearance and cleanliness would put off her unwanted suitor permanently—she knew that she could not give away her hand so early. The longer she allowed _that man_ to hang around like an unwanted, ugly ornament on her arm rather than pushing him into posing as a dictator taking her over by force, the longer she had to make a plan of escape, to find a way to contact her husband’s family, to find somewhere safe she could stay until Curufinwë returned.

What she needed was _time._

_So, make yourself time. Play the game. Play hard to woo and seduce._

She had done it before. She could do it again. She simply had never played the game with a man she already _knew_ was dangerous while also on a very short leash and a very short time limit to find a way out of the mess into which she had been unceremoniously hurled.

With a sigh, she got to work.

Hair up, tight and forbidding rather than down and lush and welcoming as she would have worn it for her husband. But, for all that she wanted to be cold and untouchable, she did not skimp on the perfume, wanting him to still smell her and know she was well out of the reach of his grubby hands. Her gown was a grim, dark green and black, and her gloves went up to her elbows because she did not want _him_ making even the slightest contact with her bare skin. About her throat, she wore a line of flashing jewels—an array of color set like a rainbow but made from diamond rather than the traditional set of gems, one of the most expensive pieces that she owned—that everyone and their brother knew had been a wedding gift to her from her groom’s father. And about her wrist she wore the emeralds Curufinwë had given her just days ago, glittering atop the dark, satiny softness of the fabric covering her wrist.

Less than an hour had passed by the time she floated her way down the staircase, face set in a mold of distant disinterest as she descended downwards to the first level of the manor and found the inappropriately bright and happy cloud-like blue parlor with the door open in wait for her calling. Her father and mother were both there, sitting beside each other without touching but giving no indication that there was anything out of the ordinary between them. And then there was _him._

Even just glancing at him, she struggled against the urge to curl her lip up in disgust. It was not that he was particularly unpleasant to look upon in face or form—he was tall and dark-haired, and his eyes were gray, set deeply into a face that was altogether fine—but that she knew that smile was nothing more or less than a lie. Already, she could see that he was looking at her with those assessing, incisive eyes. Looking at her more like a dog looks at a piece of meat than like a man looks at a woman he admires. She had noticed that about him before, and it seemed that nothing had changed. It still made her skin feel abraded, as though it were scuffed with sandpaper and left stinging.

“Yendë,” her father said, and there was nothing in his smile that spoke to her of his callous disregard of her free will or his cruel dismissal of her marriage to her _actual_ husband. He looked the same as always, and it made her shiver. “Come and sit with us! I believe you already are familiar with our guest, Lord Calmacil.”

“We have met,” she intoned flatly, looking upon the man with distant and cold eyes, “Have we not, my lord?”

He stood, giving her that slimy smile that made her want to turn on her heel and march straight from the room. His hand was cold against hers through her glove, and she struggled to keep from wrinkling her nose as he kissed her knuckles. “My lady, it is a pleasure to see you again. You look well.”

Her smile was ice cold as she snubbed him with her failure to reply in kind. “Shall we sit?”

Purposefully, she seated herself well out of reach of his chair, far enough apart to make it clear that she was not interested in socializing.

A shadow passed her father’s face, though he was still stiffly attempting to keep his face stuck on a wooden smile. Her mother looked a cross between disappointed and distressed, like she did not quite understand why Lindalórë was being so resistant to the idea of a “good” marriage to a “decent” man. Even though Lindalórë knew that her mother was must be aware of her continuing love and devotion for her husband, of her plans to reconcile and rebuild at his side.

Frustration jittered through her limbs, hot with fury, and pricked at her eyes, sharp and stinging needles. Lindalórë would happily, in that moment, have thrown the entire tea table across the room just to expend this horrible, noxious energy from her body.

“Would you like some tea, yendenya?” her mother asked quietly, trying to recover from the icy tension now lingering in the air like the first winter’s chill, no matter that it was blazing hot outside. “We were just discussing a lunch date on Aldúya and—”

“I have plans,” she said quickly, sharply, needing to leave the room before she did something foolish. Like accepting that cup of tea and then bashing it over someone’s head. “For today. If you would not mind, I am hoping to be off in a few minutes. Do I really need to be present for you to discuss your outings and such?”

Her father’s look was sharp with his displeasure now, his face darkened and his mouth very obviously curling downwards, but she was not looking at him and did not care what he thought. Instead, she was staring straight into the eyes of her supposed suitor, smiling with a doll-like innocence in her painted red lips, draped in her glittering jewels and expensive fabrics like a shield of wealth. And she could see the flash of hate in his eyes, right alongside the burn of want. It made her shiver.

_No, nothing at all has changed. He is still scum._

“How about I accompany you, then, my lady,” that lizard spoke, teeth showing. “Surely, you should not be out and about wandering on your own.”

“I am quite certain I will be safe here in Tirion on my own,” she countered coldly.

“Nonsense, bring the man with you,” her father interrupted, drawing her gaze. “He has come here to speak with you. Show some respect.”

 _He is not worthy of even a droplet of my respect,_ she wanted to counter.

Instead, her lips formed a harsh line. “Do you not think that a bit inappropriate? A married woman out and about with a man who is not her husband?”

Her mother looked suitably chastised, quickly setting her teacup down with a clatter. But her father seemed to measure her with his gaze, as if trying to look into her being and read her weaknesses out like a list upon parchment. “Do not be ridiculous, daughter. Your marriage with that Fëanárion is all but undone. After all this time, you should start seriously considering building a proper life for yourself away from such undesirable influence.”

It was a dismissal if ever there was one. Of her previous life in which she had been happy and content if not luxuriously rich. Of her love for her husband which she had never lost through all her grief and anger. Of her right to choose what it was that she wanted, who she wanted to be with and what kind of life she wanted to live.

It made her heart throb with pain. Even though she had known it was coming, to hear it and know for certain it was true. That he was not even trying to hide it anymore now that Curufinwë and Aikambalotsë were not there to protect her…

Her mother, of course, said nothing. That almost hurt worse.

 _Traitor,_ her mind hissed.

“I have a proper life,” she replied. “But, if you insist that he comes along, he can carry my bags, I suppose. But I am not looking for a husband, but I suppose I should not turn down charitable help if it is offered.”

Rudely, she got to her feet and flounced off towards the front door. Later, of course, she would be in for another lecture. Later, her father would almost assuredly shout at her for being an embarrassment and lock her in her room. Later, she would be dealing with her sharp attitude, with her inability to conform to the dainty façade of a mindless housewife and breeder. But later was not now, and she desperately needed some fresh air. Unfortunately, she heard _him_ get up and follow, and she wished she had something heavy and sharp that she could throw at his face. Preferably something suitably deterring, like a knife, that would send him to the Healing House for a week. Instead, she had to settle with slamming the front door hard enough that it rattled on its hinges, taking what little pleasure she could in the fact that _he_ had to open it again and follow her out with everyone on the street staring.

At least if they were outside in public, she knew he was not going to pull a reprise of their last unpleasant interaction, no matter how much he probably would have liked to manhandle her into obedience at that moment. Even such a disgusting man as he would not try to kiss her on the mouth or assault her with his fist where anyone could walk by and see.

_Would he?_

He did not catch up to her until she was halfway down the street. Well within sight of the hustle and bustle of the gardeners and servants outdoors in the morning hours, as well as the few people passing by on the street, who were trying to pretend that they were not watching with rabid interest as the well-known wife of a Kinslayer was being followed by a strange man. Lindalórë did not even turn to look at him as he approached, sweeping down the street with purpose, drawing eyes left and right with her appearance and her obvious slighting of the man trailing after her skirts.

“My lady,” Calmacil said, and she wound have liked nothing more than to stuff crackers into his mouth until he choked just so that she did not have to listen to his voice. “I know that we did not part on good terms the last time we spoke, but I was rather hoping for another chance to make things right between us.”

“Between us,” she hissed out. “There is no between us.”

“Come now, darling,” he said, reaching out to grab her arm. “You cannot be seriously considering going back to your Kinslayer husband, can you? He has nothing to offer you. Nothing at all except a life in exile.”

“Maybe I would prefer never setting foot in Tirion again to being married to a man like you,” she answered sharply, wrenching her arm away. “Now, if you do not mind, I would rather not hear your voice. Your only use is as a pack horse, and horses do not speak.”

Had they been alone, she was almost certain that he would have said something just as cruel and unpleasant in response to her caustic insults. Or, perhaps, he might have skipped right over calling her an ornery bitch and a Kinslayer’s whore and simply would have tried to slap her. The look on his face was certainly telling—the way his hands clenched and his arms flexed, the way his teeth snapped and ground, the way his eyes narrowed and filled with bitter resentment and other things—and it brought her no small amount of satisfaction to know that he was forced to swallow his humiliation at being disrespected by a woman. Though, underneath the momentary high of victory, she still felt the urgent tremors of fear.

Even as she turned away, she heard him following, footsteps echoing her own.

 _That was not wise,_ she castigated herself internally. _You are only egging him on. Being rude and sharp did nothing to negate his interest last time. If anything, it made everything worse, for he seems the type to enjoy forcing a resistant woman’s obedience more so than basking in her demure compliance._

He was that sort of man. The sort who wanted to wrangle and subjugate a woman he saw as stepping out of her proper place in society, the sort who took pleasure in asserting himself over a helpless victim. He was the sort of man who _deserved_ to have certain bits of anatomy sliced off, and certainly she would not have wept a single tear if he were to die a violent and horrible death, long and slow and painful. In fact, she might have danced in celebration.

Plastering a look of boredom upon her features, she made it her business to visit as many shops as she could manage between now and sunset. And to spend money as exorbitantly as possible while doing so. The more things for her pack horse to carry, the less she had to worry about his hands finding something else to do.

Even that small amount of defiance, she knew, would not make her humiliation go away. People would see this. Would talk. Would whisper.

Many things Lindalórë was. Sometimes melodramatic. Sometimes downright nasty and disdainful. Sometimes spoiled and petulant. Sometimes nothing more or less than a bitch. But she was a faithful woman, and she had never strayed from her husband. She had absolutely no intention of starting now. But that was not how it was going to look to outside eyes. To the gossips of court.

 _“Look at her, moving in on another man whilst still married,”_ they would say.

 _“Tainted and disgusting,”_ they would whisper, as they had done before, each time some eligible man had approached her in the long tenure of loneliness when her husband was still in Exile, _“Looking to try and hide her previous marriage to that scum.”_

 _“Indiscreet,”_ they would add, viciously pleased with themselves, like vultures with a fresh carcass at which to pick and poke. _“Just like shameless slut Princess Írissë, flaunting lovers as though the rules do not apply to her.”_

If word reached her husband’s family first, they would not be hearing of Lindalórë’s unfortunate plight, being forced into interactions with a man who genuinely frightened her, who wanted to marry her against her will. Instead, they would be hearing about Lindalórë the disloyal slut, bandying herself about in public with another man whilst her husband and brother were off slaving away in the middle of nowhere. She knew how people worked, how they thought, what they liked to hear. She knew that that was what they would say.

All she could do to negate the start of those rumors was make it abundantly clear to any person watching with even the smallest bit of observational skill that she very much would rather have bathed in the stink of a skunk’s rear end than spend even a minute with this man. Ultimately, it would not be enough to dissuade the most gossip-loving ninnies from running their mouths forever, but it might just stall the onset.

And here, her father—along with this idiot—thought she _wanted_ to remain part of this ridiculous beast of a machine, this society that chewed up women and spit them out like trash but allowed the men to prance about doing whatever they pleased.

Turning sharply into the first clothing store she found, she tried to stifle her huff of fury—the dizzying spike of terror—when she heard _him_ follow her inside. Instead of looking over her shoulder, she scanned to see if anyone was in. Almost immediately, a tailor appeared, looking pleased as punch at the presence of a very obviously wealthy lady in his establishment. _Perfect._

“How can I help you today, my lady?” he asked.

 _Show me the most expensive thing you have, and I will buy it without even negotiating the price,_ she was tempted to say.

Instead, she put on her best fake smile. Better not make it too quick and painless. She wanted her undesirable companion to suffer. Perhaps, if she made this chore long-suffering enough, he might simply go and leave her be. “I have found myself in need of a few new dresses, sir. Please, do show me around. I would hear your recommendations on the last court fashion.”

Eyes passed between her and her sullen shadow. The tailor must have sensed something wrong, but it was not his place to speak. “Right this way, my lady.”

She spent the next three hours trying on clothes while the idiot waited and paced.

Only seven or eight more hours to fill.

\---

Eterúna had served under the fifth son of Fëanáro. All the way to his dying breath.

It was something that others disdained, a shame that he kept quietly to himself after his rebirth, after his return to his wife and his children and his normal life. Quietly integrating back into society, he was, if not free in his mind of the burden of death upon his hands, at least free of the judgment of the naïve folk about. There was no one to point and say “this man, he was one of _them,_ the Kinslayers” because the only men who recognized a Kinslayer on sight were others of the same make. Other men who had served, faithful and true, under the banner of Fëanáro and his seven sons until their last breath had been stolen in the course of war.

He never said anything about it. Not to his wife. Not to his daughters. No one in the streets knew him as more than an Exile, reborn in Valinórë, who had gone back to the job he had done just as valiantly and steadfastly before the charismatic madness of a fiery-eyed man had carried him off on an ill-fated adventure into the far-off wilderness of the world. Eterúna was a shoemaker, and he was happy to wear that title of relative anonymity and never mention the blood that stained his hands ever again.

Only a fool would make a spectacle of himself and his family in such a manner. And they were none of them that, though they might be cold-blooded killers.

They all knew how the title Kinslayer could lead to ostracism, to torment, not just for a man but for his entire family as well. They all knew the reason why the Fëanárioni rarely set foot in the city. And they all knew the reason why their commanders, if ever they recognized any of their men amongst the milling rivers of common folk, never said a word.

All of them went about their lives as though none of it had ever happened. And Eterúna, like many others, was happy to pretend it never had.

If asked whether he was loyal to his former commanders, he would likely have said “nay” and politely but firmly asked the inquirer to get the hell out of his shop and never come back. And, perhaps, that was somewhat true. He had sworn an oath to serve, and he had served his time, played his part, died for his follies, and gone home to repent.

But he did not hate the Fëanárioni. Not even Curufinwë, who no one could deny was a sharp-tongued bastard on the best of days and a downright nightmare on the worst. Living up to his namesake in all the ways that anyone counted, with his white-hot star-eyes and his vicious temperament and his tendency towards open mockery and belittlement for the tiniest fault. For all that he cussed, insulted, disgraced and even humiliated men at the mercy of his unbalanced whims and fancies of boredom, Curufinwë had also never jeopardized them without cause, never sacrificed them for military gain, never scorned their methods of coping and never failed to guard their backs when he could no matter how insignificant they happened to be. Not a pleasant man, to be sure, but one who watched out for his own as best he could. And it was enough.

It was enough for Eterúna to judge his integrity as a man and find him worthy of following. It was enough that those men under Curufinwë’s charge would have died for him, and they would not have regretted it. Eterúna would not have regretted it. Had not regretted it.

Still, he could not say he had ever really _known_ the man. Not personally.

Furthermore, it had never truly occurred to him to wonder what kind of woman would marry Curufinwë Fëanárion. In fact, it had rarely crossed his mind that the man must have, out there somewhere, had a wife. After all, it was well-known that he was wed, and all those who served the Fëanárioni in Exile had all seen his tall, vibrantly green-eyed son, who must have taken a great deal after his mother to avoid carrying all the defining, heart-stopping, blood-chilling traits that Curufinwë shared with his fey sire.

Until four days ago. When he had seen his former commander walking down the street in broad daylight with a woman on his arm. A woman with those same wildly verdant eyes who shared her son’s refined, elegant features and sharp, sly smile.

The very same woman who had just entered his shop with another strange man trailing after her. And, though her painted lips smiled as she met his eyes, she looked… not right.

Something about it did not feel right.

“My lady,” he greeted, “Is there something I might do for you today?”

It was strangely surreal, interacting with his former commander’s wife. She eagerly swept forward in her dress that may or may not have cost more than twelve of his wife’s own, swishing gracefully like a creature floating just a few inches above the ground, and looped an arm through one of his. “I have come to see your wares. Give me a tour, good sir.”

Glancing over her shoulder at her companion—who was very obviously _not_ her husband and shared no features with her that he could discern which might mark him as family—Eterúna came to the conclusion that she was either trying to annoy her follower (and succeeding by the looks of it) or trying to stall for time in such a way that she was not alone with the man. With just that glance, the shoemaker knew that he very much did not like the other male, that his instincts—honed by hundreds of years of orc-ridden nights in the wilderness and bloody battlefields covered in enemies who wanted nothing more than to rip out and devour his entrails—told him that he was looking at a predator. Not one _he_ found particularly threatening. But the kind that he would never want anywhere near his wife or his daughters. Or anyone else’s wife or daughters.

Whereas he would normally pluck himself out of the grasp of a clingy woman and do his best to gently but firmly direct her out of his personal space, he let this one cling as close as she wanted and felt the way she trembled beneath her undaunted visage. Let her put his body between herself and her unwanted shadow. Did his best to be patient with her as she pointed to the nearest set of women’s shoes and demanded to know everything about them that he could draw out of his half-occupied brain.

If it had been his daughter in her place, he would have hoped for some other man, noticing something was direly wrong, to do the same.

And, so, he spent an hour and then almost half another talking to Curufinwë Fëanárion’s wife about the making of different types of heels and the process by which shoes were stitched and the types of leathers and satins that served best for different types of footwear. It was obvious, as she nodded along mindlessly, that she understood not a word of it and cared little. That she was barely paying attention at all.

It reminded him too much of warriors in the midst of battle. Caught up in their own minds, hyper-focused on a mission. Usually that mission was survival.

At the end of all that, she made three purchases, two pairs of slippers and a pair of small heels that she probably barely glanced upon before choosing. Her male companion took her bag for her before she could even speak. Licking her lips, she glanced nervously towards the door.

“Have a pleasant afternoon, my lady,” he bid her, wishing he could do more.

“My thanks,” she murmured distractedly. And she slipped by her male companion, standing as far away from him as she could manage without knocking over merchandise or hitting herself on the doorframe as she escaped. Her companion shot Eterúna a single dark glance, lips twisting into something that might have been a smile but made the hardened Kinslayer’s skin prickle, and then followed her out onto the street. Turning left, they were soon out of sight.

And Eterúna did not know what to think or how to feel.

 _Where,_ he could not help but wonder almost dazedly, _is Curufinwë?_

Because he could not imagine the man he had served under, the man who might snap and snarl and insult their mothers without so much as a warning but who would also snap and snarl and take a stab wound in the place of one of his men without hesitating, ever allowing his wife anywhere near a man with such blatantly ill intentions. Not ever. If Curufinwë took his duties as husband as seriously as he took his duties as commander, he would rather have _died_ than allow one of his family members be sucked into a situation of precarious safety.

So, what was going on here? Something just was not—

_There was a loud bang against the wall on the side of the building, the distant sound of a voice shouting coming through the cracked-open door leading to the narrow alley outside._

—right.

\---

It happened so fast that Lindalórë barely realized something was wrong until she was halfway down the alley and up against a wall.

The hand on her throat _hurt,_ pinching tightly enough that, when her lips parted, nothing came out but a rasping exhale, airy and weak. Inaudible from the street. Of their own accord, her gloved, bejeweled hands rose up to claw at the fingers wrapped like a brace about her neck, and her toes swung desperately, the tips just barely meeting the cobblestone below.

“You damn _bitch!”_ He squeezed sharply, and Lindalórë choked. “You think it is funny now, hm? How about we quit with these games?”

She did not know what that meant. She did not know if he was going to hit her or something worse. She did not know exactly where she was, and she did not know what she was supposed to do. All she knew was that she could not _breathe_ and she could barely _see_ and she felt like such an _idiot_ for allowing her guard to drop, almost weeping like a child as she kicked her feet and they became helplessly caught in her skirts.

_One day… I could not even manage to stay safe one day…_

There were people nearby. On the ground, her packages were scattered about, but, beyond them, she could see the blurred shadows of figures sweeping past, no one turning to look, no one bothering to see. Did she ever look down alleyways when she was out and about? She had never really thought to. Would anyone else?

Panicking and crying, she wondered if this was it. Surely, he was not going to _kill_ her, but she could think of many other things he might do. Some that seemed infinitely worse.

And he was just so much _larger_ than her as he slammed her back against the wall a second time, as he snarled nonsensical words against her ear, and she heard none of them through the ringing in her ears and the pain at the back of her skull. The world swam into focus, but it was fuzzy at the edges, grayed at the corners, and all she could think about was the fact that her lungs ached.

And then air. His hand came away.

“Now, come on, darling, cooperate, and I will not need to be rough,” he told her. And all she could think to do as his hand slid over her mouth was _bite._

His shout rang in her ears as she collapsed back against the wall.

“I am fucking _bleeding,”_ he hissed out, and she could see the scarlet dripping down one wrist, a bright splash of collar upon the pale green of his sleeve. Could taste the coppery tang on her tongue until she gagged. Felt her stomach writhe knowing any part of him was inside her. Without thinking, she spat it out, not caring if it got on his tunic or her dress or their shoes or anywhere. Anywhere was better than it being inside her mouth where she could _taste him and his disgusting blood._

“You have not changed one bit,” he accused, sounding caught between fury and some sort of sick pleasure. “It is no wonder your father has had a hard time finding anyone willing to take you. But worry not. We shall fix it. No time like the present to start.”

He had hit her once before. That time, he had been drunk and easy to avoid. Afterwards, he had not dared approach her, perhaps thinking that she might snitch to her parents or someone more important. This time, with the phantom of her father standing over his shoulder for reassurance, he did not hesitate to lift his hand.

Lindalórë flinched. But it never connected.

“This is none of your business,” Calmacil was snarling out as she blinked her eyes open, as she found herself face to back with a stranger. Looking up, she caught a profile of the man, strong and sharply Noldorin features. He was tall and broad and very clearly standing between her and any raining blow meant to bring her harm. This, of course, did nothing but enrage her attacker. “Get out of the way, peasant. This is between myself and the lady.”

“She does not seem to be too interested in _talking_ to you… or doing anything else,” the man countered, and she did not need to see his face to hear the sneer embedded in his words.

But she did recognize the voice. Matched it to the profile.

_The shoemaker? What is going on?_

Wide-eyed, she watched the two males face each other down, acting more like posturing beasts than civilized creatures. Watched as they squared off, as Calmacil gauged his opponent, who was broader, taller and bore the muscle and brawn of a laborer.

Hand still covered in blood, the nobleman scowled and backed away, judging his chances to be less than favorable in a fight against an unknown, larger opponent. _Because, of course, he prefers his victims small and helpless and female,_ she thought venomously, though her sharp and forward attitude was smothered beneath the lingering primal fear that surged through her limbs like rivers of ice and left her shaking everywhere. 

“Fucking keep the bitch then,” he hissed. And then his ice-chip eyes turned on her, and she flinched away from them. From the hunger and the hatred she found there. “This is not over, Lindalórë. You will wish you had not made this difficult.”

“We shall see,” the stranger interrupted, stepping once again to put his bulk between her and Calmacil. “I am certain Lord Curufinwë will have something to say about it.”

_Does he… know Curufinwë?_

At the very least, the threat managed to rid them of her unwanted follower, for Calmacil gave a last enraged snarl and left the alleyway. The sound of his footsteps faded, and with each she felt a sense of relief spreading down to combat the chill in her bones, like a warm tingling in her fingers and toes as they once again deigned move under her power, no longer frozen.

“Thank you,” she whispered, shaken.

Strong hands reached out to her but did not touch, and she was grateful for that, for she desired not to be handled. When she pushed herself up away from the wall, she wobbled, and he steadied her but nothing else, hands moving away as soon as her feet were firmly planted. “My lady, you look parched. Come inside and rest for a few minutes.”

 _A few minutes… right…_ She felt like she could rest for an age of the world at that moment. Silently, she nodded.

Watched as he gathered her things, shoving vibrant fabric and scuffed shoes back into their bags. Not that it mattered. None of those useless, expensive items were bought out of desire in any case. She had just hoped that having Calmacil’s hands occupied might prevent him from touching her, and it had worked for a while. Clearly, she had underestimated his gall, though, not suspecting that he might try to enact violence or sexual advances on her person in public within sight and hearing of people on the street.

She wondered if he had done it before to someone else and gotten away with it.

The thought made her feel nauseous. Genuinely ill.

Looking up at her, the shoemaker caught sight of her wide eyes and the pallor of her face. Whatever he saw there, it left his lips pursed. “Come inside and sit, please, my lady. You look not well at the moment.”

Swallowing down the urge to spill the contents of her stomach all over the pavement, she stumbled back into the small shop and let herself be directed to the back. Carefully, she sat herself down upon a bench meant for customers seeking to try on wares before purchasing. Gratefully, she accepted a glass of water when it was thrust into her shaking hands.

Slowly, aware that she might very well spill it upon herself as her fingers trembled, she drank it down. The coolness slipped down her raw throat, soothed the aching pain that had set in now that her blood no longer raced with the cold fire of panic. Now, she was faced with the sudden onslaught of the urge to weep. When a hand gently pried the glass away and set it aside, she did not fight it.

“My lady,” that familiar voice said, drawing her eyes upwards to find that the shoemaker was kneeling in front of her, trying to make eye contact. “My lady, where is your husband? Why is he not with you?”

 _Because I am an idiot,_ she almost said.

“H-he is not in the city right now,” she stammered. And her voice came out raw and shattered. The strain had her coughing into her palms with the sharp pain.

“Easy. Do you need more water?”

She nodded, eyes squeezed tightly shut. When he helped her drink, she did not resist.

“Do not try to speak,” he urged her quietly. “Give your throat some time. You have developed some fairly nasty bruises.”

It was not really a surprise. She could still feel Calmacil’s fingers imprinted into her flesh, squeezing until her voice was silenced. And remembering it had her skin breaking out in gooseflesh, a sudden chill sizzling across her body and leaving her feeling empty and desolate. So easily had he silenced her, like it was nothing.

Even out here, in public in broad daylight, she was not safe.

But, for the moment, her mind was too jumbled up to really notice or care. If her rescuer had chosen to attack her at that very moment, she could not possibly have fought back. And that should have scared her, for she knew not even his name or why he had protected her or what he might want in return, but she could not summon the energy or mental fortitude to even care. Exhausted and cold, she shivered.

He brought her a blanket. More water. A biscuit that she barely touched. How long had passed, she could not have said, but he did not ask her to move.

And then, finally, the frigid feeling of paralysis retreated.

She found herself huddled underneath that blanket, still in the back of the shop while the shoemaker went about his normal business. The windows were visible from where she sat, and they swam into focus, streaked with the golden light of the late afternoon sunshine, shadows cast long upon the street by the tall buildings and the people finishing their trade and their shopping, all heading towards home.

The very last thing she wanted was to _go back home, to that house._

It was not but a handful of minutes later that the shoemaker, bidding another customer good evening, realized that she was no longer lost to shocked reverie. “My lady,” he greeted quietly. “Are you feeling better?”

“I… yes,” she rasped out, wincing at the sting in her throat. “Much better. Thank you.”

He brought her more water, and she sipped the burn away. Looking up at him, she measured his unfamiliar features, the deep gray of his eyes. They were not unkind eyes, though she would not have called them warm either. This man was not the sort she would have pictured coming to rescue random women in alleyways, not the sort she would have pictured as a knight bravely and valiantly riding in fighting off attackers out of the goodness of his heart.

“Why?” she asked, knowing he would understand.

The stern line of his mouth twitched and quivered. “You are the wife of Lord Curufinwë. It would be ill indeed to repay his service to his men by turning a blind eye.”

_Oh. Oh, I see._

For some strange reason, it had not really occurred to Lindalórë to think that her husband had actually fought side by side with other people, with other men who would be reborn and go back to their previous lives. No one, after all, spoke of the followers of Fëanáro. They must have existed, everyone knew, for seven men alone could not have waged wars and brought cities low all alone, but there was no list of names, no marker by which they were identified. Anyone could have been one. Like ghosts, they slipped back into the ebb and flow of Tirion and the countryside, no one the wiser, for they could not be distinguished from any other Exile.

To think she would stumble upon one _accidently._

And that he would be a _shoemaker._

How many other followers of Fëanáro had she wandered right by on the streets without ever knowing who they were or what they had done? How many of them had seen her and recognized her as the spouse of one of their commanders and Princes but never said anything nor glanced her way a second time? How many of the common folk bore the moniker Kinslayer and none knew or could say just by looking into their eyes?

She swallowed sharply, trying to ignore the jolt of pain that followed. “Thank you,” she croaked out again.

A long look did he give her, boring through her with shadowy eyes that must have seen things she could scarcely imagine. They had that same strange quality that Curufinwë’s now carried when lost in thought, stark and changed and something beyond her ken. “Why,” he asked, “are you wandering about with that man?”

Beneath the bite of her teeth, her lip stung. Ashamed, she looked down at her hands, examining the black fabric, tracing the lines of stitching and weaving with her gaze to avoid meeting his eyes. “My father wishes for me to remarry, to abandon my husband, because connection with the name Fëanáro is ill news and has tarnished the reputation of our family. He seeks to force a match upon me.”

Glancing up, she could see fury in the gray. It left her flinching.

“I have no intention of betraying my husband,” she added, feeling as though she needed to defend herself, to make certain he understood that this was against her will. “But I have nowhere else to go. No one else is powerful enough to withhold me from my father even if I did. Except… Do you…?” She let out a little cough, her breath straining to keep up with her sudden rush of panicked words. “Do you know how I could contact his brothers, the Fëanárioni? Do you know where to find them?”

His gaze softened just a bit. “I do not. The Fëanárioni do not expect loyalty and do not ask for it. They have never jeopardized the wellbeing of their followers by naming them or acknowledging them publicly. They cut ties with us.”

Knowing Curufinwë as she did, Lindalórë could imagine her husband and his brothers doing exactly that. Cutting ties. Assuming it was for the best that they leave everyone else alone and retreat to whatever mountain stronghold they had forged for themselves in the wilderness. Not blind was she to the fact that her husband was a hard man to live with, and even harder to treat with even on his finest days of mood, but he took his duties seriously. He would have perceived the men under his command to be his own, whether as a responsibility or a possession, and would have sought to protect them as such.

Stingy were the ways of the Fëanárioni. No doubt, it had been learned directly from their fey sire. But, sometimes, that was not to their detriment.

This time, however, it _was_ to Lindalórë’s.

“Could you…” 

Nervously, she glanced out at the street. She would need to be home soon. The longer she wandered about alone, the more likely it was that _he_ would find her—she did not doubt that he was lingering nearby, waiting for her to come out, like a fox outside a rabbit’s warren—and she would not be able to simply barge into the palace and demand an audience with the royal family on a whim besides. She might be a daughter of a wealthy family, but she was not King’s councilor or advisor to barge in upon his personal time making demands.

Yet, she _knew_ King Arafinwë must have a way to contact the Fëanárioni or know someone who knew where they hid themselves away.

She hoped, in any case.

“Could you pass on a message for me?” she asked daintily.

“I suppose I could,” he responded hesitantly. “Let me fetch you something with which to write, my lady. And then I shall escort you home.”

He must have seen the fear she was trying to hide behind the visage of a poised lady. Lingering in the slight widening of her eyes, in the dilation of her pupils, in the shortness of her breath and the tremble that even now had not quite abandoned her fingertips. Might she have been released from the hold of her shock, but that had dissolved as an outer layer of ice hiding her nervousness beneath. The thought of going outside alone, especially as darkness began to fall, had left her feeling of dread rising and pooling hot in the back of her throat like bile.

It took all her strength to combat the overwhelming wave of sheer _relief_ at the thought of being _escorted_ back home. Like a helpless young maiden accidently caught outside after dark. _I am a grown woman,_ she scolded herself, _I do not need a man trailing after me for protection!_

Except, in this one instance, it was exactly what she guiltily wanted. Feeling tears prick her eyes, she wished desperately that Curufinwë were here. How safe she would have felt, tucked into the arms of her Fëanárion husband! No one would have dared to do her any harm if Curufinwë was there.

Saying nothing to counter his offer, she instead waited huddled under her blanket as he disappeared up the staircase into the apartment above the shop. When he brought back the quill and paper for her use, she set the tip to the parchment and wrote her piece. Short and concise. Signing it and folding it, she handed it over.

 _King Arafinwë Finwion,_ it said in her boldest handwriting.

He looked down at it with slightly widened eyes. When she had asked to have a message passed on, he had probably not imagined it was a message _to the King._ “My lady…”

“Please,” she added, voice still hoarse and faint. “I do not know who else to ask. Just, please, find a way to get it to him quickly.”

The shoemaker sighed. “I shall try my best, my lady.”

Little did Lindalórë like balancing her future on such unstable ground. How was a shoemaker meant to deliver a missive to the King? If it had to go through the normal route the man’s correspondence with the general public took, it would probably not grace his desktop for a month or more! But nothing else was there for her to do except hope that this would lead somewhere. It was worth a chance, at least.

“Now,” he said, tucking the missive away, “the shop is closing for the day. Let me change my clothes, and then I shall escort you back to your home. I would not have my Lord’s wife wandering about alone in the dark, especially not after such a trying day. It would be remiss of me to be so disrespectful.”

Not “you are too weak to be on your own” and not “a woman ought not be out and about after dark” and not “I am worried you will be attacked” or any other words. Just a favor to her husband. She supposed that her pride would just have to take the small blow.

Her heart certainly felt steadier at the knowledge that she would not be alone.

“Okay,” she whispered.

At least, for this short while, she would be safe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:
> 
> yendenya (Q) = my daughter  
> Fëanárioni (Q, p) = sons of Fëanáro


	54. Falling Through the Shadow Self

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone is visiting places within themselves that they wish they could pretend did not exist...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: insomnia, paranoia, dysfunctional family, unhealthy coping mechanisms, alcoholism, DTs (the shakes), delirium/hallucinations, panic attack (almost), self-harm, emotional/verbal child abuse (past), semi-graphic descriptions of injury/violence, unrequited love mixed with resentment, blood imagery, allusions to rape/torture, guilt and shame, blaming, self-hatred, past sex with strangers, hangover, depression, threats
> 
> Heads up. Findekáno is hardcore hallucinating for parts of this chapter and showcases many of his mental health issues. And he deals with his issues in an astronomically unhealthy manner because he doesn't have a proper support system and doesn't know what else to do. Thus, the ridiculous amount of warnings.
> 
> Maedhros = Maitimo = Nelyafinwë = Nelyo = Russandol  
> Maglor = Makalaurë = Kanafinwë = Káno  
> Celegorm = Tyelkormo = Tyelko = Turkafinwë = Turko  
> Caranthir = Carnistir = Morifinwë = Moryo  
> Curufin = Atarinkë = Curufinwë = Curvo  
> Amrod = Ambarussa = Pityafinwë = Pityo = Minyarussa  
> Amras = Umbarto = Telufinwë = Telvo = Atyarussa  
> Fingon = Findekáno  
> Turgon = Turukáno  
> Aredhel = Írissë  
> Argon = Arakáno  
> Fingolfin = Nolofinwë  
> Egalmoth = Aikambalotsë  
> Celebrimbor = Telperinquar

_Isilya, 51 Lairë (3 July)_

\---

Once again, Curufinwë did not sleep. Even though his eyes drooped as though the lids were forged of lead. Even though his head ached in deep, sharp waves, and his vision swam in and out of focus. Even though his muscles might as well have been jelly and the tendons might as well have been cut for all the good they were doing when he tried to move his useless limbs about.

The fifth son would bloody well have liked to sleep. He would have liked to sleep for an entire week if he could manage.

Still, the sleep did not come.

It was not that Findekáno was particularly annoying once he had been settled down and fallen into a drowsy fog. Every now and again, the man would stir sharply from a nightmare, scrambling with his hands for a weapon that he did not have—they had removed every single one from his person that they could find after the first and then second delirious attempt to stab someone in a haze of confusion—but he would always calm again when Curufinwë spoke quietly into his ear and pushed him back down onto his bedding.

Maybe it was the shaking. There had been no more outright seizing or vomiting since Curufinwë had started masquerading as his own older brother, which was a good sign by any estimate that their cousin was not in danger of actually _expiring_ from his ill-advised abstinence from alcohol consumption, but Findekáno was still shaking hard from head to toe. No one could deny that it was unsettling.

Or, maybe, it was the muttering.

Curufinwë had learned far too much about his brother’s friendship with Findekáno. Far more than he had ever wanted to know.

And his reputation amongst Turukáno and his goons was ruined after allowing this pitiful lump of a man cuddle and murmur and nuzzle at him like a drunken cat for more than a day straight with only small moments of slipping away for food, water and other things. During which, of course, Findekáno was unsettled and anxious and confused at the sudden absence of _Nelyafinwë_ until he returned. Never mind that he did not even _look_ that much like his older brother, let alone sound like him! Hatefully, he glared down at his older cousin, who had been blissfully unconscious the entire day yesterday, through last night, and continuing on through the entirety of the morning, who had no idea what he was doing at all and probably would not for at least another day or two.

Such it was that Curufinwë grudgingly spent all day and into the evening once again just sitting in the grass while the others milled around anxiously. No one spoke of hurrying on in their quest to catch up to Írissë and her wayward lover. No one made any unwarranted comments about Findekáno’s illness now that it had gone from mildly annoying withdrawal to potentially deadly delirium. No matter how much Turukáno griped and paced and pretended as though he longed to run off at any moment in hot pursuit, the icy-hearted man could not hide the looks he sent towards his older brother.

Worried looks.

Finally, at about what Curufinwë would have guessed was seven in the evening, as the trees were lit aflame by the beginnings of the setting sun, his least favorite cousin approached. Like an icicle immune to the burn of fire, his face was frozen in that cool, distant mask that Curufinwë would normally have wanted to claw away to get at the rage and bitterness and weaknesses embedded beneath. Feeling rather exhausted and not at all like making verbal swordplay today, he sent the man a reproachful look instead, managing little more than a small frown in his cousin’s general direction.

It did not stall his unwanted company for even a moment. So much for Curufinwë having inherited his father’s terrifying visage. What good did that do if it could not even drive Turukáno Nolofinwion off when he damn well needed it?

“You can sleep,” Turukáno said, crouching in the grass.

“With Findekáno splayed out on top of me and the lot of you guarding my back?” He scoffed. “Forget about it. I would rather drop dead on my feet.”

At his uncharitable response, he could see the rise of frustration in his cousin’s pale eyes. Felt the first hints of vindication stir in his blood as they always did when he glimpsed a splinter of true thought beneath his cousin’s icy shield, when he smelled the oncoming storm of fury breaking through. Only, for once, Turukáno bloody Nolofinwion managed to hold back his snappish, bladed winter-gale of a temper. “If nothing else, we owe you for your assistance with Findekáno. Sleep.”

“Do not tell me what to do.”

“You really _are_ going to drop dead on your feet if you _do not sleep,”_ his cousin needled, sounding halfway between smug and irritated at Curufinwë’s defiance of his orders, of his purportedly _good intentions_ foisted off upon the fifth brother as repayment for whatever this strange comforting mess was supposed to be. “You did not sleep almost at all when Aikambalotsë took the watch, you did not sleep at all when Findekáno took watch, and you certainly have not slept since then.”

“Must you pretend to care?” Because Curufinwë was almost certain that Turukáno _did not_ actually care whether or not he slept, or whether or not he was healthy, or whether or not he dropped dead in the middle of nowhere. The man might even prefer it! A clean death with no incriminating blood on anyone’s hands!

“I do not care,” Turukáno snapped back, “But you are part of this expedition and we need you to be functional. So, bloody well go to sleep! Findekáno is hardly going to attack you.”

“He tried to stab you. Twice,” Curufinwë felt obliged to point out irascibly.

“I am his annoying younger brother, and I almost guarantee you he has thought about stabbing me often enough since the moment I learned to speak. But _you_ are his favorite person in the world.” Turukáno wrinkled his nose as if smelling something foul. Curufinwë shared the sentiment. “Well, he at least _thinks_ you are.”

_When he wakes up to find out that he has been cuddling up to Nelyafinwë’s baby brother for two days—or longer, if this continues—he is not going to be pleased._

“At least until Findekáno is better—and until everything with Írissë has been sorted—should we not consider a truce, cousin?” Turukáno then broached.

“Who put you up to this?” Curufinwë asked slyly. No way, not in the name of the most frigid corners of Helcaraxë or the hottest, sootiest, most disgusting corners of Utumno, was a _truce_ with a _Fëanárion_ in any way, shape or form an _idea_ of _Turukáno Nolofinwion._ He half suspected by the look of revulsion on that face that his cousin was being coerced into the offer and was seriously contemplating going through with whatever bodily harm had been threatened should he not make temporary peace.

 _At least it would be a laugh to see him lose some fingers,_ Curufinwë could not help but think bitterly, wishing not for the thousandth time that he had forgone speaking to Nolofinwë entirely or bothering with the bloody attempt at a civilized, mature _apology_ at all and had instead just gone in search of Turkafinwë and Írissë on his own.

Then he would not be here, five days into a spectacularly unsuccessful hunt, with his lap full of a barely-conscious man suffering from the most severe case of alcohol withdrawal he had ever had the misfortune to be involved in dealing with.

And, of course, said delirious individual chose that moment to act up.

At the first hint of movement, Curufinwë felt his heart leap in his chest—as it had every time Findekáno had suddenly stirred—while his eyes swiveled downwards, watching closely for the onset of potentially lethal convulsions. While Findekáno was certainly looking worse for wear, still gray in his face which was streaked with sweat, his hair mussed and damp from perspiration, eyes half-hooded and dark as he faded in and out of consciousness, he did not appear to be getting worse either. Almost like a helpless kitten, he raised his head, seeking for Nelyafinwë with eyes that were a thousand leagues away. Or, perhaps, a thousand years.

“R-Russa?”

Over the past days, Curufinwë had tried to let go of the humiliation that came with responding to these questioning little cries gently. For the most part, he could pretend that the others were in some alternate mortal plane, that they were too far off to hear, that they were wise and charitable enough not to look and see such a tender interaction, something meant for privacy and safety. But Turukáno was sitting right next to them now, watching with hawk-like eyes as Findekáno’s hands searchingly traversed.

Biting back the feeling of being naked, the rough discomfort of showing _too much,_ Curufinwë caught his cousin’s hands. “I am here, Findekáno. You should be resting.”

Eru, he had not even known he could still make his voice go so soft, so gentle. Like the tones used when speaking to a babe in arms. That he had to perform thusly with an audience made his body shudder, left him with the urge to roll Findekáno off him right onto the cold ground and stomp off to some private clearing in the woods to be ill.

To somewhere where no one could see how raw it made him feel.

“Though I heard…” Findekáno’s face crumpled up in thought, like it was a struggle to even comprehend his surroundings. All the while, he shook, and Curufinwë resisted the powerful urge—a throwback from being a father, he told himself—to check and make sure that everything was fine, that his heartbeat was not racing again. It was ridiculous. Findekáno was a pathetic adult male suffering through a grave illness by no one’s fault but his own, and Curufinwë was doing a favor by being supportive and caring rather than sharp and prickly and unpleasant. It had nothing at all to do with latent parental instinct.

“Thought I heard…” the man repeated, yawning and wavering and then collapsing back down with his head on Curufinwë’s shoulder. “Stupid. Thought I heard…”

Curufinwë was too tired to push for Findekáno to finish that sentence. Or the dozen or so others he had started and repeated over and over the last handful of times he had been what passed for possibly awake. “Go back to sleep,” he urged instead, reaching out to curl his fingers in dark hair and hold Findekáno’s cheek in place, pressed up against his tunic. “I am here. Nothing is happening. You should rest.”

“But, Russa, all I…” Findekáno interrupted himself with a yawn and nuzzles uncomfortably into the crook of Curufinwë’s neck. “All… been doin’ is… is resting…”

It leaves the fifth son wondering if his older brother had truly ever done this before. Held Findekáno like this, cradling him close, allowing all this strange cuddling and coddling and touching. It was one thing to allow it from his younger brothers—and Fëanáro certainly put a stop to that sort of behavior as early as he could wean his children off the need to be soothed and cradled like children—but another entirely to do it for a cousin. The son of their father’s greatest enemy. The son of Nolofinwë.

But, then, they had been close friends. Perhaps none of them had realized how close. Or, perhaps, they had all just been willfully blind.

Biting back a comment about idiots, he petted his cousin’s hair. “Rest,” he ordered. The same way he would have ordered his son in those strange years when Telperinquar was old enough to climb out of bed on his own but young enough to want to sleep with his parents in their room every time there was a storm. The same way he would have ordered it as his child curled up against his stomach, all bony knees and elbows separating him from his wife, squirming around beneath the covers and giggling while his parents were trying to roll over and go back to sleep.

That was to say, without any bite at all. His face burned with the shame.

But Findekáno listened. At the very least, there was that. With no more mental faculty at the moment than the child he was treated as, the eldest son of Nolofinwë decided that going back to sleep while piled into Nelyafinwë’s (Curufinwë’s) lap was a fantastic idea. And then, thankfully, he stilled again, going back to restless and tremor-filled sleep. But sleep all the same.

“You are good with him,” Turukáno commented.

“If you say _anything_ about this to _anyone,”_ Curufinwë bit out, hating that his voice was not as strong or as sharp as his threat warranted, “I _will_ find a way to make you wish you had never been born.”

“It was meant as a compliment,” his cousin replied, leaning back.

 _No, it was not._ Curufinwë absolutely refused to believe that he was not being mocked. _I am never going to hear the end of this. Ever._

Instead of calling his cousin out on that ridiculous bit of terrible lying, Curufinwë huffed out a sigh and fought against the onslaught of fatigue. One heart-stopping moment of wondering if Findekáno was about to convulse and die right before his eyes—one in a series of approximately fifty over the last two days—and he was struggling as the adrenaline racing through his veins dropped him and left him hanging precariously on the edge. Fighting a losing battle.

He would have to sleep.

_Talk. Stay awake._

“I am a father,” he said, wondering why he had chosen this topic and if it was really wise to bring up Telperinquar. “Is it really that surprising?”

“I… suppose not.”

Awkward silence followed. Curufinwë felt his vision waver ominously. Fighting against it, he gritted his teeth and _tried to think of something to say._

“Do you… know what happened to him?” Turukáno spoke first, “Your boy, I mean.”

It was uncomfortable to think of his son, and his sleep-deprived brain spun in circles mulling over the question. Telperinquar was a topic that he rarely allowed himself to linger upon, for the most part because he truly had no idea what had happened to his son after they had parted ways in Nargothrond. No idea if the boy was alive or dead. If he was healthy or married, if he had children or if he was completely alone. If he needed his family or if he would still happily never acknowledge their existence again.

It hurt. That was why it was so uncomfortable. It hurt. And Curufinwë had been raised to ignore emotional pain. To ignore the tightness in his chest at feeling abandoned by his mother. To ignore the burning agony that clenched around his lungs when his father sneered at him disdainfully. To ignore the bubbling anxiety that never went away at the thought of his son somehow falling into a situation as terrible as was befitting of a member of their cursed bloodline, but alone and without the support of his father at his back. The thought of Telperinquar being killed made his heart stutter and his lungs freeze. The thought of his child experiencing _worse_ —the sort of worse that had left a thousand novels worth of scars written upon Nelyafinwë’s skin in the language of torture—made his mind shudder and twist until he wondered that it did not shatter.

Not knowing. It was enough to drive any parent insane. The only tiny consolation he found was that his son was an _adult_ who had been independent and had chosen his own path. That Telperinquar had proven himself capable, had mostly taken care of himself for a great many years before they had become estranged.

He was fine. He _had to be fine._

“I do not,” he admitted quietly, hating how tiny his voice sounded, how choked and how uncertain and how _vulnerable._ “Why would you ask about him?”

 _To torment me?_ Little other reason could Curufinwë imagine for his cousin to tear at the metaphorical festering wound of his failed relationship with his son. It was something that Curufinwë certainly would have done had their positions been reversed.

_Would you?_

Ah, the voice like Lindalórë’s, whispering in the back of his mind.

_If Turukáno were lying on the ground with a distraught and sick Nelyafinwë in his lap, fatigued to the point of collapse, nervous and anxious, obviously upset and struggling to maintain his composure, would you still have gone out of your way to be cruel?_

He hated when she asked him questions like that. They always highlighted exactly the things about himself that he did not want to see. Exactly the things about himself that his father would have scolded him for. Exactly the things about himself that his wife insisted made him anything _but_ a doppelganger of the man who had given him life.

_But would you?_

If it did not make him sick to acknowledge that even _he_ was not that much of a jackass, he might have laughed.

So, perhaps Turukáno was _not_ trying to be cruel intentionally. Looking over at the man, taking in the slight offset of his gaze—their eyes failing to meet directly as his cousin stared somewhere just off to the right—he did not see the normal spark of hate in the micro-expressions of that face, in the narrowing of blue eyes or the slight curl of that stern mouth.

“I… He came to Ondolindë. After the sacking of Nargothrond. He came to Ondolindë, joined the House of Helyanwë and worked under one of our most talented jewel-smiths. But I did not know if there was any news of his whereabouts after…”

_After the Fall._

Tightness pulled at Curufinwë’s throat. All those who had been killed in the Fall of Ondolindë—and most of those who had died in the conflicts and warring afterwards—had already been reborn. But not his son. Not Telperinquar. If he had not died there, he would have gone on to the Havens of Sirion alongside his uncle, but Aikambalotsë had never spoken of his nephew to Curufinwë. Had Telperinquar not survived? Had they gone their separate ways? Had his son still been there, at the Havens, during the Third Kinslaying? But, certainly, he could not have been. Nelyafinwë would have said something.

Would he not have?

Too tired and suddenly feeling too nauseous to contemplate further, he let his eyes slip shut. It was something he did not want to think about.

“I do not know anything about his fate,” Curufinwë admitted.

Maybe it was obvious by the look on his face, or maybe Turukáno could hear it in his voice, or maybe his cousin had developed some Eru-be-damned _sense_ for that singular moment in time. In any of those cases, it mattered not _why_ Turukáno stayed silent and did not press. Just that he _did._

Just that he did not say anything else, did not bring forth any more terrible scenarios to the struggling father that lingered like a shadow in the back of Curufinwë’s mind. That he did not push the fifth son down the steep slope into the trap of the quick, shallow breaths of hyperventilation that tugged incessantly at his lungs along with the waves of panic tickling across the edges of his rational mind like unwanted knockers.

 _Breathe,_ he reminded himself. _Breathe._

Slowly, the panic abated. Even if the near-brush with heart palpitations did nothing but sap away the last bit of energy Curufinwë was using as a shield against the beautiful, seductive call of the sleep that he did not want.

“Forgive me for bringing it up,” Turukáno said then. “I did not mean to cause upset.”

For once, Curufinwë was too tired to cynically believe—out of sheer bitter resentment—that Turukáno could not possibly be telling the truth because his cousin was _always_ out to make any Fëanárion as miserably uncomfortable as he possibly could manage, driven forth by the impossibly efficient fuel that was pure and unadulterated spite. Probably, he admitted internally, his cousin _was_ actually sorry. Just this once.

“What about your daughter,” Curufinwë murmured, trying to distract himself from the lingering shock and the burning pain and the writhing river of panic lingering beneath it all, no longer rising over his head but still ever-present. “I have seen neither hide nor hair of her at all. She was not at the Midsummer Festival. Not that I remember seeing, in any case.”

Another awkward silence. His cousin would not meet his eyes. “She and I are not on speaking terms,” Turukáno admitted. “I suppose we have that in common. Both our children hate us so much that they would rather we did not exist.”

_By Eru, we do actually have something in common. How disgusting._

“Is she at least happy?” Curufinwë asked, half-hoping that she was horribly miserable and half-hoping that there was still something good in this world, that at least one member of their miserable family had not spiraled down into an endless tunnel of abject misery, that there was something good that had come out of the disaster wrought by Fëanáro’s lust for blood and vengeance and three fucking glowing rocks.

“As happy as can be allowed, given her circumstances,” Turukáno answered. “Things are not perfect. But they never are.”

“Not perfect, hm?” Curufinwë blinked, fought against the blur of his vision. “I heard she got to keep her mortal. Close to perfect as it gets, no?”

“Mortals are not meant to live forever,” Turukáno told him, sounding morose, like it pained him to think too much upon his daughter’s fate for the ugliness of its reality. “Let us just say that the blessings of the Valar in granting Tuor immortality and a home in Valinórë come with their curses as well.”

Too tired to figure out what that was supposed to mean—Why did his cousin have to go about being cryptic and abstract when his brain was slowly turning to mush and dribbling out of his nose as he was certain that it was?—Curufinwë just let out a grunt of acknowledgement and relaxed back, feeling the tug of rough bark catching in his bound hair as the conversation drifted away from his mind. Hovering right on the edge of consciousness and feeling the panic settling in close as an unwanted bedfellow, he clumsily leaned forward, thinking that this was a terrible idea but no longer possessing the wherewithal to care, and then snapped his skull against the trunk of the tree under which he and Findekáno had been resting.

The sharp pain kept his eyes in focus just a few seconds longer.

He got to the third attempt to bash the back of his head into wakefulness before a hand stopped him. It took most of his remaining mental capacity—sitting right on the edge of the comfortable cloud of sleep glistening just out of reach—to realize that Turukáno was cursing and preventing him from continuing to use pain as a deterrent against rest.

_Fucking Turukáno. And his fucking too-soft and comfortable hand._

“You are as bad as Findekáno when it comes to being childish and irresponsible with your health,” the second son of Nolofinwë was saying, scolding, voice rising and falling in a pleasantly upset rhythm. “Trying to concuss yourself to avoid sleep, honestly! No one is going to do you harm. If you would just pull your head out of your rear end for one thrice-be-damned moment… see that… need rest… cannot… no sleep…”

Well, whatever it was that Turukáno was bitching about now, it would have to wait.

Surrendering, Curufinwë fell.

\---

_Elenya, 49 Lairë (1 July)_

\---

It was a strange thing.

Findekáno was used to feeling not well. Or, at least, as good as he could manage to feel while feeling decidedly not well about a great many things in his existence. That was, he decided, rather the point of bothering with the parties and the bottles in the first place. That he could be somewhere else, cradled on a cloud woven from cotton daydreams and wistful thoughts, floating somewhere far above the seething river of things he would rather forget that writhed and snarled below like hissing vipers below.

Whenever he felt like they were reaching out, getting too close, snagging his ankles in their slippery coils and venomous fangs as he fled as far and fast as his mind could carry him, there was always the wine.

And then it would all go away. And he could pretend it was fine.

Until it did not go away.

Perhaps this was the source of his massive confusion. For some inexplicable reason, he felt it curling up in his gut like acid. The bite of scorn—the look on his father’s face, in his father’s eyes, that stern voice telling, ordering, lecturing him on _being better_ —the rush of bitter love—because other eyes, brilliant eyes, were gentle, because other arms held him even when he was drunk and stumbling, because that other voice forgave him even when he did not deserve it—and the sharp and cruel sword-strike of _everything else._

There was blood and torn flesh turned black and the sound of screaming and begging, and Findekáno flinched back from the memory. It was something he did not want to see. Something that he wanted to go away and never return.

It might have said his name. He was not certain.

He tried to stab it, but his arms were held back by shadows. They were keeping him from finding his way back to the numbness, and he tried to slash at them, but his fingers were not bladed, and the shadows would not budge, and the sound of echoing voices rang in the back of his head, growing louder and louder and _louder like the sound of singing and dying—_

And he heard Russandol. Somewhere.

“Russa,” he tried to call, tried to see, to search. He remembered this. He did. He remembered searching for Russandol, remembered hearing a voice echo his own but hoarse and low and raw with pain. He remembered that he had followed it.

He remembered that Russandol had asked to die.

He remembered feeling like his stomach was going to crawl up through his throat and throw itself down upon the ground, and he felt it like it had grown legs and was forcing its way up and out. Like it was expanding and filling up the place where air was supposed to be, and he was choking on it as he tried to cough it out onto the ground in a splatter of gore and scarlet blood and yellow bile and—

And then Russandol was there. “Fuck you, Findekáno! Wake up!”

Was he asleep? But that could not be right, could it?

Turning, hands about his throat as he struggled desperately to drag oxygen in through the obstruction bulging against his esophagus, he thought he caught a glimpse of curling russet hair. But there was nothing to see except blackness and twin stars. Yet, he could smell it, the familiar cinnamon-sweet smell mixed with earth and sweat, and it made him think of a million freckles and how he had once imagined counting each one with his lips and—

“Russa?” he asked, reaching out and feeling relief when he felt something solid. Not shadows grabbing at his hands, holding him back. Not the screams of dying men in his ears, deafening him to his own heartbeat.

Just the sound of breathing.

And his stomach stopped trying to crawl out of his throat. For that moment, he felt just a little bit better. Or, perhaps, not. Perhaps, he was feeling anger—that strange burning coil deep in his gut, spreading out to shake through his muscles and bones—or, perhaps, he was feeling guilt—that tightness pressed up into the cavity where his heart resided, boring its way out of his chest beat by beat.

Perhaps, that was why he said what he said, though he remembered little of the words that he actually spoke. Just that they were what he meant to say. That he was angry with Russandol and did not know why—

 _Because Russandol was the source of all his pain. Because Russandol was the only comfort that could make it go away. Because he was not_ good enough _to match Russandol’s perfect face and perfect mind and perfect form and perfect kindness. Because he craved to be better and to be less, to exceed his cousin and, also, to surrender and bask within his cousin’s embrace and soft, comforting words. Because it was never, ever enough. Because Russandol, who was closer than any brother, who he loved above all others, had_ abandoned _him and he felt…_

—and he felt guilty as well and did not know why—

 _Lies. Of course, he knew why. Of course, he felt the burn of those eyes as they begged him to get better, to take care of himself, and he ignored them. Of course, he saw their mingled fear and relief as they begged for death and had faith he would grant their request. Of course, he saw their horror as he pulled out his sword and_ cut away _part of that perfect (no longer perfect, ruined, marred, destroyed) body without consent. Of course, he knew their anger when he came to visit later, to apologize, but could not force the words out because he was_ sorry _to have upset his dearest cousin (his dearest love) but_ not sorry _that his cousin had survived to see another day. And it was selfish, but he…_

—but he knew this comfort from the ancient days. Knew the feeling of being held safe and warm and knowing that everything was going to be fine.

He could forget about everything else. Because it was all going to be fine. As long as he could feel the heat of those hands stroking over his shoulders, the raw strength of that voice murmuring against his ear, he could… he could…

He could sink into darkness and never come up for air. And would that not just be perfect? To forget about all of it forever?

To never breathe in the pain again?

\---

_Anarya, 50 Lairë (2 July)_

\---

Except, that was not what happened. That was never what happened.

He closed his eyes, let the heavy feeling take him down into the empty pit of silence staring back at him from the abyss, and he jolted awake to the feeling of aloneness. Only, it was not so much aloneness as the feeling of lack, aching somewhere in the pit of his soul. Reaching out, he found that hands reached back, but they were cold.

They were not Russandol’s.

Vaguely did he recall, on the cusp of sleep, that his brothers had been there. That Russandol had been there. Now, though, he felt cold and distant. His eyes opened, and maybe he saw his brothers there—Turukáno and Arakáno looking so alike to his (beloved, hated) father that he almost could not tell them apart from each other or from the phantom voice lurking in the darkest vestiges of his oldest feelings of shame—or maybe he saw something else. Something frightening. Something that was going to cleave his skull and shed his skin and break his bones until he was _nothing_ , and he needed to _escape_ , to _struggle—_

But he was chained. He was chained and frightened and Russandol was _gone._ Even in those final moments of dawn bridging upon the smoky horizon-line in the distance, he had looked over his shoulder and seen that tall form behind, strong at his back, and he had gone into death’s arms without hesitation and without remorse. But, when he looked over his shoulder, there was no one there.

“Russa?” he questioned, drifting between the lush green world of reality (Is this reality?) and the dusty, gory, blood-mired hell of hot mud and toxic smoke (Is this reality?) and he did not trust either one of them to be real.

And then he caught that scent again, smoke and fire and cinnamon sweetness, and he turned to look over his shoulder. “Russa?”

And he was _sorry._

He was sorry for being pathetic as a boy, for being a nuisance, for begging for attention. He was sorry for not being good enough or smart enough or responsible enough or _perfect_ enough. He was sorry that he had dealt with all of it in booze and sex and forced his cousin to drag him home again and again, night after night. He was sorry that he could not make himself stop no matter how much Russandol begged. And he was sorry that he had feelings for the only person who had ever taken the time to really _care_ about him—to really _take care of him_ —for no other reason than out of love, without making him feel _guilty_ and _worthless_ for needing the support. And he was _sorry—_

“Shut up,” he heard Russandol say, and that voice echoed. Like a sharp rebuke. Like a fleeting expression of wry fondness.

He was going to make it right. He was. He was. He was going to stop the endless nights at the tavern. He was going to stop the sex with random men and women. He was going to stop the _alcohol._ He was going to be sober and responsible. He was going to do it. He was going to be perfect. He was going to be perfect for—

“It is fine. I believe you, Findekáno.”

_Does he? Does he believe in my words? He always says that he does. And I always disappoint him._

And he remembered those eyes, not filled with disappointment but with fury and shame and rage and _hate._ The way they looked at him when he came to apologize and none of the words would come out the way he wanted, and he needed another drink and—

And that was the problem. That was always the problem.

If he could just get himself under control, if he could just find the words to say it, if he could just pull himself together, if he could just be what his cousin deserved, if he could just _keep his promises…_

 _“Leave me alone,”_ Russandol had said, looking away at the far wall, hollow-faced and gray, left hand clenched in the sheets and right hand—not a hand anymore, he knew, but a useless leftover stump of dead tissue and scars that he had cut even though the smell and the sight of it made his stomach rebel sharply again and again until he gagged—tucked away near his side where it was safe. _“Just… leave me alone, Findekáno. Just go away.”_

_I hate you. You did this to me. Leave me alone._

His cousin had never said it. But it was always there. Even when Russandol later was cool-eyed and wearing the dispassionate face of a politician and a Prince. Even when Russandol was making that crooked smile, looking gaunter and sharper at the edges but still so, so impossibly beautiful. Even when they rode beside one another and the sunlight caught red hair just right and turned it golden like fire.

It was always there, just underneath. The tenderness was gone. The brotherhood was gone. The _more between them_ was gone.

And he did not know how to bring it back.

“Russa,” he begged as it all spilled from his lips—or from his mind, like black sludge, like a river of endless things that he never said and always ignored because they were a thousand leagues below his feet as he sailed high on the buzz of drink and false joy.

 _I am sorry,_ he tried to say. 

“I heard you. Just hold still. You are ill and you should not be up right now.”

_Ill? Was he ill?_

Drunk, not ill, he decided. Russandol always helped him when he was too drunk to walk, too wobbly to stand, too out of his senses to find his way home. Always.

Except, he was not drunk, was he? This was not the drunkenness. This was the aftermath. The horrible, shaking, sweating, tear-ridden, painful coming-back-down-to-earth. Free-falling back into reality. To find that his cousin was there waiting to pick him back up again. And it only made everything _worse_ because how could he _not love—?_

“I am sorry,” he tried to say. He was not quite sure if it came out. If he was speaking it into the dusk and the greenery of the forest or into the black abyss of his thoughts.

“I forgive you, alright,” Russandol said back. And his heart swelled with an influx of relief and of joy and of pain until he thought _that_ might try to crawl up and out through his throat and out onto the dusty ground as well. Until he thought that he might be dying right then and there as everything slowed. “Now, rest, and you will feel better.”

And Russandol did not leave him. His beautiful, perfect cousin never left him alone when he needed support.

That was half the reason… _more than half the reason…_

“Okay,” he agreed. Because Russandol always did his best to watch out for his miserable drunkard of a younger cousin, always made sure he was safe and warm and _home_ at the end of a long and taxing night of wild frivolity. “Goodnight, Russa,” he tried to say. Like he had said a thousand times before, snuggling up into the warmth of an embrace that he could not get from anyone else because firstborn sons should not need comforting embraces.

“Goodnight,” Russandol answered.

And his cousin was too perfect. Always too fucking perfect.

But, for the time being, Findekáno did not care. Because, like he always was and always had been, he was _selfish._

\---

_Menelya, 53 Lairë (5 July)_

\---

Coming out of it was a slow process.

There were very few times in his life that Findekáno had attempted to remain or had been forced to remain sober. This process—this detoxification of the body and sudden downward spiral of the mind into the real world that he wanted nothing more than to forget—was not unfamiliar. He had just not experienced it in so long that it took his body time to remember how absolutely, atrociously _painful_ it actually was.

What he felt now was not too different from the first long days of the march across Helcaraxë, when they barely had enough food and shelter to keep people alive, let alone _wine_ to keep Findekáno _drunk_. Then, his fevered nightmares and delusions had been about Russandol, too. But they had been filled with rage and the sound of the screaming wind and the feeling of freezing slowly to death bit by bit by bit. Because, then, that had been his greatest fear. Dying a slow, cold death in the middle of a wasteland without ever seeing his best friend again. Without ever saying the words he had never said. Without ever expressing how _angry he was_ and _betrayed he felt_ and _how much he loved Russandol despite—_

After bringing his cousin home in literal pieces, he had not been angry anymore.

After seeing the way Russandol looked at him—like he was a demon straight out of Utumno, some hideous monster of the deep evil places, sent to bring nothing but long-drawn torment of the body and lingering dissolution of the mind through madness—Findekáno had left his cousin alone. He had realized how selfish he had been, expecting Nelyafinwë (not Russandol—not anymore) to be grateful to be saved and left trapped in a destroyed, violated and mutilated body because his cousin _loved him_ too much to (not enough to) let him go.

Findekáno had returned to the bottle and never left it again.

It was enough to forget. Mostly.

But, slowly, he was coming back.

At times, he was aware that whatever was flashing before his eyes was a tangled amalgamation of the real world and fantasy. No battlefields were there to be found here in the peaceful lands of Valinórë, stretching on forever into a never-ending landscape of brutalized, putrid and rotting corpses everywhere one looked. No blood, black and red swirled together in an abstract painting across his armor and staining his banner and splashed over his sword and rubbed under his fingernails. No enemies screaming as they came at him from behind and from the front, as they tried to end him and everything he loved, and he fought back with equal fervor because he was desperate. Yet, he could only look at the forest floor and see spilled entrails. He could only look at the sky and see a red haze.

He could only look into Turukáno’s face and see the last hideous expression of horror his little brother had worn before everything had gone black. Wavering into a worried grimace, in and out of focus, until his brain decided enough was enough and he pushed it all away.

_Not ready to face it. Not yet._

Beneath his hands, he felt the warmth of another body. Strong and broad in the shoulders, hard across the chest and belly, and he kept his eyes closed and imagined— _just for a few more desperate, pathetic minutes_ —that it was Nelyafinwë holding him close like this. Like he once had in the green days of innocence when he was young. Before he had figured everything out and locked it all away under a veritable mountain of bottles and an endless line of eager one-night-only partners.

Not good enough for the unattainable. He had Nelyafinwë’s love, but it was the love of a brother or of a father. Not of a lover. Not what he wanted.

So, they remained best friends.

It was only moments like now, when he was trapped without his shield of dazed intoxication, when he blinked open his eyes to a world of agony throbbing through his skull more painfully than could any orcish blade hope to cleave, that he could not deny the truth. That he could not bury it or ignore it without _pain_ that went far beyond the boundaries of his corporeal body.

The sun was burning hot against his retinas. Groaning, he turned his face away, buried it in a willing shoulder. For a long moment, he breathed in a scent that reminded him starkly of Nelyafinwë, tricked him for the shortest, most blissful second, into believing that his cousin might _be here for him in truth_ and _he had not been imagining it all_ —that all the things that had driven them apart had not put an endless gulf between them and left even their supposed great friendship unsalvageable—but it was wrong. It was too sharp, like a fell fire burning flesh and bone mixed with the raw and icy purity of snow on the barren tundra. It made his nose crinkle.

Sitting up, he met silver eyes. But they were the wrong silver.

_Curufinwë._

Really, the man did look _so very much_ like his father and nothing at all like his mother. For one heart-stopping moment, Findekáno actually thought he might be in the arms of his temperamental, heartless, hyper-intelligent half-uncle. Or that he was still hallucinating, and this was a very bizarre nightmare.

Any moment, that face was going to dissolve into blood that spilled from a hole in his head, disintegrate into fangs that tried to tear away his flesh and gnaw on his eyes. And he would fall face-first back into the nightmare like none of this tranquil, quiet business with sunshine and birdsong and picturesque forest clearings in the middle of the woods had ever happened.

But his brain caught up to him, no longer slowed by drink. Much to his distaste.

He had gone off on that ridiculous expedition to recover his sister—thinking that his body could handle the withdrawal better now than it had before, better because he had done it more than once—and that had obviously not turned out as planned at all.

“How long…?” His voice was scratchy, the back of his throat dry and stinging. When he tried to speak, he croaked instead. “How long have I…?”

Wordlessly, his cousin helped him sit upright. Brought him a waterskin and had him drink his fill. Those silver eyes would not meet his own, and it made his blood run cold in his veins. Curufinwë Atarinkë, like his father before him, was not the sort to avert his eyes. He was the sort of man who stared straight into the depths of your soul and _saw everything._

Findekáno wondered, with no small amount of half-hidden panic in his widening eyes and his whiter-than-a-sheet face, what exactly it was that Curufinwë had _seen._

Well, he was fairly certain he _knew_ what his cousin had _seen,_ but…

“Please, say nothing,” he begged before he could think better of it, before he remembered that Curufinwë was one of the most heartless, vicious, cruelly intelligent beings he had ever encountered and if _anyone_ was going to store this information away to use it against him later it would surely be this man. Still, he could not stop the words from rolling off his tongue, like water slipping through his cupped fingers, finding all the little cracks through which they could sneak and drip through and make a massive mess.

This was why he hated being sober. Always such a fucking _mess._

“I have never said anything to Russ— to Nelyafinwë,” he added. “He does not know anything about it, and I do not plan to tell him. So, just…”

For a few long moments, Curufinwë just stared at him. The man looked tired, but not so fatigued as he had the last time Findekáno had been consciously aware enough to take note. Instead, he just seemed empty, like all his energy had been sapped away. And it was unsettling, because the Fëanárioni always, always burned white-hot and bright and they never had this hollowed-out expression of emotional exhaustion.

Except, he had seen it before, had he not? In Nelyafinwë after Angamando. In Kanafinwë after rebirth. He just did not _want_ to see it.

He did not want to see it now, either. Life was easier when he did not see things.

 _Eru,_ he found himself thinking, _I already need another drink._

Instead, he was shaking hard, feeling miserable, and halfway to trying to throw up in the grass even though he doubted his brothers and cousins had managed to get him to eat throughout this entire long, arduous and disgusting process. He was sweat-slicked, he smelled awful, his hands were clammy, and he did not for a second think that he could stand on his own two feet without keeling over into a pile of useless flesh and bone on the ground.

Knowing that there was not a drop of liquor to be found anywhere for leagues in all directions did nothing to stay the _need._ The _desire._ The urgent _longing_ that clamored for attention, that whispered that, if he just had a few sips, it would all float away, and he could go back to being happy…

 _Fuck,_ he thought dismally to himself, looking away from Curufinwë. _I really am just that pathetic, am I not?_

“If you think he does not know, you are a fool,” his cousin finally said, and Findekáno was horrifically sober enough to remember where their conversation had dropped off into silence. “Nelyafinwë has probably always known and never said anything.”

 _Because he does not reciprocate,_ was left unsaid. But they both knew it was there.

And he could not— _simply could not_ —meet his younger cousin’s gaze. Guilt rotted underneath the outer edges of his spirit like a splinter, and he was no longer dulling the raging, burning, swelling pain it wracked him with. “I have no intention of doing anything about it,” he said, because he felt like he had to say something to make sure his younger cousin understood. “I am not going to confront him about it or talk to him about it.”

“Good,” Curufinwë answered sharply, leading Findekáno to flinch. Because, _Eru,_ that one word emptied his lungs of breath and left a sizzling hole in his gut more easily than could any poised blade ever hope to manage. Like it went straight through him and got stuck between his bones and his organs and twisted just to make him want to scream. Not intended to kill. Just intended to make suffer.

“If you destroyed what he has newly cultivated with Istelindë,” Curufinwë added, “I would not hesitate to rid us of you. He does not owe you your happiness or wellbeing. No matter what Turukáno thinks.”

“He does not,” Findekáno was swift to agree.

Once, he might have bitterly wanted Nelyafinwë to give him what he desired, to fix what lay between them because it had been his cousin who had broken it in the first place by leaving him and his family behind to die, because was he not owed that much after being abandoned in his time of need, forgotten like trash, left to live or die above or below the ice? Once, he might even have taken fleeting pleasure in trying to tear down his cousin’s happiness, because his own happiness had never had a chance to bloom, had never grown beyond a dilapidated seedling codependent on the gentle care of his cousin because _no one else had bothered to bother_ and, once that was taken away, he was left to self-destruct and burn himself up into ash.

But Findekáno was not like his younger brother. Could not hold a grudge against someone he genuinely lov— cared for.

He had done enough to use and covet and hurt Nelyafinwë in the long years of their friendship. And he understood why his cousin did not want that _friendship_ back.

The drinking was easier than facing all this down. Why had he thought that coming here—that doing this again, fighting off the cloudy haze of alcoholic stupor that left him smiling and laughing and embracing and _being happy_ like he innately was not but wanted desperately to be—was in any way a _good idea?_

Why had he thought this time would be different? Because his cousin was no longer available, had he thought he might move on?

Findekáno shuddered. Now, naked without his layers of armor, bare before the discerning eyes of Curufinwë Fëanárion, he could not help but admit to himself that knowledge of Istelindë had _bothered him greatly_ but, until the night of the Festival, until _seeing them together being in love,_ he had hoped it was like what Findekáno had had with his wife. Passing friendship and partnership out of necessity. Not _love._

When he saw that it clearly _was_ …

_Why am I like this? Why did I do this? Why did I agree to come here?_

Morosely, he stared at the grass, and he had very little motivation to move or look up or do anything that was not sitting here in a pile of wreckage on the ground pondering all these things that he did not want to remember until his inner thoughts spun into self-hating kaleidoscopes. There was no solid ground to stand on besides. As soon as he stood, he was just going to slip and fall back down that same sheer slope again, so what point was there really in doing any of this? He might as well just sit here and—

“It has been more than three days. Almost four,” Curufinwë said then, and his voice was not hostile for all that it was not kind. “Come on, sit up. You will not be feeling well, but you should drink something and eat something, and then we shall continue. No sense in sitting around here doing nothing.”

_No sense in sitting around here doing nothing._

It felt odd to hear a statement so contradictory to _everything._

But he let Curufinwë sit him upright because he did not know what else to do. Let the man bring him more water and leftover food from the night before and fruit from a nearby apple tree. Let his brothers swarm him with their relieved faces that he did not want to see and tried to smile for them because, for some strange reason, they actually seemed _happy_ to see him despite his quiet, distantly destroyed state of mind.

Let them urge him to his feet later that day. And they pressed on following a trail that was nearly invisible but for Curufinwë sharp eyes.

And Turukáno stayed nearby and did not complain even once about a Fëanárion taking the lead, nor the trustworthiness of said man’s skill and direction. There was a tension that had been in the air before—Findekáno had sensed it even then, beneath all the synthetic happiness rained down upon his mind by the veil of wine—which was now vanished.

Something was different. And he had slept through it all.

Somehow, two people who hated each other passionately—who could barely be in the same room together without exchanging blows—had managed to build a bridge over their differences and find common ground through which to facilitate a tentative truce. And, yet, Findekáno could not even manage to get Nelyafinwë to talk to—

 _Do not think about it like that,_ he sharply interrupted, already knowing where that thought was going to lead to. _It is not the same thing. At all._

If only it were as simple as halting the thought, as telling it to go away.

But it was still back there, lingering, waiting until his guard was down to slip past his defenses and take a stab at his already-bruised and aching heart. Because, of course, it was. It had always been there, waiting for his moment of vulnerability. He shivered and trembled and waited for it to strike, anxiety crawling beneath his skin like a thousand writhing ants, anticipating the pain, pain, _pain…_

The drink had just made it easier to stomach the blow.

 _This,_ he thought, _was a massive mistake._

As soon as he could get his hands upon some wine, he was going straight back to the hell from whence he had just emerged. Gladly. Gratefully. Even eagerly. And he would never come back out again.

At least there his hatred for himself was a dozen leagues below in the gruesome black river of his conscience. And he could look down upon it and pretend it belonged to someone else.

_I need a drink…_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:
> 
> Ondolindë (Q) = Gondolin


	55. Bonds That Were Never Forged

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Family arguments and alliances (potentially) forged...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: fear of assault, dysfunctional family, jealousy/resentment, scheming/politics, sociopathy, referenced attempted assault/rape, forced marriage (planned not carried out), cultural/generation differences, marriage of convenience, hegemony
> 
> Sorry this chapter is being posted a little late. Today is the loading day for all the stuff in my apartment (I'm moving out of state in a couple of days) so it's been kind of busy. And not exactly going well >.<
> 
> Anyway, once again, read at your own discretion. This one is another that might have some potentially triggering situations in it.
> 
> Maedhros = Maitimo = Nelyafinwë = Nelyo = Russandol  
> Maglor = Makalaurë = Kanafinwë = Káno  
> Celegorm = Tyelkormo = Tyelko = Turkafinwë = Turko  
> Caranthir = Carnistir = Morifinwë = Moryo  
> Curufin = Atarinkë = Curufinwë = Curvo  
> Amrod = Ambarussa = Pityafinwë = Pityo = Minyarussa  
> Amras = Umbarto = Telufinwë = Telvo = Atyarussa  
> Egalmoth = Aikambalotsë

_Isilya, 51 Lairë (3 July)_

\---

“Stay safe, my lady,” the shoemaker said as he stood beside her before the ornate front door of her parents’ home, his eyes shadowed in the fading light of day. Dim stars that began to glow now that they were not so garishly overshadowed by brightness.

It was nearly dark, and Lindalórë dreaded going inside—suspected what might be waiting for her when she did—but knew she had little choice but to swallow down her fear and enter. Earlier, it had been so impossibly tempting to beg her rescuer to let her stay the night with his family, to ask if there was anywhere else she might go and stay hidden, but she did not dare go through with such a risky plan as spontaneously flight. Not only because it would do nothing to stop her parents and their associates from finding her, but that it might get her protector’s family in trouble with the nobility, and the last thing she wanted was to repay the shoemaker’s kindness by causing problems for him and his family and his business.

She knew her father could ruin others all too easily, that there was nothing anyone could do to stop him. She knew he would do it without hesitation to these people if they openly defied him to help her, if he thought he could get away with it, if he thought it would get him what he wanted. And she was not about to do that to someone who had helped her in her time of need.

Still, not knowing what else to do to show her gratitude, she had given him all her packages from that day of shopping after hearing that her rescuer had only daughters. To which he had given her a look of shocked horror and tried to deny her generosity, because what would a shoemaker’s daughters do with the fancy, expensive dresses and the handful of jeweled necklaces and rings and the well-made slippers and heels that she had collected like useless baggage in her quest to keep Calmacil’s hands full?

 _“Take them,”_ she had insisted. _“I did not buy them because I needed them. And all girls should have something nice in their closet for the rare occasion. It is a gift for lending your assistance to a lady besides, to the lady of your former commander and Prince.”_

It had taken a little more wheedling, but she had convinced him to accept her gift. Wide-eyed, he had then changed into plainclothes and escorted her home.

And each step into the gloomy shade of dusk sent her stomach twisting and her eyes roving, made her restless in her limbs and gave more horrible fuel of nightmarish things to her imagination, doggedly tormenting her mind. Each noise or movement half-hidden in the dark sent her heart racing beneath her ribs, jumping upwards towards her throat, because she could not help but conjure all sorts of demons and dread things that might be stalking. Each time she swallowed it back down and resisted the urge to wrap an arm through her escort’s, to cling because she could not help but wonder if any of those movements— _they could have been the limbs of trees rocking in the wind or simple merchants on their way home from a hard day’s work or a thousand other innocuous things_ —were _him_ waiting to catch her alone. With that hideous smile and the look of a cruel oppressor in his eyes, hungering to tear her apart and make her something less than a person. Hiding and lurking, like a trap set to spring upon her as she rounded a corner onto an empty street.

 _He_ had dared attempt to violently assault her in broad daylight. What might he be willing to do to her under the cover of darkness?

Lindalórë was quite certain she did not want to know. Not ever.

Her current companion allowed her to hover close by his side, perhaps uncomfortably so given the nervous shift of his body and dance of his feet. Maybe he had seen the gray of her face, the look of stark fear that she could not hide now that there was no audience to perform for (to protect her from whatever predators were hiding out there in wait) and took pity. Maybe, as a man who had only daughters, he could see something of them in her and, unnerved to see such terror on any woman’s face, sought to protect her.

Who was to say? Lindalórë did not have the mental wherewithal to ask. Not right now, while all she could think of was what awaited her on the other side of that door.

“This is where I leave you,” he said with a deep bow.

“Thank you for bringing me home,” she returned, feeling like the words and the expensive gifts and the half-hearted attempt at a smile were such poor repayment for what he had done for her this day. “Please, if ever you need anything that you think I or my husband could help you with, do not hesitate to come to us.”

“It is not something that should need repaying, my lady,” he countered, still looking awkwardly out of place. A simple man on the doorstep of what appeared to be paradise but was really just a hell wrapped up in silver light and a rainbow of glittering jewel-tones.

“Perhaps,” she agreed tiredly, wondering if she looked at exhausted as she felt, “But I am grateful all the same.”

His attempt at returning her smile was just as stilted. With a final bow, he moved back down the path through the sea of waving irises and stepped silently out onto the street. Anxiously, she watched him slip away until he was out of sight. There was no one else outside that she could see, looking up and down the shimmering cobbled way. Just the glowing white of rows of houses forged of moonlight, deceptively beautiful in the light of the stars.

Overhead, there was no moon to be seen.

Alone now, she hesitated. Hesitated to go inside and face her parents because she knew they were not her allies in this battle. Hesitated to stay out in the darkest night because the hairs at the back of her neck rose and her skin tingled as if before a lightning strike.

The instinct came upon her, sudden and swift. A primal thing that she could not ignore. _Someone is watching._ Hastily, before she had time to even think of what she was doing, she opened the door and slipped inside. It clicked shut on her heels, and she felt the slightest bit of relief that she was no longer waiting outside like a tempting bit of meat, alone before _his_ eyes, that she was protected from what was _out there._

If only it were so easy to protect her from what was _in here._

There were lights on still in the mansion, little glowing spots of golden light that shone from down the long hallways, highlighting the vibrant colors of the walls and the paintings and the shimmer and sparkle of jewels inlaid into almost every surface. It was almost blinding against the grayscale of the dusk which cut off the watercolor of sunshine that would have beamed down through stained glass and colored the floor beneath her feet, muted and quiet, like a world preparing for sleep. But the sound of servants circling about still came forth, footsteps echoing through the hallways and creaking on the staircases in an ever-moving cycle, never truly sleepy. Lindalórë knew she was unlikely to make it all the way up to her rooms without someone noticing her return. That was, if someone did not already know that she had arrived home. If someone had not been watching and waiting for her return.

And then, like a cog in a well-oiled clock, a manservant appeared, bowing solemnly and staring over her shoulder with blank eyes that said nothing of his thoughts. As was appropriate for the help, or so her father would have said. “My lord has requested his daughter’s presence in the sitting room.”

 _Of course, he has._ She swallowed sharply. Squared her shoulders. Went down the long hall to one of the sitting rooms with windows opening out towards the yonder street.

_He had been watching for my return._

And there he was, looking the same as he had that morning, poised and unruffled, a lord comfortable in the vast domain of his home. Nothing at all showing in his face that made him look any different than he had before Lindalórë discovered that he planned to marry her off for the sake of the family’s betterment without giving her a choice, without even asking her consent. It would almost have been easier to pretend… to pretend that nothing was…

_Could I really pretend that nothing is wrong?_

For years and years and _years_ —centuries worth of years—she had pretended that nothing was wrong. That she was satisfied with exotic fabrics and exorbitant necklaces and fancy, pointless parties. That she did not have days where all she wanted was to sit down on her bed and never get back up again, or days where she wanted to tear apart and break every little item that her fingers brushed. That it was enough to be wealthy and beautiful and sought after and living in luxury without love, that she did not miss her husband and son, that there was not a massive _hole_ in her life that was vacant and could not be filled.

And now, she simply could not ignore it any longer. Not that empty void was about to be forcibly filled with a husband who would like nothing more than to beat and terrify her into obedient silence. To take away every last shred of independence and identity that she possessed and make her into a perfect, pretty, bejeweled little _doll_ of a wife.

 _I cannot pretend anymore,_ she thought to herself. Like an epiphany. Like a shattered mirror. Like glass all over the floor, and she was suddenly aware that she was standing ankle-deep in the shards of the farce of her former existence and they were sinking into her tender flesh and _bleeding._

“You have returned, yendë,” her father said, smile distant and meaningless as she settled into her designated chair in silence.

_What am I supposed to say?_

“We should talk about your behavior this morning,” he broached, speaking in that tone of voice that she _hated,_ like she was some stupid woman who could not understand that she was “doing something wrong” and needed to be gently scolded like a child or a pet. “It really is not appropriate to be so sharp with guests, especially such important visitors. Calmacil has kindly stepped forward in our time of need, and he is willing to court you for _your_ benefit, to help you be free of your former unpleasant associations. For your _betterment.”_

 _Resist the urge to snap._ At the sound of his condescension, at the sound of his _justifications_ and _excuses,_ she wanted to burst out in a furious tide of screams and shouts. Because _how could he say such things and mean them?_ He could not _possibly_ believe that this… this _violent man_ was in any way, shape or form going to do anything for _her_ benefit!

 _This is not about your benefit at all,_ she reminded herself. And it cleaved through her sternum like a butcher’s knife. _It has never been about your benefit. Not for him._

_It is about the family wealth._

And it _hurt._ If she had been anywhere else, anywhere that he could not see and hear, she would not have fought so hard against the stinging in the corners of her eyes. But she could not afford to cry here and now. Would not give him the satisfaction of seeing the cracks forming in her will to resist this oppressive attack upon her spirit and independence.

Gritting her teeth, she set her face into an expressionless mask. “Calmacil is interested in nothing but this family’s wealth and reputation. Think you that I know that not?”

“If you were not so _stubborn_ perhaps you would be willing to look at the situation from a different perspective, from the perspective of a woman invested in her future and the future of her family.” Like what he said was perfectly sensible, he casually sipped his tea. And Lindalórë wished she could grab the tea tray and throw it. Hear it shatter. See the pieces fall all over the damn handwoven rug and the shiny, polished wooden floor. “For centuries your marriage with Curufinwë Fëanárion has been finished. He took your son, abandoned you without support and went into exile with his murderous kin. It is time to move on and make something good of your life. You have waited long enough, resisted doing the right thing long enough. Do the respectable thing and marry a proper man.”

 _A proper man._ Her whole body shuddered at the very _thought_ of being anywhere near Calmacil alone, let alone being _married_ to him, expected to _grace his bedchambers._ Nothing about that man was _proper_ or _acceptable._ He was a monster of the sort that Curufinwë, for all that he was harsh of temper and sharp of tongue and quick to rage, could never, ever hope to become. Because her husband would never, ever have _hurt_ her intentionally the way she had been hurt today, would never have _reveled_ in her pain and terror. But Calmacil, that evil creature masquerading as a man, _wanted to see her in pain and wanted to see her afraid._

He would do again what he had done today. And he would not stop. No matter how obedient and subservient and demure and perfect she was.

But she knew her father would not listen. She could argue, and he would dismiss her words as the babbling of a foolish girl who knew nothing of what she spoke, who was hurting her family with her selfish ways.

Even as he spoke to her now, he spoke as if it was all _her_ fault. Because she was _stubborn_ and _disobedient._ Because she did not roll over and spread her legs for a man who was not her legal husband. Because she was not an adulteress or a faithless wretch who would turn her back on her marriage. He spoke as if, if she would just do as he wanted, then none of these awful things would be happening. If she would just be satisfied with her lot…

But Lindalórë had never been satisfied with the idea of surrendering to her _fate._ It was simply not in her blood to allow herself to be used and thrown aside, to be nothing more than a means to an end. That end being _someone else’s_ wealth and prestige.

Not for the first time in her life, she wished to have been born a peasant.

No amount of wishing was going to get her out of this situation, she knew. Nor any amount of talking or bargaining or explaining. She doubted there was anything at all she could say that would overshadow her worth as a valuable commodity for bartering power. If she called Calmacil trash to her father’s face, would he even listen to her words and hear her truth? If she told him that the man had tried to hurt her, tried to rape her, would he listen, or would he lay blame upon her shoulders?

Did he even care at all about anything other than the reputation of the family?

 _I cannot listen to this anymore. I cannot._ Her throat was tight and still raw, still bruised—and he must have seen it and pretended that the ring of dark marks like a necklace of violence around her throat were invisible, were unimportant and could be dismissed and forgotten—and she could not think of a single thing to say that would not result in her screaming and raving and being labeled a hysterical female who had lost her mind.

“I should retreat to bed,” she said, abruptly standing, hating that her voice shook. “I am fatigued after such a long and busy day.”

“You will be expected down in the parlor for breaking of fast,” he said before she could fully depart the room, before she could flee far enough to pretend that she did not hear his orders. “Calmacil will be calling, and I expect you to be properly deferent and behave like a woman of your status and birth ought. This marriage _is_ happening. If you would just cease being so prideful and accept your place, this would not be so difficult.”

_I need to get out of this room. I need to be alone. I need to breathe. I cannot breathe._

“I will never marry that man,” she answered, feeling shattered, like all the air and the hope had been squeezed out of her lungs and replaced with ash.

“You will,” he argued, so matter-of-factly that her stomach churned. “I want this marriage to happen quickly. It has been put off long enough, and there is no more time to be wasted on your reticence. This is my household and you are my daughter, and you _will_ do as I have ordered you.”

“I will not,” she whispered.

“You will,” he repeated. “I have allowed you to run wild for far too long. If I had ever thought your murderous husband would have crawled back to Tirion begging to reclaim your hand in marriage like a particularly virulent cockroach, I would have been sure to have this done a long time ago.”

“I will not change my mind,” she insisted, fingers clenching on the doorframe, nails scraping over the detailed carvings, leaving marks. “You cannot force me to marry that man.”

“We shall see,” was all he said. Not in the least bit threatened by her defiance.

And Lindalórë was going to throw up. Right this very moment. Swiftly departing the room, she almost bounded up the stairs on fleet toes and down the hall, bolting herself into her room so that she could fall to her knees, still dressed even in her beautiful gown and her glittering jewels, and be sick. Her body was wrapped in opulence and her life was filled with luxury, and yet, it was now nothing more or less than a cage forged of gold and broken promises. And she needed out or she would suffocate and _die._

She needed out.

Shaky with fury and disgust (and terror and heartbreak), she peeled off the expensive gloves purchased with her father’s money and the expensive gown purchased with her father’s money and every other bit of jewelry and clothing that had been purchased with her father’s money. Because he loved _it_ more than _her,_ his own daughter. Just feeling them on her skin made it _crawl._ All it represented was a prison from which she could not escape, a prison for which she was meant to pay with her body and her spirit and every drop of happiness that she desperately hoped to have in the future. It was only when she reached for the bracelet still wrapped about her wrist that she stopped violently tearing at her coverings, her fingers gentling upon the quiet cold of the jewels glittering even in the fading light.

This was a gift from Curufinwë. The necklace around her throat was a gift from Fëanáro upon her marriage day. No matter how much she hated her father-in-law for how he had tormented his son, for all the problems her husband tried to hide behind a veritable mountain of excuses, for steering Curufinwë (and all his sons) down the path of destruction and retribution rather than healing, it did not change the fact that it was something that was _hers._

Somehow, even Fëanáro managed to triumph over her own father. He, at least, had looked at the match between Curufinwë and Lindalórë, and had seen potential. He, at least, had been supportive in that small, almost imperceptible way.

 _Fëanáro_ was a better father than _her own._ And that made her wonder what had happened to twist the world upside down. To shake it until everything collapsed and crumbled into some strange and mutated iteration of its former glory. To twist it until it was somehow acceptable for Lindalórë to stare at herself in the mirror, wearing nothing but her jewelry and vivid bruises around her throat, and for those marks of abuse to be _fine._

Gently, she took off the bracelet from Curufinwë and the necklace from his father, cradling their weight in her palms.

Naked as the day she took the locket that her husband had forged for her, his portrait proudly situated within its metallic folds, and placed it around her neck, allowed it to hang heavy about her throat, taking just the tiniest bit of comfort that, in even this smallest way he was _with_ her, hovering over her heart. And then she began to gather those few things that were hers. Other jewelry and gifts from her husband. Dresses, now worn only in the house where no one could see but which had once been common daywear when she was a married woman, that looked old and plain compared to the frivolous decadence of the garb she was forced to wear by her family to avoid _looking poor._ Little personal items and books and gifts that she had brought with her from her _real home_ when she had fled after the Darkening had consumed everything else that she had loved.

She gathered them on her bed and wondered that the pile of things that belonged to her and her alone was so small. Most of her personal belongings had stayed in the cottage when she had abandoned it.

The rest of the things in this room… she did not even want to touch the rest of them. The expansive bed. The hand-carved, elegant furniture. The thick rug beneath her feet. The sheer curtains covering her balcony door edged in lace. Everything else she touched belonged to her father. It made her feel… made her feel…

 _As though I am just another one of his possessions standing in a sea of his possessions,_ she thought, the hopelessness burning through her gut, freezing in her veins, leaving her feeling heavy and exhausted like her bones had turned to iron and dragged her down towards the poor comfort of the cold floor. Looking around at the room where she _belonged,_ she wanted nothing more than to lie down once more, curled around her small group of belongings, and weep until she had no tears left to shed.

 _You need to be strong,_ she tried to convince herself, grabbing at the locket and squeezing it tight in her fist until the metal burned. _You need to be ready to leave at a moment’s notice. You need to find a way out of this house._

Though she hated the feeling of the rich fabric beneath her fingers, she still dressed herself in a gown and robe. Carefully, she packed her things away in a single bag, small enough that she could have carried it with ease even whilst running. And she thought about sneaking out in the middle of the night even though she was afraid that _he_ might be lingering outside, waiting to strike at any moment, if she went anywhere unprotected and unguarded.

It was the feeling of nowhere being safe. And it made her chest feel tight with the oncoming of another wave of _panic._

 _If you sneak away, where will you go?_ Her hands clutched at her pack, nails digging in, her knuckles going white as they shook with the strength of her coiled fists. _You cannot wander about in the dark alone. You cannot expect anyone to hide you on a whim. You cannot ask for aid from people you know only by name and face, people you may not be able to trust. And what if_ he _finds you?_

It all wrapped back around to the same hateful conclusion: That she needed to bide her time and wait.

_The missive I gave the shoemaker might yet be enough._

Shakily, she sat down upon her bed. In her heart, she hoped desperately that it _would_ be enough, that it would somehow find its way into the King’s hands in time, that he would be able to do _something_ to help her in her time of need. Or at least tell her where she might go. Isolated, she did not know if there was anyone else to turn to.

 _Do not cry,_ she ordered herself, fighting back the tears. _Do not cry again._

Easier said, of course, than done.

\---

Her marriage was not perfect.

That had always been a reality for Eressëa. Since she was a very young girl growing up as the only daughter of a wealthy but not noble family, she had always been aware of her romanticized but somewhat unenviable fate. Marry high to a man steeped in luxury, and she would have everything she had ever dreamed she could possess.

_Except love._

Over the long years, she had accepted this fact. What lay between her and her husband was not what anyone would consider romantic attachment or love, and she had never tried to force those feelings. The pair got along well—in that he was a boisterous and loud personality when he was young and a dominant and overbearing one when he was aged, and she was quiet and passive and did as women were meant to do without bothering to question her role in the world—and Eressëa wanted for nothing. She gave her husband an heir, a perfect boy to carry on the family name and business, who might one day take over when her husband finally decided he was ready to stop looking after their fortunes himself. And she gave her husband a girl, a daughter who would share the fate that she herself had had as a girl. To marry young to a man of equal or higher status who would give her everything her heart desired.

_Except love._

It was not ideal. But it was possible to live with that fate. She had been doing it for thousands and thousands of years. Distant though her relationship to her husband might be, it was far from a poor life.

Her perfect boy went on to learn the trade, the business, and become everything that her husband wanted in a son. Proud, fierce, intelligent and, perhaps, a touch ruthless. Her little girl went on to marry a man with the title of Prince and the money of a pauper.

And things were not perfect. But, at that time, the name of Fëanáro had carried prestige in the business of their family. All jewelry buyers and sellers knew of and longed to make trade with the greatest jewel-smith to ever exist. Her husband had bit his tongue on his displeasure at the slight misfortune of the love match—Why could Lindalórë not have tried for one of the older boys, or even the oldest, who was still unwed?—but had acquiesced in the end. It was good for the business to have even that small tie to the Crown Prince of the House of Finwë through an otherwise disappointing marriage.

And then everything went wrong.

And Eressëa would not lie and say she had not felt vindicated. That she had not felt smug. That her daughter had come crawling back to them broken and in tears, her husband and son both gone off to die in some bloody and foolish war in some distant land, leaving Lindalórë with nothing to her name and nowhere to go. And Eressëa had not said but had certainly thought, in the quiet of her mind, _“I told you a love match was precarious. You should have married safe to a wealthy noble.”_

_Her daughter had married for love—that very thing that Eressëa had never gotten to have—and had lost it all. And she was ashamed that she felt better when her own choice in life was proven superior._

Still, they had cared for her through her grief and her misfortune because Lindalórë was their daughter and a woman who might as well have been a widow, and that was simply what was done in polite society unless one wanted their widowed relative to become a beggar or worse. They had put a roof over her head. They had given her all the material possessions her heart desired. And she repaid them with her inappropriately sarcastic words, her disrespectful mannerisms, and her inability to let go of the past and let it lie where it belonged.

They had given her everything she needed, and she was not _happy._

_She had everything her mother had had and more and still could not bring herself to be happy, and how dare she not be satisfied?_

And, secretly, Eressëa was just a bit _resentful_ that it was not _enough._ Because it had been enough for her, so why was it not enough for her daughter? Why did Lindalórë have to push for _more_ when she already had so much? Why could she not simply accept her place—as generations of women before her had done, marching off into marriage for profit and the betterment of their families rather than for the sake of their feelings—and be satisfied with that? Why did she have to make everything so very _difficult?_ And _dangerous?_

At the same time, she was… torn.

_Because she loved her daughter—or wanted to as best she could—and there was nothing between them but cold distance. And was it…?_

Never had she been _close_ to her children, as many noblewomen were not, simply out of necessity and lack of interest. In her case, it had been a bit of both. Caring for the children was something the Lady of the House of Helyanwë simply did not have the time to do. And, in her younger years, when each child had been a babe in arms, her interest in mothering had been little, and her love for them but a cold and distant spark, as had been her love (if it could be called that) for her husband. She had had other things to do.

_Was it her fault that she and her daughter did not even speak?_

Now, she had regrets.

Now, she looked upon her daughter and wondered what Lindalórë was thinking and hated that she could not ask and get an honest answer.

Now, Eressëa remembered standing outside her daughter’s room, listening to her talk to her brother about how dearly she loved her husband, about how much he had changed since they had parted, about how she longed to be with him and planned to accept him back into her arms, and the mother wondered if the twisting and pulling beneath her ribs was the result of grief (at her own life or at her daughter’s) or if it was jealousy (because she had never loved any man, let alone her husband, so passionately) or something else entirely that made tears prick at the corners of her eyes for the first time in centuries.

Now, she listened from the shadow as her daughter stubbornly stood up for her own free will, her own right to choose who to marry, and she wondered if, once, she could have been this strong and stubborn young woman as well.

She wondered where she would have been if she had been stronger.

But Eressëa could not go back and be anyone else but who she was. She could not go back and marry someone else. She could not go back and care deeply for her children. She could not go back and explore what might have been. _This_ was her existence. A woman married to a man who had, if not treated her well, then at least had been decent and never done her harm. A woman whose daughter was a spiteful harpy who fell in love with an equally venomous snake, a woman whose daughter rebelled against her father’s unyielding will because they were too alike and too different all at once to ever coexist.

_A woman whose daughter had a ring of hand-shaped bruises around her throat that had not been there that morning._

When Lindalórë was gone, the heavy weight of the calm and quiet battle of two indomitable wills was lifted, and Eressëa made her appearance at the door on silent feet.

“Venno,” she greeted quietly, interrupting his evening tea.

“Eressëa,” he greeted in response, placidly smiling. It was not really an expression made between friends—and certainly not between lovers—but she had never considered it to be false or threatening. Yet, it had lingered even through seeing their daughter physically harmed.

And she… did not like that. Or approve of it.

Carefully, she sat with her husband and took tea. They did not really speak—What did he have to speak with her about, after all, when she understood so little of his business and he understood so little of her boredom and loneliness?—but she was used to that silence stretching on between them. Like two strangers sitting near one another in the same room who did not feel the need to converse after exchanging basic pleasantries.

Except, tonight was different. She _did_ have something else to say.

Finally, she brought up what was on her mind. “Are you quite certain that this is the correct path to guide Lindalórë upon?”

Verdant eyes sharpened. “What do you mean?”

“The man you have chosen… Was there no one else to be had? He seems not a very pleasant sort.” That was putting it mildly. Eressëa might not be close to her daughter—might not agree with Lindalórë’s blatant flaunting of her place in society or insistence upon reinstating her ill-fated marriage with her Kinslayer husband—but there was a difference between disapproving of her daughter’s unruly behavior and dismissing the presence of physical violence on her daughter’s person.

It was worrisome. Calmacil looked nice enough from a purely aesthetic perspective. A handsome and virile man, ambitious if not particularly high-born. Still, she did not see what her husband found likeable about him. He had cold eyes and a cruel mouth.

_He put bruises on my daughter’s neck._

“At this point, we can hardly afford to be picky about the matter,” Hendumaika answered, quite blasé. “Calmacil has made us a generous offer, to take our daughter’s hand in marriage despite her previous engagements without complaint. To help correct her behavior where we have failed in our duties as parents to raise her. And to provide himself as a student of the trade. Someone who can remained focused on the business. Someone who is not troubled by matters of the past.”

Eressëa stiffened further. Carefully, she set her cup down and folded her hands loosely in her skirts, unwilling to show her sudden spike of upset in her body language any further. Because she hated it when her husband talked about their daughter as if Lindalórë were a dog, though it was nothing new or surprising. And she hated it just as much as he talked about their son as if Aikambalotsë were _damaged._ That _was_ new and surprising.

“You have an heir, and he is well-trained in your craft,” she argued passively, uncertain as to whence he was taking this discussion.

“Perhaps,” her husband said, not sounding convinced. “Something about him has been different since rebirth. Something about him has become _soft._ Easily bruised and lacking in mettle and strength. I worry that he does not possess the fortitude to keep our family’s wealth great and its reputation fierce.”

It was not that Eressëa had not noticed the changes in her son. Stark, they were, the differences between the Aikambalotsë of before the Exile and the Aikambalotsë who had come home bearing scars on his skin and a vicious and bitter sneer on his lips. The extreme change could not have been more obvious or, at the same time, more insidious. Anger and righteousness where before there had been calm collectedness. Bitterness and betrayal in the place of what had once been friendships. Cynicism in place of ambition and a will to conquer. Softness, her husband might have called it, but Eressëa…

It simultaneously made her heart hurt and soar. Because Aikambalotsë was terribly hurt and no mother wanted that (not wholly) for her child no matter the emotional distance between them. But he was also less like his father and, secretly, she found that gladdening. Not so cold. Not so empty. Not so fixated. Not so emotionless.

It was like her son had left home as a blank slate, finetuned for running the family business and thinking of nothing else but profit, and he had come back as a real person with real feelings painted vividly onto the canvas of his spirit. A person who had the capacity to grow and change and become something more than his will to _make more money_ and _obtain more power._ Something that her husband… lacked.

To hear that Hendumaika wanted to _erase their child,_ to prevent him from inheriting the Helyanwë fotune, to _take away_ her son’s birthright on a whim… It made her feel…

Angry. It made her angry.

_Almost as angry as the idea of her daughter marrying a man who used his fists instead of his words. And for what? To bring to fruition this disgusting power-play?_

“You waited intentionally until Aikambalotsë was not here to argue against this course of action,” she noted, careful not to sound accusatory. “That is why you did not pursue this avenue immediately when Curufinwë came back into our daughter’s life.”

Having seen her son around his sister, having eavesdropped (if unintentionally) upon them speaking, she _knew_ that Aikambalotsë would never have approved of this course of action, and her husband must have been just as observant of their son’s changed ways and must have known it, too. The man might once had been his father’s perfect doppelganger—and she once might have taken pride in how much adoration her husband showered upon their perfect child as a result—but he was no longer one to copy his sire’s ways and had gone on to obtain his own personhood with his own ideology and his own beliefs.

Aikambalotsë, rather than being cold to her plight and dismissive of the idea of love, instead genuinely wanted his sister to be happy in her marriage (where Eressëa, sometime, guiltily, could not). Seemed to _support_ the idea of her renewing her marriage with Curufinwë Fëanárion, regardless of how that might cost the business or the family reputation.

She was not certain whether she should be proud or horrified or both. Little did she think her daughter should stay married to that _fiend_ Curufinwë, who had never been anything but bad news, and she did not quite understand why Lindalórë could not be content with a decent marriage to a high-born man who could give her all the luxury she desired and did _not_ carry the sin of cold-blooded murder upon his hands. But…

But she did know that she did not consider Aikambalotsë’s sudden consideration for his sibling’s love and ability to choose to be softness, nor grounds upon which her husband should disinherit their child.

And she knew that she wanted (albeit, sometimes grudgingly and with no small amount of jealousy) for her daughter to be happy. Or she thought she did. At the very least, she would have wanted Lindalórë to marry a man who seemed a decent sort even if there would be no love in their match. And it was clear that Calmacil was not that sort.

It was also clear, however, that Hendumaika did not share her opinions on such matters. And that, first and foremost, was the problem.

_I cannot openly go against my husband._

“It is easier this way,” he told her then, pulling her from her racing thoughts, sounding so nonchalant that he might as well have been talking about the bartering and trading of diamonds instead of the lives and wellbeing of the two children he had conceived with her and helped to raise. Or, at the very least, claimed as his own. “Aikambalotsë and Curufinwë are well out of the way. By the time either of them return, our daughter will legally be married to another man, and that problem will be behind us. We will no longer appear to be maintaining an alliance with Kinslayers, our business can expand properly further out into Valmar and, perhaps, Alqualondë, and I will have a proper spare in case our son’s constitution proves to be too _delicate_ for the business after all that fuss abroad. It seemed like the perfect opportunity.”

Long since had Eressëa grown used to her spouse speaking about _people_ in such terms, as statistics and numbers rather than living beings. Usually, it was about his business associates, about different jewel-smiths he liked or did not like, who he planned to commission or ruin, about different families he wanted to sell to, about those families that snubbed his generosity and who would not be snubbed in turn by every powerful and influential noble in Tirion.

Power-play was his game, and he did it well. There was no room for emotions there.

Never before had it bothered her so much as it did when it was her son’s name upon his lips, bandied about like Aikambalotsë was some lunatic or broken trinket. And she could not deny that she disliked the idea that her daughter’s second marriage was nothing more than an attempt to gain a replacement son.

A replacement son _who left bruises on her daughter’s throat._

She did not want such a man. In her house or running her husband’s trade. No matter how business-savvy and willing to learn he might be.

“I still think you could have found someone more suitable,” she commented lightly. To which he laughed at her in that way she always recognized as _patronizing._ Because the poor, stupid woman had no idea how to run a business or how to barter or how to trade, let alone (apparently) how to choose a successor, and she must have said something that sounded quite ridiculous. So, now he was making fun of her in the back of his mind, mocking her for her ignorance in such matters with that crooked smile plastered on his face that read as _derisive._ Before, she had always brushed the reaction aside—she had had worse dismissals from men in the past, not the least of which had been her own father—but, this time…

 _I know what I am talking about,_ she wanted to say but did not dare.

“You should get some rest before you start talking more nonsense,” her husband commented. “I am going to make for bed. Would you like to join me, vessë?”

“Very well,” she placidly agreed, allowing him to lend her his hand as she rose from her seat, tea abandoned and cold, half-full in its china cup. And she said nothing else on the matter, because she recognized well enough when a man was not going to listen. What point was there even in saying anything else?

Doing, on the other hand…

She would need to think upon it. Speak with Lindalórë.

Little did she like the idea of her children from her womb being dismissed like trash. Her marriage of thousands of years had not been forged only for the fruits of her labors to play second best to some no-name man with a penchant for violence and cruelty. Calmacil might be able to put their daughter in her place—

_Bruises around her neck._

—but he would never be good enough to join with their blood, to lead their family. Nor good enough to replace their son. Nor worthy enough for her daughter’s hand.

Eressëa did not think she could allow it.

She might not believe overmuch in the necessity of love. But she did believe that there was such a thing as loyalty. And she was not about to have her loyalty to her frigid husband—her thousands of years of lack of consideration and care from her spouse—go to waste because he did not like Lindalórë’s husband or Aikambalotsë’s growth from ruthless doppelganger to decent man.

But what to do about it…

She would have to think on that. There was not long to ponder an alternative plan of action to counter her husband’s forcible matchmaking.

Because Hendumaika had, unfortunately, never been one for wasting time.

\---

_Aldúya, 52 Lairë (4 July)_

\---

The first thing Lindalórë realized the next morning was that there was a _guard_ outside of her _bedchambers._

A guard in the shape of a maid, which made the presence of a person standing just outside her door in silence only slightly less disconcerting, but a guard nonetheless. “You startled me,” she cried softly into the dim morning glow. “What are you doing out here?”

“Forgive me, my lady,” the maid said, head bowed and eyes lowered, “But the Lord of the House has ordered that my lady not go anywhere about the manor or out of doors unaccompanied. He was very strict with us in this regard.”

_He is already taking precautions._

Lindalórë had hoped that she would have a little more time before her father started watching her closely, before he started closing in ranks around her to prevent her escape. However, given that she had not exactly made her refusal of the up-and-coming marriage a secret last night, she should not have been surprised. Of course, he would suspect that she might be _up to something_ and take steps to combat her previous tendency towards causing trouble. Especially her tendency to slip out of the house without permission.

_If I have a servant trailing after me everywhere, I will not be able to sneak out in search of one of Curufinwë’s relatives. Not without it being reported back._

Even if she managed to slip away—even if that resulted in her somehow finding someone with whom she could speak of her situation openly and even if that someone might be able to (not to mention ge willing to) help her—there was no way he would not suspect that she was seeking outside assistance. And then she would not only be put under guard constantly day and night, but likely would also be locked inside the house. If she was trapped inside with no way out… even thinking about it left her breathless with terror.

_If worse comes to worse, there is always the way down from the balcony._

Running was still her last resort until she had somewhere safe to run _to._ But if she had to… If there was no other way…

 _Let us not travel down that road yet._ The last thing she needed was to work herself into another attack of anxiety this early in the morning. Most especially given that she was going to have to face down _him_ again later, and she doubted she would be able to swallow so much as a bit of her breakfast with his eyes gazing upon her with that swirling mixture of hatred and hunger that made her want to run away and hide.

Slowly, she retreated back into her room. Went about her daily routine of washing and grooming. Set about presenting herself as the Princess she knew she was. As something untouchable and so far out of Calmacil’s reach that he could just _die from it._

She would _not_ let them _win._

It was only as she was fingering her selection of jewelry—nothing would she wear, she had decided, that was not of her husband’s make—that the knock came.

The maid, probably. For a moment, her heart leapt in her chest, but then she remembered that it was too early for the breaking of fast and it was probably just the daily routine of being awoken each morning and she was almost-panicking over nothing and—

“Lindalórë? Are you there?”

And it was her mother at the door. Her mother who barely spoke to her. Her mother who had always disdained her love match with Curufinwë. Her mother who was going to spew the same filth that had her father the night before, leaving her heartsick and shattered on the floor.

_Should I open it? Should I tell her to go away? Should I—?_

“Lindalórë?”

“Coming,” she called softly, padding through her bedchambers. Hesitantly, hoping beyond hope and preparing to be disappointed, she opened the door.

And there her mother stood. “May I come inside?” the older woman asked. “We have matters to discuss.”

Lindalórë let her in. And closed the door behind her, clicking the lock shut.

“Very well,” she responded. “Let us talk.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:
> 
> yendë (Q) = daughter  
> venno (Q) = husband  
> vessë (Q) = wife


	56. The Things We Do For Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes love is painful. Sometimes it can yield sadness. And, sometimes, it can be beautiful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: previous violent assault, dysfunctional family, potential forced marriage, jealousy/envy, emotionally abusive relationships, materialism, unhealthy coping mechanisms, misogyny, sociopathy, past child abuse (of a sort), trust issues
> 
> I'm posting this chapter a little early because I anticipate a full day tomorrow (I guess it's already today for me) of packing/cleaning/driving. Almost the entirety of my worldly possessions are now loaded onto a truck and ready to make the long trip. After four days of doing the above three things (and saying goodbye to all my friends here) I am thoroughly exhausted. Therefore, I may take _three_ days to upload the next chapter instead of two as normally scheduled. We'll see how I'm feeling and how much writing I can get done in the next couple of days.
> 
> Given that we have to unload all my worldly possessions in a single day upon arrival at my new place of residence, probably not as much as I'm hoping for. But I've been surprised before.
> 
> In any case, hope you guys enjoy this chapter and have a lovely day :)
> 
> Maedhros = Maitimo = Nelyafinwë = Nelyo = Russandol  
> Maglor = Makalaurë = Kanafinwë = Káno  
> Celegorm = Tyelkormo = Tyelko = Turkafinwë = Turko  
> Caranthir = Carnistir = Morifinwë = Moryo  
> Curufin = Atarinkë = Curufinwë = Curvo  
> Amrod = Ambarussa = Pityafinwë = Pityo = Minyarussa  
> Amras = Umbarto = Telufinwë = Telvo = Atyarussa  
> Egalmoth = Aikambalotsë  
> Celebrimbor = Telperinquar  
> Aredhel = Írissë  
> Fingolfin = Nolofinwë  
> Fingon = Findekáno  
> Turgon = Turukáno  
> Argon = Arakáno

_Aldúya, 52 Lairë (4 July)_

\---

The night was passing as her mother entered her small sanctuary. Through the curtains, dawn’s first sparks of golden light were passing, turning the dark room to a dim blue with splashes of sun against the far wall. It looked immaculate as ever, ornate furniture, excessively large bed, luxurious comforter and the finest weave of sheets, spacious closet left open to display a rainbow of soft, rich fabrics within. Beneath her bare feet, Lindalórë felt the cushion of the woven rug over hardwood like nails upon her flesh, dragging sharp and cruel over the sensitive spots each time she stepped. Behind her, she heard her mother’s footsteps like soft pads, slow and measured against her own quicker, sharper strides.

They sat beside each other on the bed, and the distance between them felt as an ocean, filled with roiling waves and salt and storms. Lindalórë stared at the abstract designs cast upon the wall, ignoring her companion as the anxiety began to build beneath her ribs. In her hands, she twisted the white softness and lace of her nightgown and waited for the blaming and the excuses to start, for her to be told that _she should behave like a proper lady and accept her fate_ and that _if she was just less stubborn things would be simpler_ and that _her father was just looking out for her best interests_ and—

“Did Calmacil give you those bruises upon your throat?” her mother asked solemnly, breaking the heavy silence in the darkened room.

Swiftly did Lindalórë look up, meeting the familiar but distant eyes that, to her, had always seemed too cold and detached. Like a vague acquaintance looking upon her with passing acknowledgment rather than a mother looking fondly upon her only daughter.

And she felt her feelings of helplessness swell in the back of her throat, a thick knot of terror that she could not seem to swallow back down, because she had thought to see something more there and did not. “Yes,” she whispered.

“I heard you talking to your father,” her mother said then, sounding awkward in the midst of her calm, glancing away with her faraway gaze as if in thought. “He will not back down once his mind is made, of this I know. Just as you will not, yendë. And he has decided that it is in the best interest of the family’s continued good fortune that you marry Calmacil as soon as possible to right the wrongs of your previous marriage. To erase the ill will and disdain of others infringing upon the family’s wellbeing as a result of your affiliation with your husband’s line.”

It was not what Lindalórë wanted to hear. Bitterness meshed and mixed with the tightness in her chest, a thorn that was stabbing itself somewhere in the vicinity of her heart and burning through it, slow and agonizing. She recognized the feeling as something she had felt a thousand times before. But never so potently or painfully. Disappointment.

“And what about you?” the daughter asked furiously then, fighting against her own tears. “Are you just going to allow him to do whatever he wants with me?”

“I have spoken to him, and I did seek to change his mind at the very least in his choice of potential husband. But he was unmoved. And I am his wife first and foremost,” her mother answered dutifully. 

_What about me?_ Lindalórë wanted to cry it to the skies, to scream and rage until she was heard. _I am your daughter! What about your loyalty and devotion to me?_

“So, you will not help me then,” she whispered instead.

“I may not approve of your choice in husband,” her mother said softly, “But I do not approve of Hendumaika’s choice either. Though I could not convince him to change his mind in the matter, I have spent time thinking upon it, and I…”

The first little spark of treacherous hope came to life, and Lindalórë was desperate to hear something— _anything_ —that might help her or protect her from this tangled web of fate, this monstrous situation bearing down as a net upon her head, anything to snuff it out before it had a chance to grow and cultivate and root within her spirit. Already, she felt the abstract construct that was hope dig deep, lacing its way through her emotions and anchoring itself inside. Like a symbiotic growth. Like a toxic parasite.

“I cannot—will not—go against my husband directly. It is my duty to serve and obey him above all,” her mother continued. And, for the longest of moments, Lindalórë felt it all contract and squeeze around her insides—around her soul—until she wondered if it might burst her apart and kill her where she sat. “There is nothing I could say to change his mind about who your future husband should be, for I have already tried direct negotiation and compromise, and I would not dare to deem it my place to further question. However…”

_However…?_

“I might be able to help you. But you will need to make a choice about what it is that you desire most, yendë.”

_What does that mean?_

Confused, tired, her mind in a whirlwind tessellation dancing in circles from the very towering heights of hope—of the possibility of relief and escape from this hell bearing down upon her and dragging her down towards a future as a beaten and silenced wife of a man who loved her only as a toy to be used for his amusement—to the very depths of terrified despair, she could not make sense of those words, could not guess at what her mother was speaking.

“Amillë, I do not understand,” she admitted.

“If you stay here, you will be forced into marriage,” her mother said. “You will have all the luxury your heart desires. All the material belongings you could want. You will have the name of this family. You will have access to this House and its wealth. But you will not have Curufinwë Fëanárion. Your father will not allow it. Even if, somehow, he were to bend his will and change his mind about your engagement with Calmacil, your father would find another man to take his place. Hendumaika will not suffer any further humiliation at the bond between the House of Helyanwë and the House of Fëanáro.”

Lindalórë swallowed sharply. “I knew that already. And I will not marry another man. I will not betray my husband. Surely, you can understand that?”

 _If not out of love, then out of duty,_ Lindalórë thought, for she knew that there was little love between her mother and father in truth. They functioned harmoniously, certainly, but there was no exchange of smiles, no holding of hands, no spending of time together simply for the sake of being near to a loved one’s spirit. She had never even seen them exchange so much as a kiss upon the cheek! Instead, they hovered near to one another, too distant for the ignition of passion or the warmth of affection, presenting a united front but nothing more romantic than that. A marriage of convenience at its finest.

No love did they share, but her mother was loyal to her husband. Surely, she would not expect Lindalórë to betray her vows of eternal marriage when she held hers upon a pedestal of such importance as to be worshipped and followed to the letter?

“If Curufinwë were anything other than a murderer—than a Kinslayer—I would agree that a woman should not betray her wedding vows,” her mother answered, lips pursing tight and eyes narrowing, “But he abandoned you alone, took your child, destroyed the life you built with him as his loyal wife. He betrayed your vows, and he went on to slaughter innocents remorselessly. Such a monster is not worthy of loyalty or devotion.”

“That is my choice to make.” As if Lindalórë knew not all of that already. As if it had not haunted her nightmares since the very moment Curufinwë had stepped off their doorstep and into the black unknown. She had felt it all. The endless night of shocked grief, the feeling that a part of her had been torn away as her family slipped between her fingers like fine sand and was carried away by the sea. The deluge of tears that never ended, the long days and nights beneath the newborn Anar and Isil, wondering if the pain that assailed her body and spirit would ever yield enough for her to think of anything but her loss. The fury that came after, like a rain of fire down from a sky of blood, that left her with the taste of copper on her tongue and the want of torn flesh beneath her nails and the feeling of screams and curses gagging in the back of her throat until they spewed forth.

All of that, she knew intimately. All the reasons that she should hate her husband of old had their private places in her darkest thoughts. All the reasons she should throw his love aside were listed one beside the other as the titles of books she had read a thousand times, over and over, and knew word for word by heart. All the reasons she should abandon her previous marriage and build something new free of Curufinwë’s curse haunted her still, even when she felt him close and took in his scent and wanted nothing more than to kiss him upon his mouth and never let him go again.

But she loved him, and that had not changed through this entire everlasting nightmare.

“That is my choice to make,” she repeated, “And I have chosen to take Curufinwë back even knowing what he has done in the past.”

“Then you will leave,” her mother concluded, and the pain in her voice was a small thing hidden behind a blackout curtain of poise, almost invisible and inaudible but to those with a discerning ear and familiarity with Eressëa of the House of Helyanwë. “Your father will not stand for it. If you remain part of this family, that is.”

_If I remain part of this family?_

Her thoughts drifted back. To the long (beautiful, glorious, peaceful, wonderful) afternoon sitting in the sunlight and broidering away whilst her hungover husband laid on the couch nearby sipping lavender tea and speaking of their son. To the way he told her how Telperinquar looked like her and sounded like her more every day, how his heart was fiery and independent like hers, how he pushed back against the authoritarian oversight of his father and how that made Curufinwë both rapturously happy and stricken with horror.

 _“He repudiated our deeds and he renounced his connection to the House of Fëanáro. Renounced his birthright. Because he could not stand for what we had done—what we might yet do,”_ Curufinwë had told her, both proud and saddened, sighing as he stared up at the ceiling in distant thought. _“He is so alike to you that it made my heart hurt to look upon his face, to hear the same fire in his voice. Some days, I was glad that he had gone.”_

If her son was willing to renounce the family of his birth in order to do what he considered to be correct and just, to salvage himself from the destructive downward spiral of his father and uncles, why should Lindalórë not do the same? Why should she not renounce a family willing to sell their daughters for profit? Because she was a woman?

When had that ever stopped her before?

“If remaining part of this family means marrying that abusive scum and living the rest of my life as his wedded slave, there is no Power in all of Eä that could make me stay,” she said, voice soft but firm. “I will renounce the House of Helyanwë if that is what it takes, Amillë.”

Her mother must have at least suspected that this answer was coming, that Lindalórë would not put her parents and their wealth above her marriage and happiness with Curufinwë Fëanárion. Still, there was briefly a look of horrified betrayal in those gray eyes, as though her mother could not quite comprehend how her daughter could choose marriage to a Kinslayer—cutting herself off from the wealth she had had all her life—for the sake of love and freedom.

_Because Amillë does not share love with her spouse._

It was, in that moment, more pity that Lindalórë felt than anger. That any woman should live all the long, endless years of her life married to a man like her father, trapped but “content” in a loveless marriage of convenience because it was “safe” and “secure” and gave her “everything that her heart desired” except that one thing that made life fulfilling.

She wondered if her mother had been happy for a single day in her married life. If she had just learned to exist without that bubbling happiness of looking forward to new days. If she had never once rolled over and seen her husband’s face and sighed with the ache of adoration in her breast. If she had never held her newborn children in her arms and wanted to weep for their beauty because nothing was more perfect than a child forged between herself and her husband, a melding of their sacred bodies and spirits into something new and beautiful. If she had filled all those lost and vacant spaces where all that joy should have been with something tangible and material because there was nothing left and had no room any longer for anything else to fill up her cold heart.

Lindalórë could not do that. Could not be that woman. Not ever again.

“I have to go,” she said, her voice gentler. “Amillë, I cannot stay here. No amount of wealth is worth marrying that man. No amount of wealth is worth remaining part of this family that does not even respect my wishes or accept me as I am.”

“You were born a daughter of the House of Helyanwë, royalty in all but name,” her mother told her then, sounding bitterly disappointed with her choice, though she tried to hide it under a façade of serenity. “As has been the fate of many women of the nobility before you, it was always expected that you would marry for power rather than for love. You were raised to put this family and its interests before your own willingly and obediently. There are some days where I wonder where I went wrong.”

Lifting her head, jutting out her chin in defiance, Lindalórë refused to acknowledge those words with tears. No matter how much they hurt.

“But, if this is your choice, I will help you as I might,” her mother added. “I will do my best to protect you within these walls and to help you leave this house when you have a place to go. You need only say the word. But you should not expect any further assistance from this House when you are gone. You will be expelled from its premises and expunged from its records. You will be a nameless woman.”

 _No,_ Lindalórë could not help but think. _I will be a daughter of the House of Fëanáro. And there are worse things than being happy at my husband’s side, labeled Fëanáriel. Infinitely worse things than being with the man I love and carrying his family’s name._

This was her choice. And it was made.

“I will go,” she said. “I have already sent a missive in attempt to make contact with Curufinwë’s brothers, though I have no way of knowing if or when it will reach them. If they are willing, I shall depart to remain with my husband’s family.”

“Until then, you will keep your head down and endure,” her mother ordered, “And I will do my best to keep you from being alone with Calmacil. Your father has all but ordered that you are to be under guard by the help at all times within the house except when accompanied by your… your fiancé. And that you are not to leave the manor or go about anywhere unaccompanied except, also, if your suitor be by your side. If you father even allows you to go out and about in public at all.”

Though her mother was upset that she chose her husband over her family, the woman said nothing about it, did not try to argue or change Lindalórë’s mind, did not try to convince her that she was wrong and list all the reasons why. Deliberately, that face was drawn and crammed into a blank stare, eyes darkened as they looked away.

“Try not to do anything foolish,” her mother added.

Lindalórë wanted to say that she would not do anything to jeopardize her safety or her chances at escaping this house in one piece. But she knew that would quite possibly have been a lie. Never had she been overly capable of taking insult or injury lying down, as today had so viscerally proven, and she was liable to create upset and discord wherever she went with her sharp words and her quick temper. She would try to take care and avoid inciting anger in her foes, but, sometimes, she simply could not bear to hold her tongue.

“I will try,” was all she could promise.

“You had better hope _trying_ is enough.” Almost abruptly, her mother stood, moving around the bed and towards the door on light feet. And Lindalórë had the feeling of being simultaneously helped but also ignored and dismissed. Like they had already cut ties between them, and her mother was just a woman assisting another woman in escaping an abusive situation, not a mother helping her daughter achieve happiness and freedom.

It hurt perhaps more than it should have, to feel that chilly reception. But they had never been very close, had never managed to bridge the gap between their lives. Lindalórë had thought that, perhaps, they had started to find common ground in the last few weeks, but…

But, clearly, it would go no further. When all of this was said and done, they would be two strangers and nothing more.

And it still hurt.

\---

_This is for the best._

Eressëa was not an overly emotional woman, and she was not going to cry where anyone—including her daughter, the help or her husband—could see her, for all that she felt that prickle of tears stinging behind her eyes with longing to come forth. All night had she thought about what she might do, how she might salvage her daughter and prevent this farce of a marriage both, and she had found no magic solution, no perfect compromise that she might offer her husband to change his mind.

Even if she could have found another man for her daughter to marry in place of that Fëanárion, that monstrous being, Lindalórë would never have agreed. For all that she hated to admit it, she _knew_ that that was the case. Had heard the words from her daughter’s lips.

So, she offered her ultimatum instead.

_Were you truly expecting her to choose you over her husband? This family and an abusive man over a loss of wealth and gain of happiness?_

Part of her sincerely _had._

After all, that was most likely what Eressëa herself would have done had their positions been reversed. The idea of remaining married to a man whose hands were tainted with innocent blood—perhaps even the blood of women and children—would have been intolerable. The fact that it was damaging her family’s reputation and wealth would have only exacerbated the problem, would only have proliferated the revulsion churning in her gut.

So, part of her _had_ expected Lindalórë to choose her parents and her family. The people who had raised her, kept her safe in her childhood and youth, given her a place to go when her life crumbled around her. Were they not owed that much loyalty?

The rest of her was not at all surprised. Weary and raw and disappointed, perhaps. But not at all surprised.

It was just like Lindalórë to take the harder path.

 _It truly is better this way, though,_ she tried to convince herself as she wandered back down the hall to the rooms that she shared with her husband.

He was already up and about judging by the empty quiet of the rooms, and, so, it was just her in the large and empty space full of beautiful things. Beautiful walls, embossed and papered in brilliant designs of vibrant blues and reds that cost a fortune to commission. Beautiful furniture, carven immaculately and set with gold and jewels in swirling patterns. Beautiful bedding and curtains and sheets, made from the softest and finest of cottons and silks. Sitting at her vanity, she had a silver hairbrush and a silver mirror, had all manner of jewels laid out in boxes for her perusal and all manner of paints, polishes and powders to decorate her face and her hair. Everything a woman could ask for, from a mountain of the finest gowns lining the inside of her wardrobe to the literally hundreds of finely-made shoes, she had it all.

But she did not have her daughter’s love. She never had. And, for that small moment in time, she wondered what it would be like to take up her brush and throw it at the mirror where her tired face stared back. Again, and again, and again until it was dented and ruined.

She would not, of course. Her husband would think that she had gone mad. But she did imagine it. Imagined her daughter staring out of it, a face so alike to her own but with her husband’s bright, accusing eyes and sharp, disdaining frown.

 _Was I not good enough?_ If she could, she would have asked it. If she thought that it would answer in any other way but the truth.

Undoubtedly, she had not been good enough. She had never really tried.

_You could try now._

But what would be the point in doing it all now? Lindalórë had given her answer, had made it clear that she stood not with her parents and her family, but with her Kinslaying husband and his wicked ilk. Was it not enough for her to lend the smallest bit of aid to a traitor whom she had birthed from her own womb, to help her daughter escape and send her away from this place, and then to wash her mind of the atrocity her child was committing in the name of love? Would that not soothe her soul and allow her to go back to her life unhindered by the burden of guilt?

Did she need more than that? Did she need Lindalórë’s affection and respect and _love?_

 _She will be happier,_ she told herself, reaching out to pick up her brush, _without me and without my love._ She did not throw it against the mirror, but instead began to slowly brush her hair. Long and even strokes, starting with the even ends and working slowly upwards. _She will be happier with Curufinwë Fëanárion than she ever was here with me, with us. Lindalórë will get what she wanted, there will be no son-in-law to replace Aikambalotsë, and life will return to the way it always was._

_Except I will not be happy. Still. And she will._

Her brush-strokes paused.

It was petty and ridiculous. Eressëa loved her daughter. _She did._ But that did not make the small and toxic grime of envy suddenly slip off her spirit like silk off skin.

All of this would work out for the best. Their reputation would improve. Their son would be in his rightful place. Their daughter would no longer be a thorn in their side. From a purely rational perspective, it was almost a relief that Lindalórë was choosing to go, to rid her family of her burden and the burden of her abusive potential husband, that man, Calmacil. And, in the end, Lindalórë would be happier without them forcing their will upon her.

But, in the end, it was just one more instance in which Eressëa would be giving up what she wanted—and she found that she had desperately wanted her daughter’s love and attention showered upon her with that same fervor as she rained it upon Curufinwë—by putting everything and everyone else ahead of herself. She was letting go of the possibility of having a loving relationship with her only daughter. And she hated it.

Hated it. Felt it scrape down her throat like rusted nails. Felt it squeeze around her bones until she wanted to break them to make it stop. Felt it twitch in her fingertips still wrapped tightly—white-knuckled and shaking—around her hairbrush.

But she had lived with that hate for so long that it was almost unnoticeable when she pushed it aside, washed it down with indifference and the sight of glimmering gems like wine burns away a bad taste upon the tongue. And she began to pick out her rings for the day. Almost gone was that disgusting feeling of dissatisfaction and resentment by the time the door opened to admit her husband, buried beneath a mountain of _things._

“You spoke to Lindalórë,” he said, not accusing but demanding.

“I did,” she replied, because there was no point in hiding it. The servants had been standing outside the door, lingering, as she went inside.

“Did you manage to convince her to have some sense?” he asked, sounding halfway between amused—as though his suggestion were something a joke, hinting at the incompetence of women in negotiating sensibly—and exasperated. The tone of his voice made her feel, as often it did in the back of her deepest spirit, small and stupid. But Eressëa still, through the sting, felt the tiniest bit reassured that her husband did not suspect that she was co-conspiring with their progeny against him, that he had assumed automatically and without hesitation that she would do whatever was in his best interest and the best interest of their House and wealth and reputation rather than in the best interest of their daughter and her continued happiness and wellbeing.

This time, she would do both. Even if he did not agree with her decision. He need never know that she had, just this once, toed the line of disloyalty and put her children ahead of her husband and the House of Helyanwë in her heart.

She would not have the chance to do so again.

“No,” she answered, turning back to her reflection. “Lindalórë is stubborn. She is unlikely to see sense anytime soon.”

He let out a huff of frustration through his nose. “Why must she make everything so difficult?” he muttered, voice low but just audible. And then, without further comment—not so much as a “good morning” or a “you look lovely today” or “what think you of all this?” he left her there. Alone at her vanity.

Slowly, Eressëa pulled her hand from her color-sorted array of rings and jewels. It lay limp upon the cold wooden surface of the vanity, and she stared at it. Small and pale, alighted with but a single band that she never removed. A golden band for her marriage. The only thing she really had in all the world. And, now more than ever, it seemed to not be enough.

Eyes passed over her treasures, her collections, her items and knickknacks and other belongings. And her heart felt cold.

For just a moment, she wondered…

But then she plunged her hand forth again, almost desperately seeking, finding one of her favored rings. An old thing, older than either of her children. Set with deep red stones and diamond. And touching it made her think of passion (that she did not possess, could never quite reach) and warmth (that had always slipped betwixt her fingers), and she felt it flood her when she put it upon her hand and gazed at its glimmer in the early morning light.

And then she reached for another. And then another.

This had always been enough. These jewels were eternally beautiful, never lost their glimmer or gleam. And they never ignored her or turned her away. She had this.

It was enough. Had to be enough. Enough that she did not need Lindalórë’s love.

_Things are better this way._

\---

It was early morning when they passed nearby to Tirion heading south. So close that, even above the towering treetops swaying in the breeze, they could catch glimpses of the taller cathedral spirals decorated in colored glass and golden shingles and see the palace towers with their blinding roofs between the peridot leaves glowing through with the sunlight. No one looking for them would ever expect to find them so close to the very city from whence they had fled. But, then, they did not intend to stay.

They were just passing through.

Írissë saw the glowing white and gold and frowned, pausing in her endless trek, taking in the sight and listening to the distant sound of horses and people, voices and footsteps and everyday noises of the workers and sellers and buyers. Tyelkormo, following a few paces behind and working to cover their tracks as they passed, stopped when he realized that she was frozen in place, head turned in the direction of the white city with all its gem-encrusted buildings and gilded fountains and silver-white mansions sprinkled with decadence and luxury. The true home of the Noldorin people and their obsession with bold and beautiful craftsmanship.

“Írissë?” he asked quietly, blinking at her with those glowing silver eyes, head tilting curiously to one side as if to gauge her mood and behavior.

She was not listening.

Instead, she was thinking. Briefly, guiltily, of being home. Of the familiar hallways with the burgundy plush carpets that her mother hated (“Why red, Nolofinwë? Why not something gentler? What about green?” to which he always huffed out a sigh and said, “Green, Anairë? You know all too well that I despise green décor! You would have it the blinding color of apples if I let you change it! Or that awful shade of olive!” and then they would banter over the color while sitting together on the loveseat cuddled close) and of breakfasts just after dawn (when everyone was at the table, when Findekáno was hungover but grinned through his aching skull and Turukáno sometimes showed up with Elenwë out of the blue looking sheepish at mooching off his parents’ table and Arakáno shuffled in later than everyone else, yawning like a lazy cat, and almost nosedived into his plate) and of other things. Little things that left her feeling strangely tight around her chest.

She recognized it. Wrinkled her nose at it.

Really, she should not be thinking of those at all. Those things—they were nothing to her but a prison, a means of control, a way to keep her bound instead of free, no different than had been the towering heights and whitewashed walls and many gates of Ondolindë—should not be on her mind now. Not when she was finally outside, away from court, away from the judgment, away from the rules, away from the oppression and the silent, invisible chains. Not when she was finally free to do as she chose.

Yet, it was as though she were being called home suddenly and inexplicably. As though her feet suddenly longed to carry her there, though her heart longed for faraway in the heart of the wilds and the green country with endless fields of wildflowers and wheat.

It made her feel frozen in place. Suddenly unable to lift her feet.

“Írissë?” her lover repeated, confused this time. “Is something the matter?”

“No,” she answered, shaking her dark mane out of her face, blinking her eyes to clear them of the strange reverie. “No, I am just being silly. It is nothing.”

Shrewdly did he stare at her, sensing something strange upon the air and in the waver of her words. “Do you… not wish to continue on?”

“No! Of course, I wish to— I do not want to go to Tirion!” she sputtered out, almost furious that he had even implied that she wanted to go back there when they had done nothing but treat her like a brainless, witless child with no will or desires of her own, who could not make decisions for herself about what she wanted, when they patronized her and invalidated her happiness because what made her happy was not what _should_ make women happy.

Of _course,_ she did not want to go back!

Far from being unsettled, upset or offended by her outburst or by the sullen glare she sent his way, Tyelkormo took it all in stride. As he did most things in his life. Truthfully, Írissë was lucky that he did not take advantage of the weakness he scented in her wavering voice as he might have done (with vicious and brutal effect) if she were anyone else.

“I would go with you if that is what you wanted,” he told her instead.

“I do _not_ want to go back to Tirion,” she insisted, crossing her arms and forcing her legs to move. She could not hear him following her—he was far too silent even amongst the crunch of dead leaves and the traps of fallen branches—but she knew he was there. Could sense him at her back like a furnace burning white-hot from his inner turmoil violently writhing beneath the outwards veneer of tranquility and harmony with the nature beneath his feet.

“It would not be terrible if you did,” he added blandly. “Even if you simply want to and also do not at the same time.”

“I do not want to,” she insisted again, sharply and stubbornly.

When he did not push further, she felt—not _guilty,_ per say—but perhaps a little foolish and a little ungrateful for snapping at Tyelkormo when he was very much trying to be helpful and reassuring in his own weird and stilted way. “There are things that were nice about home and I was just remembering. Things that were nice about my parents and my brothers. It was not all terrible. It could just be so stifling. But not always so bad as it has been of late. There were good things, too. Happy things.”

Still, he did not speak. Only humming softly in acknowledgment of her words. And, normally, that would be enough. They would fall back into the comfortable silence and drift off into the wilds once more, falling back upon instinct and intuition and leaving all the hard philosophical, complicated thought behind them.

But Írissë could not help but ponder.

Tyelkormo was very much like her and always had been. Driven away from his family home by the overwhelming, crushing brutality of an authoritarian father and a faded, sad mother. Struggling under expectations that he was not built for, was not made for, did not want and did not ask for. Seeking freedom that he could never quite grasp because he always came back to that family in the end—back to that deceptively beautiful country estate of sprawling green lawns and the lingering shadows of love beneath the eaves of the porch, or the glorious and stifling townhouses and palaces of Tirion with their towering majesty and their immaculately ostentatious decoration and their endless lists of rules to keep everyone locked in their proper place. And, every time he came home, it would always be the same. The same expectations. The same rules. The same cages. The same torments.

Of all the men she had ever met, he was the most alike to her. The root cause of their imprisonment was different, of course. His was his misfortune to be born the son of a fey, narcissistic genius and Crown Prince who expected him to contort himself into the provincial shape of an obedient, deferential and successful son, metalworker and jewel-smith. Hers was her social standing as a result of the curse that was being born female with the weight of her inevitable (married, stifled, broodmare) fate bearing down upon her shoulders like iron weights. But they were both seeking the same thing. To be able to be themselves without bars over their passions and towering walls blocking them from their bliss. To no longer be told that there was something _wrong_ with them because they did not fit the proper mold.

Even then, Írissë still _loved_ her family, still would have done almost anything to keep them safe and keep their love. Even though she did not always agree with her father or feel that her mother supported her. Even though Findekáno was always too focused (drunk) on his own problems and Turukáno was too overbearing and overprotective and Arakáno was too wild and young and _male_ to understand. She still loved them. Still missed them.

“Do you… sometimes want to go home?” she asked quietly. “I mean, you live with your brothers, but surely your mountain fortress is not home. Do you ever want to go back to Formenos, or to see your mother and… and father?”

For a few long moments, the pair trudged through the forest, leaving Tirion growing smaller and smaller in their wake. As the silence stretched, broken only with the sounds of the leaves overhead and the quiet song of birds in the morning sunshine, she thought he would fail to answer. And, if he had decided to stay silent, she would have left her question lingering in the air between them, an open invitation for him to speak if ever he felt that he needed to, but not demanding his trust. A declaration against judgment for whatever it was that he might say to her, things that he might not ever say before his brothers or extended family or strangers. There were things she told him—or wanted to tell him, or wished to tell him—that she would never have shared with her siblings or family or friends, and she wondered if (hoped that) he might feel the same way about her. Someday. Maybe.

Resigned to the silence, she continued on. And then—

“No,” he said quietly. “Not anymore.”

It was hard to tell whether or not he was being truthful, for the words had lacked inflection of any sort. A simple statement without any emotion behind it.

“Oh,” she said.

They continued to walk.

“I used to,” he added then. “I went back to Formenos once alone without telling Nelyafinwë and the others. Amillë did not stay there. It has been abandoned for quite a long time. Nothing about it that I missed was still there.”

Írissë swallowed down the apology that immediately wanted to ride upon her lips, as well as the urge to reach out and grasp his hand and squeeze it tight. Very much did she doubt he would appreciate such words and such gestures, such open expressions of pity (or so he would interpret them) for the death of the only happiness he remembered from his childhood home. Instead, she sought something else to ask. “What did you miss about it?”

Again, she half-suspected that he would not answer. Such things were intensely private, and she had not shared her own thoughts in return. An equal exchange would probably set him more at ease than—

“Nelyafinwë when he was still whole and kind, and Kanafinwë when he still sang because he enjoyed it, and the smell of freshly-baked bread and sweets in the afternoon, and Amillë smiling at the dinner table instead of looking down at her plate,” he answered, still sounding strangely distorted, almost detached, from the listing of things that, for all that he spoke them as though they were meaningless and empty shards of memory, must have felt just as important to him as the images of Írissë’s parents having playful banter near the hearth-fire and her siblings all eating together at breakfast were to her. Still, he dared not show her how desperately he must miss and cherish those things, feared still to be seen as _weak._ “Most of those were gone long before Formenos was abandoned.”

Hesitantly, she glanced at him over her shoulder. “What about your father? Do you miss anything about him?”

It was a bit of a dangerous question, certainly. Fëanáro was never a popular topic with his sons. When they were young, in the green Years of the Trees, Tyelkormo would come to her and tell her all manner of things about his father. About Fëanáro’s violently angry reaction to any deviation from the unspoken rules of behavior in the house, about the expectation that every son would conform to their father’s whims and opinions without a fight, about the screaming, shouting, throwing-glasses-against-the-wall-and-shattering-them-into-pieces rows that resulted when Tyelkormo refused to bend or break beneath his father’s onslaught. And about her cousin storming off for weeks to live in the wilds and his father locking himself up in the forge for just as long and his mother crying and sadly waiting for her husband and son to come home.

Alike her and Nolofinwë, Tyelkormo and Fëanáro were both too alike and too different in all the most unfortunate ways. They constantly fought, always at one another’s throat, the tension pulled tight and ready to snap at any moment.

But Írissë did miss her father. Sometimes. Though distant he might have been most of her life. Though fought they definitely had. But…

At her words, Tyelkormo looked away, his lips tightening into a firm line. Not angry, but perhaps uncomfortable. “One cannot miss something that never existed.”

“There is nothing at all about him that you miss, then?”

It was a sad thought. Never had it bothered her overmuch before. But when he said it like that—like there was _nothing at all_ that he recalled about his father that he did not either hate, resent or fear—it made her breath catch.

He let out a snort, disdainful, and passed her by on swift feet. And she knew that he did it to prevent her from seeing the look on his face. Not fast enough did he pass her by that she was prevented from catching a glimpse of the strange twist of his mouth, the deep furrow of his brow, or the way his eyes lowered and traced across the ground as if in shame.

Clearly, he did not want to talk.

“Forgive me,” she said quietly. “I did not mean to push.”

His swift steps continued for a ways, forcing her to trot after him, doing her best to keep her trail silent behind his own. But, after a few minutes of thickness in the air stifling her (their) breaths, of discomfort crawling beneath her (their) skin, his flight slowed. Just a hair. Just enough for Írissë to draw near enough that they could almost touch. And the harsh tension twisting through his shoulders and down his pencil-straight spine relaxed as his eyes glanced back towards her hovering form without incisive fury or coldness. At the softening of his body language, at the quiet sigh that departed his lips, Írissë felt her own back relax, her own breaths deepening and slowing when she determined that he was not angry. Or anything else.

“I just miss them, that is all,” she admitted, reaching out to capture his fingers, to twine them between her own. “I miss _him,_ Atar, too. Even though I know that, if I go home, I will have no choice but to marry. And he will have little choice but to force my hand. For just a moment, it made me feel guilty.”

His hand squeezed back. And she felt better. Lighter. Freer.

“Truly, I meant what I said. If you wanted to return to Tirion this very moment, I would follow you there. And stay with you.”

And it made that soft part of Írissë’s spirit—that part of her that had so very rarely emerged, that part of her that was resplendent in exhausted bliss as she held her infant son to her breast for the first time, that part of her that had lain in her deathbed with her boy weeping at her side and her heart longing to have her husband there, too, even though she should not—want to burst forth into tears. It made her want to clasp his other hand and hold them close and kiss his bare, cracked and bruised knuckles one by one.

It made her think seriously, for the first time, of trying marriage again.

Until now, she had _thought of it_ as only a way she might be accepted back into polite society. As a married woman whose only confirmed and sighted dalliances were with her newest husband. Until now, she had not truly thought that he would ever be open to such a suggestion, had almost laughed when Lindalórë had spouted it forth but had gone along with it anyway for the most part because she wanted to get away and knew not who else to turn to for companionship or assistance. Until now, she had had no real intention of going through with the matter, or even contemplating the possibility, because she would not marry out of social obligation. She would not be controlled as such. Not by society and not by her father.

_But if it was out of this strange form of mutual respect—out of this possibility of something that might have been love…_

Írissë, though, was a stubborn woman if nothing else. And, as she did not want to be pressured, she did not either want to pressure Tyelkormo into something he might not want. Did not want to make him feel as though he _needed_ to marry her for her own safety or for any other reason than that he genuinely wanted to stay by her side forever.

She needed more time. With him. With them together.

“Truly,” she said, offering up a little smile, “I do not want to return now. Not yet. Maybe later… after… but not yet. I am not ready.”

And he accepted her answer without question. Had no thought at all of trying to sway her mind one way or another. Just blinked down at her like a lazy cat that was purring and stretching languidly beneath her petting and attention.

“Besides,” she added, “I want to see the Woods of Oromë. If you no longer miss or yearn for Formenos, surely you must yearn to return _there.”_

This time, at least, he did not pull away or retreat. “Aye,” he said, “I think I rather do want to return there. Even if it was for but a short while—even if my brothers and my mother were far away—I did have a home there.”

He did not elaborate. Did not wax poetic about the memories that must now be drifting through his head and bringing that tiny almost-smile of a curve to his lips. It did not really matter, she thought. Something about that place did bring him at the very least remembrance of what it felt like to bathe in joy.

Before, the Woods of Oromë had simply been a convenient location. A perfect place to get far away and be safe and hidden from the world.

Now, though, she wondered at what she would find there beneath the boughs of those ancient trees. In that place that brought joy to a man who seemed to possess so very little of it even in his younger days. In that place that seemed to soothe his restless spirit without him even realizing how his jagged steps had streamlined and the wrinkle between his brows had smoothed and the burning of bitter fire in his eyes had softened to the darkest shade of gray she had ever seen him wear.

Now, she rather wanted to see it. Not just the strange beauty of the Woods of Oromë or the Gardens of Vána or whatever otherworldly magics might lie between.

Now, she rather wanted to see what he looked like happy and content and relaxed.

She rather wondered if she might love the man she would see in his smile.

She rather wondered if he might be her second chance after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:
> 
> Amillë (Q) = Mother  
> Anar (Q) = the Sun  
> Fëanáriel (Q) = daughter of Fëanáro  
> Ondolindë (Q) = Gondolin


	57. How Fast The Rumors Spread

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In this one instance, it may not be such a terrible thing...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: misogyny, some lying/secretive behavior, spreading rumors/information, threat of assault, discussion/thoughts of unwilling marriage/rape, vague description of being burned (on the hand), dysfunctional family, emotional abuse
> 
> Hello all! I am back and the schedule should proceed as usual now that I am much-rested and my things are mostly moved in/unpacked. Still some work to do, but there always is. So, onto the next chapter! This one is a little less of an emotional punch in the gut with a more hopeful outlook but could still be triggering. Please read with care <3
> 
> Here, we get the POV of some more OMCs as we see all the stuff going on in the b/g as the allies Lindalórë does not even know she has prepare for war...
> 
> Maedhros = Maitimo = Nelyafinwë = Nelyo = Russandol  
> Maglor = Makalaurë = Kanafinwë = Káno  
> Celegorm = Tyelkormo = Tyelko = Turkafinwë = Turko  
> Caranthir = Carnistir = Morifinwë = Moryo  
> Curufin = Atarinkë = Curufinwë = Curvo  
> Amrod = Ambarussa = Pityafinwë = Pityo = Minyarussa  
> Amras = Umbarto = Telufinwë = Telvo = Atyarussa  
> Finarfin = Arafinwë

_Aldúya, 52 Lairë (4 July)_

\---

If one had asked Eterúna how many followers of Fëanáro lived and worked in the marketplace of Tirion, he could have estimated a number humbly in the range of a hundred or so. He could have named them one by one, pointed to each one as he walked down the cobbles past the establishments. They were not nobility, no one of importance, just others of his ilk, merchants or tradesmen. One of the tailors at the shop three down on the left, a leatherworker across the way and his brother, the trio of sons who worked at the local forge in blacksmithing and their father who owned the family shop, at least one of the bakers who worked at the popular corner café at the end of the street, and a dozen or more jewel-smiths and fabric-sellers who frequented the popular area near the plaza to attract hoards of female customers. Hells, even one of the toymakers had been a second-in-command to Carnistir Fëanárion at one point in time, and who would ever know beneath his jovial smile and the false glitter of his dark gray eyes?

And that was not even accounting for the endless numbers of metalworkers, blacksmiths, jewel-smiths, sculptors, artists, carvers and others who lived near to Aulë’s Mansions rather than frequenting the busy trading hub of Tirion. In those places one found the Noldor, the followers of Fëanáro and his sons were ubiquitous and invisible, anonymously going about their daily lives with no one the wiser.

However, they rarely communicated. Brothers-in-arms might pass one another in the street without so much as a glance, no one wishing to draw attention to anyone else in the case that suspicions might be aroused. On a typical day, Eterúna might pass by three or four men he knew by face from his time in Exile, and usually at least one other servant of Curufinwë every day or two. And they would all simply pretend that they knew each other not, or were distant acquaintances at best, when they might very well have fought back-to-back for their lives in a different time and place, in a different world full of harsher, crueler realities.

Now, Eterúna was considering breaking that unspoken rule of silence between the ghosts passing each other by in the streets, phantom memories out of a time they would all rather forget and leave buried. Licking his dry lips, feeling a bit out of his depth, he held the missive written in the hand of a Princess and addressed to the King of the Noldor. A simple shoemaker was absolutely _useless_ when it came to expediting messages to the royal family.

But, whereas Eterúna was a singular man, the followers of Curufinwë and his brothers had been many. Well enough he knew not the guards and servants of the palace to know if any of his brethren were amongst their number. But _someone_ would know, surely.

If for no other reason than the lingering sense of loyalty (or, perhaps, of returning the devotion of a committed leader in kind), he sensed that others might be willing to help once he explained his dilemma. It was not every day that _they,_ the common-folk followers, the nameless soldiers, were called upon to defend the family of their leaders.

Besides that, Eterúna liked to think that most of his comrades were decent men. Surely, any decent man would wish to go out of his way to help a woman in distress such as Lindalórë Fëanáriel was?

It was with that goal—helping the wife of his former commander—in mind that Eterúna broke his normal morning routine and ventured out into the bright, early dawn light of Tirion. Just the first hints of sunlight flickered and shimmered upon the silver-dusted cobblestones and the bright silver rooftops, flashing blindingly as he slipped through the side-streets and alleys to reach the main marketplace.

The vibrant activity of the average day had not begun just yet. Which was, he thought, exactly what he wanted.

Meandering down the street casually, he scanned the faces, looking for…

Ah, there.

As he wandered forward, he came to a stop at a jewelry-seller’s stand. The man in question he had known well, for he had been amongst the followers of Curufinwë and had been known amongst his comrades both for his boisterous (if somewhat reckless) personality and tendency to brag that he had, at one point, been given _just the smallest bit_ of personal instruction by Fëanáro in the flesh. Mostly, the man had admitted under the plying of compliments and drink, because the Crown Prince had peered over his shoulder without invitation, had judged his work lacking, and had wanted to scold him for his subpar lapidary skills. Then, after a thorough dressing down, the legendary jewel-smith had proceeded to show the novice the correct way to go about things.

 _“Well,”_ said novice had said, swaying drunkenly with a prideful grin, _“If a Master in your art offers you advice, you take it. No matter how cruel and harsh his critiquing manners might be.”_

To which Lord Curufinwë, listening off in the shadows nearby, had let out a small snort of laughter, leading his snickering followers to fall into silence with worry that they might have offended the ornery man. Only for the Prince himself to _pat_ Runando’s shoulder with something that might have been pride. _“Brave man. But you only had to treat with him in brief. Give it a few hours and he would have had you crying. He always does.”_

And then he wandered away with another sharp laugh, as though what he said was something funny. The stunned gathering of men, wine-soaked and slightly dim with fatigue and drunkenness, had stumbled over their poor, malfunctioning brains trying to understand whether or not _Curufinwë_ had just given an honest-to-Eru _compliment_ or if it was meant to be more backhanded than forthright and was actually an insult.

Either way, Eterúna remembered thinking later, after much sobering and in a quiet and dark clearing off by himself in which one might pursue contemplative silence, that it was rather saddening. No matter if the words were meant as a compliment or insult to Runando, it was clear exactly how Lord Curufinwë had viewed his fiendish sire.

_To think that anyone could make someone like Lord Curufinwë cry…_

Now, that very same once-novice—much improved, or so he probably would have claimed had they been on friendly speaking terms in a public venue, which they were not—looked up from the meticulous arranging of his wares, having sensed the lingering stare boring into the side of his face, and met the shoemaker’s stare.

“Good morning, good sir,” he greeted, expression blank but for the plastered polite smile and eyes empty after the quiet flash of recognition, “How might I be of service on this fine day?”

 _Quit fucking around,_ he wanted to say and roll his eyes at how scripted and fake the whole thing sounded. _How long have we known each other? How many secrets do we share? Good morning, good sir, indeed!_

But, instead, he glanced quickly up and down the street, finding that people were minding their own business and thought nothing of the early buyer approaching one of the sellers. Quietly, he leaned in closer. “Runando, we need to speak.”

Those eyes widened ever so slightly, and the morning light glimmered through their irises and highlighted the tiny bits of steely blue hidden in silver-gray. “This is hardly the place,” the man hissed back, now also glancing up and down the street to be certain they were not watched before leaning ever so slightly closer. “Make this quick.”

“This is not a quick topic,” Eterúna countered, unsurprised when exasperation crossed the other man’s face, as well as a hint of nervousness.

“Can it not wait? I can meet you tonight at the tavern on—”

“It cannot,” the shoemaker interrupted before his comrade could try to insist that they put off their conversation. He did not have time to dally about for an entire day. “It is important, and I need the information to spread as fast as possible. Amongst…” He made a gesture, and both of them knew exactly what he meant.

“Fine,” Runando groaned out. “What is it? For Eru’s sake, it had better not be to do with Curufinwë Fëanárion!”

“It is… of a sort,” Eterúna admitted. “Actually, it is about his wife.”

“His wife?” Those silver-blue eyes narrowed. Gossip, always a good way to draw in the audience. Only, he was very much certain that his friend here was not expecting the type of drama he was about to share. None of that silly sneaking around having secret romantic rendezvouses and such foolery. This was a bit more serious.

“She was in my shop yesterday,” he began, “With a strange man.”

“Oh, dear Eru,” the jeweler mocked, “The horror! I mean, I cannot say that I am surprised that a woman might seek a man of a gentler nature if she were married to someone as unpleasant as Lord Curufinwë can sometimes be, but I do not really see how this is a matter of immediate importance such that I should interrupt my—”

“He tried to beat her in the alley next to the shop after they departed.” _That,_ at least, had the sassing jeweler snapping his mouth shut, teeth clacking audibly and then grinding as his jaw shifted beneath is skin, muscles flexing.

“Excuse me?”

“As it would happen, after I prevented her from being beaten or otherwise harmed by her attacker and drove him off, I pulled her into the shop and sat her down, and she told me that her father has decided to invalidate her marriage to Lord Curufinwë against her will. By marrying her to another man. The very man who attempted to assault her.” As he spoke, he could see Runando’s face growing darker and darker, the lines of deep scowls growing more and more prominent as his normally-grinning visage twisted into something that Eterúna had never seen except on the field of battle.

“I had never even thought of his wife,” Runando admitted. “I would have assumed they would have reconciled, or that she had moved on long ago. You say her father is doing this?”

Seeing that he had his audience hooked, the shoemaker settled himself in, slipping around the cart to hide in the shade it cast on the side facing away from the early easterly azimuth of Anar, half-hidden from sight of the street. “She is a daughter of the House of Helyanwë. Of the Head of the House.”

The moment he mentioned Helyanwë, he watched Runando’s face take on an almost manic quality. Amongst the profession of shoemaking, one only heard of the richest Houses on the rare occasion. Even Princesses and Lords bought shoes, after all. But, for a man who made and bartered in jewelry, the name Helyanwë was like a sacred word opening the gates to the monetary heavens. There were few names more well-known amongst those who made their livings in fine metalwork and gemstones.

“I would not have thought… but it makes sense. The son of Fëanáro, the undisputed most talented jewel-smith in history, marrying a daughter of the House of Helyanwë.” Like a swooning maiden, the jewel-smith near-sighed. “I am of a humbler make than those who earn their livings working in the Mansions of Aulë, that much is true. It would be almost a dream to work with the House of Helyanwë. Except… if what you say is true…”

“I can see no reason for Lady Lindalórë to lie about her situation,” Eterúna pointed out, twitching with unease at the whole situation. “She gave me a missive addressed to _King Arafinwë_ which I have no feasible way to deliver and said it was _urgent._ It seems that she has no way of contacting the Fëanárioni on her own, and, when she asked _me…”_

Well, no one really knew how to contact the seven brothers.

“Did you come here just to have the word spread or…?” The street was starting to grow more crowded as the early morning hours passed and the sun rose higher and higher overhead.

“I need to know if there is someone who can deliver this letter or direct me to someone who might do so, for I have no such ins at the palace. I thought, if I spread word amongst our _associates_ that, perhaps, someone might know someone with closer access to the royal family. I am, after all, but a humble shoemaker.”

“Humble shoemaker with a higher kill count than twenty average warriors combined,” Runando commented wryly. “Very well, I shall ask around. And spread the word. That is not the sort of thing I imagine the House of Helyanwë will want to have spreading about.”

Given how very many of the most talented and revered smiths and jewelers on this side of Alatairë had been followers of Fëanáro and how zealously devoted those followers tended to be—in some cases almost religiously following in the footsteps of their infamous predecessor and his seven sons—Eterúna thought that (hoped that) the House of Helyanwë would be in for an ugly surprise when they officially cut ties with the royal House. If Runando was as much of a talkative busybody as the shoemaker remembered, it would be a wonder that every Exile between here and Valmar did not know of the news by the end of the night.

“I will make good use of your intelligence, meldo,” the jeweler said. “Now, I should think it was time that you were on your way. Slippers to sell, those sorts of things, I suspect.”

 _You have certainly not changed,_ he wished to say as he stepped out from the shadow cast by the stall, reestablishing his image of a browsing customer perusing the jeweler’s wares in the early morning light before the onslaught of the crowds. A few stalls down, he caught the flash of curious eyes, recognized another face when their gazes met. Slyly, he shifted his gaze towards Runando, who watched the proceedings with blank silence, and then glanced back at the interloper once again with a smirk and a tiny bow of his head.

“I think I will be on my way then,” he said. “I would not want to disrupt the daily flow of gossip between the merchants.”

Turning his back, he headed away from the marketplace, back towards his shop, slipping between the main streets like a phantom as the whole world turned from a dim gray to a vibrant watercolor of reds, oranges and golds, setting the city on fire beneath his feet. Turning back onto his street, he spotted his little shop tucked away, the inside still dark but the window above flung open with fresh bread cooling upon the sill.

 _Aiya, vessenya,_ he thought to himself, smiling at the thought of his beautiful wife who would undoubtedly scold him for his unexpected morning jaunt through the marketplace at the birth of the dawn. His feet carried him inside, weaving seamlessly through the obstacle course of merchandise and displays to the back stairway, which spiraled upwards and opened to the small but airy floors in which his small family made their home.

As expected, his wife caught sight of him and gave that adorable little scowl that always made his cold, hard heart flutter like a stripling in the presence of his first love.

“Where have you been? The shop is supposed to open in less than a quarter of the hour and you have not even touched your breakfast!”

“I was distracted by business,” he answered with that half-smirk that he knew made her knees weak. Of course, it did not show on her face, locked in a frown as she harrumphed and set out a plate for him bearing a slice of fresh, buttered bread and sizzling bacon fresh from the pan. A little white lie never hurt anyone. After all, it was not like he had _not_ been out on business—it was simply not shoemaker business.

“If I have to open the shop for you, you will be making your own dinner,” she threatened, though she reached out to stroke his cheek at the same time, negating the sharp blow of her words and leaving him feeling just as melted as the butter slowly dripping from the bread into a puddle of rich golden goodness on his plate. “We both know that you cannot cook anything even remotely edible to save your life.”

It was quite true. He had more skill at stitching shoes (and killing orcs) than he had ever had at making food. His few rare attempts to be helpful had resulted in a lot of smoke and his permanent ban from manning the oven or the stovetop.

“I shall endeavor to behave myself,” he crooned, eagerly accepting the kiss she pressed to the corner of his mouth. And, just like that, she was gone.

The sweet mood lingered in her wake, however, like the scent of exotic flowers on a breeze. And he greedily sucked it in, breathed it deep and refused to let it out. Because there were so few things in the world worth cherishing and keeping close to one’s heart, and he was not going to let a single one of them pass him by.

Thinking on Lindalórë only made that instinct stronger. His life was not one of luxury, not one of Princes and Kings and Ladies, not a great adventure with many dangers in his path waiting to strike him down. And he was happy with his blessings, happy knowing that his wife and daughters were close and safe, and that, as long as he breathed, none of them would ever know the same suffering as Lady Lindalórë.

Perhaps that was why he had decided to break the silence in truth. Because he hoped, perhaps, that even they—the insignificant followers, forgotten by history and allowed to return to their lives from before, of plenty and passion and bliss—might now bring those same blessings upon those who had led them into battle, protected their backs, brought them back home, and continued to protect their backs here (in the midst of their own silence and suffering of societal ostracism) against the cruel rejection of Valinórë as well.

Maybe Eterúna wanted to know that Lord Curufinwë and Lady Lindalórë would have the same happiness he felt every day with his wife by his side.

And, maybe, he wanted to have faith that there was such a thing as healing in the world. And that sins, though they might never be forgiven or forgotten, were not the sole defining doom of a man’s spirit.

 _Whatever this brings,_ he thought as he cleaned his plate and brought it to the sink to wash before heading down, _I do hope it works out for the best._

Curufinwë was a bastard. But he did deserve that much happiness. It was the least that they, the followers, could give in return.

\---

It was a very long and convoluted tangle of gossiping tongues that led to Nowë the blacksmith of Tirion hearing about the dire situation of the Lady of the House of Helyanwë, Lindalórë Fëanáriel. The youngest of three sons had just returned from a quick stop by the marketplace where the word was spreading rampantly from mouth to ear, again and again. Until, as he chatted with a familiar-faced farmer from the outskirts of the city—originally on the straightforward business of inquiring about the cost of having some farm equipment mended—he was told that the farmer had heard from a tanner, who had heard from a leatherworker, who had heard from a metalworker, who had heard from a jeweler, who had heard from a shoemaker, who had heard from the mouth of the Lady herself that the Head of the House of Helyanwë was planning to trespass upon the sacred vows of marriage of his daughter to a son of Fëanáro by forcing her to remarry to another man against her will.

Naturally, Nowë found this news to be disconcerting. It was not that he was particularly fond of Curufinwë Fëanárion per say—no one really, genuinely was—but he could not help but think that there was something terribly wrong with ripping a woman away from her mate, even a mate as sharp-tongued as her husband happened to be. Especially given that she seemed (by some saintly feat) to love her husband faithfully and truly. Not only that, but the rumors had continued on to speak of her newest suitor.

 _Did he truly attempt to physically assault her in broad daylight?_ The young smith could not help but wonder as he slipped through the backdoor of the shop. The fire was going, red-hot and waiting, and his father was preparing for the day while his oldest brother manned the shop itself and his second brother hovered nearby. It was obviously the turn of the younger two to work at the mending of broken equipment and the forging of new product beneath the watchful eyes of their sire.

These sorts of days were a chore—being scrutinized at his work always was—but Nowë was focused less on the stress of performing admirably in his craft before his father’s eyes, mind lingering elsewhere when it ought to have been on the forge fire.

 _There is word spreading that Eterúna the Shoemaker is looking for someone to deliver a missive directly to King Arafinwë on behalf of the Lady,_ he was thinking, eyes seeing through the fire rather than focusing upon it at he ought to have been. _I know not of any such person within the walls of the palace—Would King Arafinwë trust an Exile as his guard or his servant?—but perhaps Atar, perhaps one of my brothers, might know—_

It was upon the cusp of that thought that he felt red-hot metal meet one of his fingers. Just the lightest brush upon bare skin. But it did nothing to negate the searing pain that wracked its way through the dense nerves beneath his fingertip, ravaging its way straight up his arm and jolting up his spine in a flash of white. Shouting, he dropped the tool he had been mending—a simple plough handle, nothing he would normally have been unable to handle on his own without supervision—and grasped at the burned appendage with his opposite hand.

“Nowë?” His father approached immediately, reaching out for his hand. And the son, though he had experienced worst pain than a small burn, let himself be led to a bucket of lukewarm water. Even that, though it was no substitute for snow or ice, did help immediately cool the scalded (and now blistering) spot on his hand.

Biting back a curse, he hissed in agony. Fucking burns. They were the absolute worst! It took _hours_ for the sizzling feeling of fried skin to slowly dull into a harsh, throbbing ache.

“What in all of Eä has gotten into you?” his father asked, and Nowë looked neither at his sire nor at his older brother hovering just beyond those broad shoulders with a worried gaze. “You have been distracted since we began.”

From the corner of his eye, Nowë could see his older brother fetching ointment to apply to the burn, but he paid it little mind. Instead, he looked down at the ground and tried his best not to put on a petulant face. After all, it was the fault of none but himself that his mind had been wandering when it should be focused upon the task at hand. He knew better than to put himself and his companions in such harm’s way by allowing his mind to wander thusly, and, therefore, he should have said something if he were so distracted as to be unable to carry out his duties with wholehearted attention.

But it was not every day one heard about a woman being attacked or forced into marriage (or, in this case, both) against her will! Certainly, imagining something like that would disturb most men! No sisters did he have, nor a wife to call his own, but his eldest brother was married, and Nowë could imagine how infuriated, how repulsed and insulted and enraged, he would have been had her father tried to forcibly take her from Nowë’s brother even as she clung and begged and spoke of the desire of her heart to stay. Never would that happen—their families were not of high enough standing for marriages of convenience to take precedence over love and happiness in the state of marriage—but even just _imagining_ it…

The fact that that poor woman might be forced to marry a man who hurt her. That she might be forced into his bed against her will…

It honestly turned Nowë’s stomach. And he had seen many things—not the least of which had been dead and dying bodies of women and children scattered about like broken, bleeding and mutilated dolls upon the crimson-stained marble floors of Menegroth—which could move a man to be sick upon his own hearth.

“I am at fault,” he said, voice stilted and mind still whirling a thousand leagues away even through the haze of pain that now beat like a drum through his nerves, the throbs of pain arching from his finger up like waves through his body. Like a blinding beacon was the raw flesh, trying its best to use agony to consume his attention and pull him away from the thoughts riddling his mind, festering in the open wound of one whose eyes were newly awakened to the strange cruelty of the world. “I should have been paying closer attention.”

“Your mind is elsewhere, yonya,” his father commented, accepting the ointment that Nowë’s brother brought forth, holding his youngest son’s hand gently as he dabbed the cooling, soothing cream upon the blistering, deep red mark. “What is it that keeps you so occupied?”

“Just rumors.” _Of a woman being hit and strangled in a back alley. Of a woman being grabbed and touched in ways she obviously desired not. Of a woman who may, even at this very second, be subject to the cruel whims of her newest suitor who would attack and, possibly, even rape her in broad daylight just a few paces away from the street._

That was enough to occupy any man’s mind.

But he did not want to say that to his father. He did not want to make excuses for his own behavior. Knowing when to step back from the forge was every bit as important, he knew, as learning the techniques of smithery and learning to work quickly and independently so as to facilitate a peak harmonious working atmosphere.

“Mere rumors would hardly trouble you so,” his father said shrewdly, glancing towards him from the corners of his eyes. “I can see upon your face that you are, even now, distracted from your wounds. What is it that you have heard?”

Nowë nibbled at the inside of his cheek, glancing first towards his older brother—still hovering expectantly—and then his father, whose brows were raised questioningly and whose eyes were narrowed expectantly. It was obvious, he thought (with no small amount of annoyance at being the easily-bullied youngest child), that they were not about to let him flee from his embarrassing mishandling of equipment even once his wounds had been properly soothed and bandaged. If he did not spill his thoughts from his tongue, he would be hassled and heckled about his inattention until he spoke.

Rolling his eyes, the youngest huffed out a sigh. Sometimes, having a knowledgeable and well-meaning father was such a curse! If he had had a father akin to that of the Fëanárioni, he expected he would have been yelled at and made to concentrate out of sheer drawer-wetting terror! Alas, his father was one to take a subtler, gentler and more insidious approach.

(Alas, he secretly appreciated that regard, though he would never speak as such aloud.)

Surrendering, he looked down at the blistering sore now suffusing the surface of his finger. “I was at the market, and I heard a rumor from the mouth of one of our patrons. Something he had heard whilst going about trading elsewhere this morning.”

“What sort of rumor?” his brother, Nirwë, asked, sounding interested perhaps but also expectant of ill news. It took a great deal to bore into the mind of a follower of Fëanáro, to disturb their inner flow and make them question. Distraction was not tolerated amongst such warriors—either in their craft or upon the field of battle—and they had honed their focus thusly. Nowë acknowledged that the break in his concentration must appear intriguing from the outside, if also a bit alarming.

“A rumor about a woman being abused by her suitor while her father turns a blind eye—or, I heard, perhaps encourages such behaviors. Apparently, her father intends to marry her to this abusive man who has been caught threatening her with beatings or worse in public.”

His father’s lips tightened. For all that the man had had thousands of years of experience maintaining a stoic visage in the face of all manner of horrible happenings, for all that he could walk into battle wearing the same face that he took afternoon tea, he could not hide the momentary disconcertion and contempt that tainted the folds of his mouth and the faint lines at the corners of his eyes. Had that look been directed _towards him,_ Nowë would most likely have cowered and apologized like a dog desperate to determine what it had done so very wrong but also so very, very sorry for whatever it was that had caused such upset.

After a few moments, though, none of that could be detected except, perhaps, in the brightening of the eyes. “Who is it who would do such things to their own flesh and blood daughter?”

“According to the rumors, the Lord of the House of Helyanwë,” Nowë admitted, wondering if either man would recognize the man’s association with the Fëanárioni and, by extension, their followers.

Naturally, Nirwë just looked at him blankly. It took a few seconds for his older brother to place the name. Blacksmithing was not exactly a trade which typically interested a family of such extreme wealth and importance, especially one which specialized in jewelry and gemstones and other types of metalwork more suited to artistic endeavors and graceful pieces of useless (if lovely) adornment rather than the everyday necessities and commonplace tools that were forged and mended in the blacksmith’s trade. “The House of Helyanwë—they deal in jewelry, do they not? I think I have heard that name a few times.”

“They do,” his father said blandly, and a hand reached up to cup his chin, thumb rubbing over the line of his jaw. “The House of Helyanwë is also bound to the House of Fëanáro through marriage. A man with a single son and a single daughter, and that daughter married Curufinwë Fëanárion.”

So, his father _did_ know of the connection.

“Curufinwë?” Nirwë near gaped at the news, looking dumbfounded. “I suppose, he has a son, so marriage is not to be considered surprising, but…”

_But, well, it is hard to imagine a woman who could put up with—let alone love and stand on equal footing with—a man like Curufinwë Fëanárion._

“Indeed,” his father said. “Lord Curufinwë married her quite some time before the debacle with the Silmarilli. Being the fifth son, there was no grand ceremony, no wedding in the cathedral attended by the entirety of Tirion and many beyond that. Most were interested in it only because the House of Helyanwë then had a direct connection with the House of Fëanáro, and they did sell a few works made by Prince Fëanáro and his sons as a result. Nowadays, though, it is something of which they rarely speak or advertise.”

The three men shared a knowing glance. _For the same reason,_ Nowë suspected, _that we do not advertise that, once, we were followers of Lord Maitimo._

No one wanted to buy from someone who, even silently, allied with the House of Fëanáro. It sent a certain type of message—one that silently spoke of agreement with and endorsement of their murderous agenda—and, in Valinórë, that could be the death of a business. The House of Helyanwë was too established, too ridiculously wealthy, and too powerful to be thwarted by mere association with the name Fëanáro. But, were they to try to expand their business further than the Mansions of Aulë and the cities ruled over by the Noldor, such as Tirion, they would have a very difficult time getting a foothold on the market. They would never sell so much as a jewel in Alqualondë no matter how cheaply their pieces were offered or how beautiful their wares might be. Valmar and other cities ruled by the Vanyar would hardly be better.

From a pure business perspective, Nowë understood. Being seen to cut unfavorable ties would cast a favorable light upon the House of Helyanwë amongst the detractors of the Fëanárioni. Some might not even be bothered by the way the man was going about cutting ties. At least, they might not be if all they heard was that the man’s daughter remarried. Even nowadays, marriages of convenience were commonplace.

Marriages against the will of a woman were not.

“We must be speaking, therefore, of Lord Curufinwë’s wife, Lindalórë,” his father concluded. “Her father seeks to distance his family name from the House of Fëanáro by remarrying his daughter. Is she a willing participant?”

“From what I heard,” Nowë said, wincing, still nursing his hand which was now doctored and wrapped and burned underneath the bandages until he pressed down hard on the ruined flesh, “She seemed not to be. I cannot imagine that, even if she had the intention to leave her husband, she would choose a man who tried to assault her. But I did also hear that the shoemaker down the way saw it happen, that she told him she had no intention of leaving her husband. He was asking about the marketplace if anyone had a reliable way of delivering messages directly to the hands of the King.”

“Directly to the King?” Nirwë asked.

“No one knows how to contact the Fëanárioni,” Nowë explained. “But they appeared for the Midsummer Festival, and before that to visit the royal family. Surely, if anyone knows how to contact them, it would be the King?”

Both looked over at their father, who had let out a thoughtful hum. After a few moments of contemplative silence, Nowë cleared his throat.

“Atar?”

Those eyes, for a long moment, had been distant with thought. The older man ran his callused fingers along his lower lip, tapping a chaotic rhythm against the cushioned flesh. But he started at the address, gaze flickering back to his sons as though in surprise at the interruption of the flow of consciousness. The pair stared expectantly, waiting to hear his thoughts on the matter.

“I may… have an idea,” he said quietly. “But it might take a few days to implement. I would need to make something of a house call, though. I might be gone for a day or longer.”

The pair then exchanged a look. “Atar, what are you…?”

“I might be being silly,” he said, waving their attention away, “But it is worth a try. Think nothing of it. It might just be your old man being ridiculous.”

_Does he know someone who might help?_

Narrowing his eyes, Nowë turned back to his hand, which had gone from outright burning to a heavy throbbing in time with his heartbeat, pulling his mind away from even the unenviable situation of Lindalórë Fëanáriel with each arch of white-hot pain. If their father thought he might know someone who would help without a doubt—another follower, someone he knew they could count on to assist—he would have said. Perhaps this was something of a chance, a person who might or might not be willing to assist the followers of Fëanáro or the Lady of one of their Lords.

Deciding not to push—in part because he really wanted to do nothing more than find something cold to press down on his bandaged hand for the next three days or so—Nowë did not press for answers. Looking at Nirwë over his father’s shoulders, he saw his older brother shrug.

“Well, I would say that you should not let yourself be distracted as such, because there is naught we can do about it for the time being,” his father said, “But you have already been distracted, and you will certainly not be mending any plows or trowels or rakes with a hand looking like that, yonya. I suggest you head back home and have your mother take a look at that. If she deems it fine as it is, you may not even be forced to visit the Healing House.”

Having been burned more times than he could count—and more seriously than this, at that—Nowë stifled his groan at the thought of being forced to march into the Healing House and present his hand to be poked and prodded at by inquisitive healers who would go about making him feel like an utter moron for being inattentive whilst messing around in someplace as dangerous as was the forge. He would rather suffer through a few extra days of throbbing than face that humiliation! His mother’s homemade poultices for burns were perfectly acceptable!

Seeing the look of distaste on his son’s face, the father let out a snort of laughter, patting the younger man’s shoulder. “Off with you. I trust your mother will hassle you into it should you need more than a little bit of ointment. Let this also be a lesson to share your distracting local gossip _before_ beginning work.”

Nirwë echoed the little chortle of laughter. Over their father’s head, the younger son sent his older brother an unamused glare.

Still red in the face, Nowë stood with his bandaged hand. “I will endeavor to take more care in the future, Atar.”

“Give my love to your mother,” his father said with a gentle smile belying the strange glint of worry and upset that lingered at the bottom of the pools of his eyes. “And let her know that I shall not be home tonight. Tell her I have some business to see to.”

“Should I… not tell her of Lady Lindalórë?” Nowë asked worriedly.

It was no secret amongst their household that the three sons and their father had all been servants of the Fëanárioni—of the eldest in particular—but it was nevertheless not something that any of them spoke of often, a part of their lives that they preferred to leave behind. Nowë knew that his mother, while she loved them no less for their involvement with the infamous family, thought that they had no contact with their former brothers-in-arms and no loyalty towards their former commanders.

Loyalty was one of those strange things, though, that was difficult to earn and just as difficult to release in many cases. No reason did Nowë have to feel as though he should _not_ help Lord Curufinwë or his Lady, even though there was no reason that he or any of them should feel obligated to risk their positions in society by associating with and, in a circuitous sort of way, even assisting their former leaders. Yet, though there was no obligation, no one forcing his hand, he could not help but think that, had it been one of _them_ in trouble—a follower of any one of the Fëanárioni—any one of the seven sons would have done their best, throwing their weight around without mercy in the higher circles of society in order to influence events in the favor of their own people.

Was it so terrible that he rather wanted to return the favor? That there was something within his breast that tingled with delight at the thought of him—a mere follower—doing something to save a Prince—or, he supposed, the Prince’s beautiful wife—while the Fëanárioni were vulnerable?

And, in the process, they would be thwarting two woman-abusing men in the process. And there was certainly something in that which made his smile turn sharp.

No sword could he wield to strike such men down. Not here, in Valinórë. But he would have his eye out for Lindalórë and her purported suitor. And he would certainly not be above waving a red-hot brand beneath the man’s nose in threat if ever they crossed paths. In fact, it would be his pleasure.

And, in the meantime, he would imagine said man suffering through this awful, terrible, blistering, aching pain that continued to shudder through his hand in waves of anguish. Only, he could imagine leaving a burn somewhere much more painful and soft.

Oh yes, he could well imagine that.

\---

It would have been foolish to believe that things would get any better.

Certainly, there was now a plan—in the broadest sense of the word—for her escape. And that did, at least the tiniest bit, soothe her racing heart as she dressed for the morning. But, as Lindalórë entered the dining room and saw _that man_ sitting at the table across from where she was meant to eat her own meal, her stomach still did somersaults and cartwheels full of butterfly wings and rancid anxiety inside her belly. There was no chance that she would be capable of eating even a single morsel from her plate with _him_ staring her down.

Otherwise, her father sat at the head of the table, already breaking his fast with a steaming fresh-from-the-oven pastry leaking a dark red filling across his plate as he cut into it with his knife. The smell of rich berries met her nose, and she did her best not to gag.

Beside him, of course, was her mother. As bejeweled as ever. The woman did not so much as smile when she entered, eyes blinking. “Good morning, yendë,” she said, daintily lifting her fork—bearing the tiniest little nibble of a bit of toast upon its prongs—up towards her painted red lips. “As you can see, you have a guest.”

Sour-faced, Lindalórë settled herself into the designated chair across from Calmacil. About her throat, the bruises suddenly throbbed. “Good morning, my lord.”

“My lady,” the man responded with a tight-lipped smile, not nearly so smarmy and obsequious as he had seemed yesterday. “I see that you made it home intact yesterday. It was unfortunate that I needed to leave you earlier than expected.”

 _Is that what you told my father, then?_ Lindalórë did her best not to snort in disgust at the egos of men. Because, naturally, Calmacil did not want to admit that he had been frightened off by the heavy muscle and threatening scowl of a mere commoner, a mere shoemaker, in front of the man he hoped to make his father-in-law.

“Yes,” she said, “I know that the shoemaker was a bit frightening, but he really was very accommodating once you had gone.”

The faintest pink flush appeared on the disgusting dirt stain’s face, and she saw a spark of almost murderous rage flash by before he managed a toothy, painful smile in her direction. “Such a silly thing to say, my lady, but I merely had places to be. I had not anticipated your shopping taking so very long a time.”

Lindalórë knew that she should curb her tongue before she made it worse, because there was every chance that she was going to be trapped with this man again today, and she did not doubt that he would be willing to attack her in almost any locale so long as there were no roving eyes to catch him in his abuse. Which meant, no matter what, she should not be alone with him, and she should do her best not to make him any angrier than he already was. Angry men were more willing to act out, more daring and more dangerous. But she could not help the burn of fury that started in her gut, combatting the nausea that twirled and twisted its way through her abdomen, especially given that his flush was not of the ugly red sort, but that naturally rosy hue that most women would have found attractive. And how dare someone so horrid, so cruel, so twisted look beautiful or handsome? How dare he slink amongst them as such an evil pretender!

 _Perhaps, if I took this fork and carved it across his face, no woman would ever glance his way again,_ she thought sourly, pushing her food about on her plate to make it look as though she had eaten despite the fact that she in no way felt hungry. _That would serve him and his disgusting face and his condescending voice right!_

“I was thinking,” her father said after a few moments of silence, “That, perhaps, you two should spend some time with one another again today.”

“It would be my pleasure, my lord,” Calmacil said before she could so much as open her mouth to object. Which she dearly would like to have done. Except, her father did not even glance her way, instead giving that same seemingly-genuine smile towards her suitor that she had once thought was a true one. He took the man’s word to be an acceptance.

“Excellent!” He said his fork down upon his halfway-cleared plate with a clack. “It would not do for a wedded couple to know nothing about one another, after all.”

A gentle cough interrupted. Skeptically, Lindalórë looked from her father to her mother. “Venno, perhaps we ought to send a servant along with them today.”

Her father seemed a bit taken aback. Perhaps at being interrupted by his gentle and often silent wife who had never (that Lindalórë could remember in all her long years of living in this household) openly offered a disagreement with her husband before an audience. “Vessë, is there something wrong with a man and a woman getting to know one another in public?”

“I simply meant that, in the event Lord Calmacil is unavailable unexpectedly today as he was yesterday, Lindalórë would not be left to wander about on her own. And they would have someone to carry their bags,” the woman suggested, in her face and voice giving nothing away of her disapproval of Lindalórë’s rejection of her family nor indicating her opinion—either favorable or not—of the man sitting before her. Even though they were not close and held little love between them, at least her mother was, it seemed going to do her best to keep her word and protect the daughter for as long as she was trapped in this household. Up until she renounced ties to this family for good.

Glancing at her father, Lindalórë saw that he was contemplative, head tilting to one side. “I suppose that is true. I would rather prefer that she did not wander about on her own.”

Biting her lip, she waited.

It would be an inconvenience to have a servant following her about. But then, at the very least, she was less likely to be subjected to any unwarranted attentions or advances from her suitor. She hoped, in any case.

“I was thinking perhaps young Víressë might be a good choice,” her mother added then. “She is experienced and often attends to me when I am out and about.”

 _Amillë’s personal maid,_ Lindalórë thought, feeling a bit lightheaded.

No one dared to interrupt her father as he contemplated. For a long moment, she thought he might turn down the suggestion after all, and her heart quailed in fear of what was to come. But, in the end, he gave a short, sharp nod and his smile returned to his features. “I suppose that it would not do any harm. As you say, it would be a convenience. Do call Viressë to attend to our daughter and her esteemed guest, Eressëa.”

“Of course. I shall go and do that now if you have no other need of my presence, venno,” the older woman said with deference, so painfully obedient (or so it seemed) that it looked the sort of behavior that would often make Lindalórë feel uncomfortable and want to look away in shame for this woman being her mother.

Now, she wondered if she really knew much about what went through her mother’s head on a daily basis, if Eressëa was truly nothing more than a bit of machine going about doing her husband’s bidding unquestioningly and without thought. If the woman had always been so obedient as her unassuming demeanor and placid compliance might often suggest. Or if, perhaps, there had once been something more before it had been torn away by a loveless marriage of convenience.

In all likelihood, she would never know.

“No, nothing,” her father said, seemingly oblivious to the silent exchange of loyalty that had passed from his wife to his daughter over the table without their exchanging so much as a glance. He did not even look up as his wife departed the room with a series of softly padding steps upon the rug and the hardwood floor beyond.

“If your mother is calling her servant to attend us down already, perhaps we should be off then, Lady Lindalórë,” Calmacil suggested. And, somehow, he managed to make even that suggestion sound threatening, leaving the little hairs on the back of her neck standing on end and the meat of her thighs pressing tight together beneath the layers of her skirts. “If you do not mind, my lord, might your daughter and I be on our way?”

“Naturally,” the Lord of the House said, giving a little shooing motion with his hands. “I would not want to keep you two. Have a pleasant day together.”

“I am certain that we _shall,”_ her suitor purred in response.

And Lindalórë did not think she had ever been more pleased to be followed about by a servant before in her whole life. Whereas, when she and Curufinwë had (at least a few times) been rule-abiding young people and done courting “the proper way”, she had despised having a chaperone (disguised as a servant) following her everywhere to and from her business with her would-be husband, especially when all she had wanted was to find a quiet place to sit in his lap and spend an entire afternoon tasting his lips and talking about all the places they wanted to visit and all the things they wanted to do. Young and wild, she had wanted freedom to be with him as were the young lovers of the lower classes, holding hands and kissing in public even before marriage.

This, of course, was nothing like her courting at the hands of Curufinwë. Nothing at all.

Standing, she felt a harsh tension down her spine, a prickling and itching discomfort as _that man_ stood so near to her—and at her vulnerable back—that she could feel his heat through the layers of his embroidered silk tunic.

Outside the door, Víressë was waiting beside her mother, looking a poor shield with her lack of height and slender build. “My lady,” the maid said with a short curtsy.

“Come along,” Lindalórë said then. Try, she did, to make contact with her mother’s eyes, but the woman did not look her way, turning her back and leaving them all standing about together in the foyer as if she had lost interest in the exchange entirely.

“Let us be going, then.” Calmacil reached out to press his hand across her back, and Lindalórë wished she could reach out and smack that hand away without repercussion, for the very fact that he touched her at all made her muscles twitch and shudder, made her want to run back up the stairs and lock the door behind her, then burn away that touch with scalding water until the skin was red and raw and tore away beneath her fingertips.

That any part of her, even through fabric, was touched by him was….

Taking a deep breath, she pushed it all down and prepared for battle. For that, she knew, was what this was. A battle. If she did not outlast her foes, hold back their advances against her fortress, until help arrived, she would be cornered and ruined. In more ways than one.

She just needed to hold out and have faith that her trust—in a complete stranger and in her mother both—was not misplaced.

Lindalórë had never been the best at that thing called faith, but…

Well, she did not have a choice in it now.

Squaring her shoulders, she moved away from the touch and marched towards the front door. At least, in moving, he was no longer making physical contact with her body. As she looked back at him over her shoulder, she lifted her chin and curled her lip and let him see her hatred glaring back at him from the emerald of her eyes.

And she did her level best not to flinch from the corresponding flash of hateful lust in his gaze, ever present in the blue.

There was no backing down now. No room for failure. No surrendering. It was, for her, victory or nothing.

There was a war to win. Starting now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:
> 
> Fëanáriel (Q) = daughter of Fëanáro  
> Anar (Q) = the Sun  
> Fëanárioni (Q, p) = sons of Fëanáro  
> meldo (Q) = friend  
> Aiya (Q) = exclamation (like Oh)  
> vessenya (Q) = my wife  
> Atar (Q) = Father  
> yonya (Q) = my son (informal)  
> Silmarilli (Q, p) = the Silmarils  
> venno (Q) = husband  
> vessë (Q) = wife  
> Amillë (Q) = Mother


	58. As You Sow, So Shall You Reap

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As it happens, some men don't particularly like men who would use their power and position to treat others poorly, especially those of weaker or lower status...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: non-consensual touching/groping, threats of sexual/violent assault, not-so-sexy dirty talking, rumors/scheming, minor violence, threats in general, almost panic attack, stalking
> 
> Another day passes. Here we see Lindalórë discovering that there is more going on behind the scenes than she thought. And Calmacil discovering the same, as well. You really do need to be careful who you piss off.
> 
> Maedhros = Maitimo = Nelyafinwë = Nelyo = Russandol  
> Maglor = Makalaurë = Kanafinwë = Káno  
> Celegorm = Tyelkormo = Tyelko = Turkafinwë = Turko  
> Caranthir = Carnistir = Morifinwë = Moryo  
> Curufin = Atarinkë = Curufinwë = Curvo  
> Amrod = Ambarussa = Pityafinwë = Pityo = Minyarussa  
> Amras = Umbarto = Telufinwë = Telvo = Atyarussa  
> Finarfin = Arafinwë  
> Fingolfin = Nolofinwë

_Aldúya, 52 Lairë (4 July)_

\---

To say that Lindalórë was nervous would have been a great and terrible understatement.

Perhaps, she hid her worries well beneath that mask of cold disinterest which she cast upon her male companion, her green ice-chip eyes brushing over him with no more regard than she might cast upon the lowliest of servants. It was the very same expression she had used to keep unwanted flirtations and advances at bay since she had reached the age of becoming a beautiful and desirable potential wife. Most often, it left men flustered and backing away, perhaps annoyed at her slight but embarrassed that they were so easily dismissed and wishing to never see her face again.

But, of course, Calmacil was not of the sort to be deterred by her reticence, instead encouraged and enraged in the face of his humiliation, thirsting for a way to make her pay for her insolence. Already, she could see that it was making him angry—his blue eyes sharpened and darkened, pupils widened, and every smile he offered carried the white flash of teeth as his lip curled up threateningly into a skin-crawling leer—and, still, she absolutely refused to wither up in fear of his threatening demeanor, to play at the flattered, obedient ninny pretending that she somehow _enjoyed_ his stunted attempts to make it appear, to an outsider’s gaze, that she was receptive of his attentions.

Better that she make him angry with her strength than let him believe he was making progress by trying to placate and sooth his temper. And, indeed, it was a battle—against him and against herself—to maintain her position of disdain and disinterest, unreceptive to his presence in the most fundamental, visceral way.

Every time one of his hands brushed against her arm or back, she danced or darted away, shuddering at the heated aftermath embedded as a brand upon the skin or flesh wherever he had dared touch. Barely concealing his frustrated snarl beneath a stretched, cracked grin, he reached out as if to brush her hair back from her face and she flinched sharply, remembering that same hand coiled about her throat—still covered in a necklace of bruises—and raised as if to strike her from above while she cowered.

His genial mask broke into a thunderous expression, a mixture of fury and shame, because there were a great number of nearby people who had seen both the gesture and her reaction and looked on with widened, confused gazes, uncertain as to what they had witnessed except that it was something of a potentially ill nature. Something that pointed towards Calmacil—who otherwise had an impeccable local reputation—as an aggressor who might hit a woman.

Which he was. But, of course, he did not want to be known for it, like the craven, power-hungry, impotent abuser that he was. All his horrid vices he wanted secret, for they were every bit as taboo as the crime for which Curufinwë was ostracized. But when he was in private, Calmacil was more than happy to shed the skin of a law-abiding man and reveal the true depths of his personal depravity.

It made Lindalórë sick to her stomach. She hoped all those people saw and knew. She hoped they whispered about it behind their hands. She hoped they made him miserable with their rumors and their speculations.

She hoped their tongues lashed him _raw._

Clearly, he feared the same thing, for his fingers clamped tight about her jaw, forcing her face upwards, pinching hard enough to leave bruises later. “If you do anything else to try and imply something untoward, I swear I will later make you regret it when you are mine,” he threatened. “Behave yourself like a properly obedient wife for once.”

To which she felt both the gut-wrenching burst of terror run through her veins like fire— _We are in public, and he cannot do anything violent in before so many watchers!_ But her mind was too clouded by instinctual reaction to listen to such rationality—as well as the surge of electrical fury that sizzled through her skin and left it feeling burnt and tight about her muscles as they bunched and strained with the urge to grab his hand and throw it back into his face as hard as she might. Between the two, her lips parted in preparation of spewing forth vitriol and insults that clogged in her throat and left her with painful silence.

And then someone wandering by abruptly shoulder-checked Calmacil, knocking the man backwards, without any apparent motive. The hard grasp about her jaw tore away, and she stumbled a step back in surprise. Wide-eyed and frozen, she watched her unwanted suitor ungracefully trip and fall onto his bum in the middle of the street.

The man who had done the deed, dark-haired and broad-shouldered and someone entirely unfamiliar whom Lindalórë had not ever met in her life, gave her a little inclination of his head—like some silent message passed between them that she was somehow meant to understand without prompting—and then turned to stare at Calmacil with something bordering on hatred, watching as the lord scrambled to get upright and brush himself free of dust and grime, frantically tugging his hair back into his place and righting his clothes to make it seem as though his little tumble had never occurred. The hasty movements did nothing but emphasize that he had been unprepared for the assault and had been swatted about like a child or a fly by a mere commoner. Upon his face, his cheeks were red, and his blue eyes were filled with something noxious with malice.

“I did not see you there, sir,” the “aggressor” commented flatly and without sincerity, looking Calmacil’s ruffled person up and down with a distinct air of _unimpressed_ and sounding anything but sorry for his actions.

“Perhaps you ought to be looking where you are walking, _peasant,”_ the riled Calmacil snarled out in response, looking by the clench and shake of his fists at his sides like he would have very much liked to do physical harm to the burly stranger but knowing better than to pick a fight right in the middle of the street.

“Perhaps,” the stranger purred out, still wearing a face that screamed of disrespect, upper lip curled and nose wrinkled as those eyes looked down from a thousand leagues in the sky and judged the nobleman squirming with discomfort below, with his smarting pride and petulant half-pout, unworthy of anything even remotely resembling deference. More so did he find the scene secretly (judging by the twitch at the corners of his otherwise forbidding lips) just a bit hilarious. “Pardon the interruption, but I should be on my way.” He turned sharply and offered Lindalórë a bow—with a quiet but reverent “my Lady” murmured upon his breath—and then went on his way without so much as acknowledging Calmacil’s unattractive sputtering and guffawing and loud bleat of “I demand an apology for such negligent behavior immediately!” as though the man were not even occupying the space right before those deep gray eyes.

Stunned at the whole of the happening—Had that been true, that that random stranger had simply _not seen_ the couple standing in the middle of the not-particularly-crowded street and had run into the nuisance of a suitor so hard as to send the smaller man sprawling?—Lindalórë stared after the stranger, who nonchalantly (completely undisturbed by having nearly run down an apparent nobleman) walked off and disappeared down the street amongst the sea of identical dark heads. Leaving her behind with her thoroughly distracted unwanted suitor, her mother’s maid, who appeared as though she were caught between alarm, panic, and trying not to inappropriately laugh at the misfortune of the now-infuriated male, and the feeling of many eyes resting upon them as Calmacil kicked up a fuss.

It would have been embarrassing had it not been so incredibly _odd._

However, she could not help but take note that she was no longer being physically grabbed at like a toy or a possession. Writing off the occurrence, she pulled her thin shawl more tightly about her shoulders and set off down the road, leaving the slimy, abusive bastard trotting after her like a wayward dog after its mistress.

Having put it out of her mind, she turned the corner onto the same street where, just yesterday, this very man had attacked her in the alley beside one of the most popular shoemakers—favored greatly by the upper class—in all Tirion. As she went, she still felt the prickle of eyes upon her back, the hairs upon her arms and the nape of her neck standing on end, for she knew that Calmacil, probably still recovering from the blow to his overinflated ego and now grumbling under his breath, was right behind her and watching her every move. With the maid present, he could not hope to attack her so blatantly a second time as he had done yesterday, but she still felt vulnerable and naked, unprotected with an enemy at her back and no allies to speak of, and it made her feet move just a little faster, carrying her swiftly down the street.

“Did we not visit every shop of interest on this damn street yesterday?” Calmacil complained, pulling up beside her and (once again) trying to grab at her arm.

“If I do so recall,” she snapped in return, tugging her arm away sharply, “You _had business elsewhere to attend to_ halfway down the street.”

He scoffed. “I would have been busy with something much more pleasant if you had not seen fit to _bite me like a savage,_ woman. I do not really see the point in your resistance. It will be my right as your husband to have you when we are wed, whenever and wherever I choose. Perhaps the very first place I will take us is back to that damn alley to show you your place.”

_It will not happen,_ she told herself silently. _He is saying this only to frighten you into obedience._ Squaring her shoulders and forcing her face to maintain its steely and unrelenting exterior, she refused to surrender to the primal fear that flooded her as he hissed such venom against her ear, as he threatened her with beating and rape in the very same location where he had first attempted to assault her, just to terrify her even more, just to explain to her how he would dominate and subjugate her to his will to make her lose her confidence. Nervously, she glanced around, spotting the maid a few paces back watching, shifting anxiously from foot to foot as she observed from a distance what appeared to be a mere conversation, if a heated one. Calmacil spoke quietly enough that both the passerby and their chaperone would only hear a murmur and not the true horror of his words. And he did it for no other reason than to witness the fear in her eyes, to know that her heart was racing as she imagined fighting back and being overwhelmed and forced.

But she refused to be quelled. Refused to allow him to see how his words affected her. Bit the inside of her cheek and glared with all her might and will. _I will escape. Amillë will help me escape. I would run away to Eru only knows where in the wilds before I allow myself to be forced into a marriage with this monstrous, twisted man._

“No decent man would ever commit such acts of barbarity against his own wife,” she returned, lifting her chin sharply. “You are nothing decent or admirable. You are not even worthy to lick the bottom of my shoes.”

His hand closed about her upper arm as a vice, taut and harsh and squeezing until it ached, dragging her close enough that she could feel the heat of his breath on her face like a kiss of toxic flame, that she could see the gleeful spite in his gaze burning hot into her flesh as a brand. “Just for that comment, I should have you lick the bottom of mine on the night of our wedding, my lady.”

And his hand swiped right over her front, across her breasts. The touch was barely there, blocked from the view of the hovering Víressë (who was still watching the exchange from a short distance away, biting her lip as she slowly eased nearer looking as though she were not certain if she should intervene) by Calmacil’s torso, but Lindalórë still gasped loudly and pulled away as though she had been burned. And might she as well have been! That smirking fiend looked so _proud_ of himself as she backed away like a skittish animal, as she _retreated_ from his attack and fled rather than pushing back against the assault.

It was the exact behavior he wanted to see. The exact behavior that most likely brought heat to his loins. But what else was she meant to do? Allow him to fondle her in a manner that should be the domain of her husband alone?

Staring into that demonic face, slashed across with a wide grin at seeing her terror, eyes excited by her anxious flitting and triumphant at her yielding, he looked like any woman’s worst nightmare come to life. No matter the conventional handsomeness of his face, the thin veil he used to cover the ugly reality underneath, she could see straight through to the black, festering, corrupted core and knew he did not make threats mildly. Given the chance, he would carry out every single one of them. He would toe the line of being seen to harass and degrade her. He would risk the potential of being caught assaulting her just for the few minutes of reckless pleasure. He was everything that she had never seen in her husband, everything that Curufinwë—for all that he was temperamental and sharp-tongued and tended towards hiding his feelings out of shame at being vulnerable and did not know how to deal with her emotional upheaval always in return, for all that he was a known murderer with a family overrun with madness—would never be.

How anyone could find this disgusting man an acceptable son-in-law, she would never understand. Her husband was a thousand times better a person than this piece of rotting carcass could ever hope to be! How could her father not see that? How could _other people_ not _see that?_ It was so very _blatant,_ as bright as the sun, flashing and burning into the retinas to capture attention!

_People see what they want to see,_ she had to remind herself, hating it but knowing it was true. That people looked at her husband and saw a vicious, bloodthirsty murderer—because they had never seen him skinny-dipping in the lake while drunkenly giggling or had him frantically and eagerly licking them to orgasm or cuddled with him in the sand on the beach at sunset while talking about their future like two sweet lovebirds—and looked at _this man_ and saw a lower nobleman with a modest fortune who could support a woman well and was decidedly _not_ a murderer, wearing his pretty face and looking innocuous in comparison to Curufinwë’s sharp angles and vicious snarling scowls. This man’s face was pretty, and his voice was velveteen, but they were nothing more than a mirage.

It was always that way, somehow, though. Predators dressed like princes and knights and seduced their prey into a tight, invisible net of helplessness.

_I will not be caught!_

Steeling herself to bite out another acerbic comment, she was halted—tongue halfway through the motion—by a sudden change in that ugly expression. From slightly red-faced frustration, arousal and fury to white-faced shock and horror.

A hand touched Lindalórë’s shoulder. She almost screamed.

Spinning around, she came face-to-chest with a familiar man. The breath was knocked from her lungs as though she had collided with that solid wall of muscle rather than merely stared at it dumbly from slightly less than arm’s length. Slowly, her eyes traversed up.

“My Lady,” the shoemaker greeted, “Is there a problem here?”

“If there was, it would be none of your business!” Calmacil snapped out. “I will warn you, peasant, to stay out of our affairs! I can and will have your business in _shambles_ if you interfere while the lady and I are having a private _discussion.”_

The shoemaker was _not at all_ intimidated by the display. Knowing that he had once worked under her husband, had probably seen Curufinwë at his very worst, Lindalórë did not find this surprising. Where Calmacil’s threats of physical violence and sexual assault were, indeed, terrifying—more so given that he had yet to hesitate in his attempts to carry them out in truth—his attempts at posturing and threatening other men were somewhat laughable. Though, perhaps Lindalórë was biased, having seen her husband bring grown men to tears countless times before using only his voice, his wit and his spiteful outer shield.

If this shoemaker was used to dealing with _that_ Curufinwë, the way he often became when he was struggling with his own emotions and his own aversion to vulnerability—the one who flayed skin from muscle and muscle from bone with the metaphorical blade of his words, who felt the sting of failure and cowardice and used that pain as bitterness and that bitterness as a weapon against the world—then she was certain he had dealt with much worse than this paltry and unfounded threat against his livelihood.

Indeed, the shoemaker stepped _forward_ rather than _backward,_ and Calmacil fidgeted and drew in upon himself, warily staring and looking as though he wanted to say something harsh, to spew forth more threats, but also wanted to flee in the face of danger. And Lindalórë was left watching the whole surreal procession, wondering if this was a strange dream and she was about to wake up in her bed to find that it was this morning and her mother had never stepped forward to offer a timid alliance and her father had not permitted the maid to come along as a chaperone, and she was going to be dragged down this street and assaulted in that alley because this shoemaker was not going appear and press himself between her and her aggressor like a broad wall of muscle and willpower, and…

And she was about to melt right into the cobblestone in the middle of the street. Breaths coming fast, hands shaking and sweating, the feeling of air escaping the deflated balloons of her lungs and refusing to be sucked back in…

“I think that _you_ should take care with where your hands touch and what words depart your lips,” the shoemaker countered, and she heard his voice like the boom of thunder through the high-pitched ringing of her ears. “There are many eyes watching. Think not that you are not being scrutinized in everything you do, stranger.”

Still floating on that hazy cloud of almost-panic, Lindalórë’s head snapped around to look down the street. And, through the milling of people, oblivious to her situation and to the world beyond their own problems and their own lives, there were _others._ Peering out of shops. Standing near alleys. Loitering in alcoves. Eyes that were unhesitatingly watching, unblinkingly staring, at the small drama unfolding quietly in the middle of the street.

Not merely one or two. Many. More than she would have imagined.

_Are all these men… followers of Fëanáro?_

“Curse you,” she heard Calmacil hiss between his clenched teeth, but she could see his own moment of harrowing terror as she turned back to look at his face, gone from a mere pale to the color of spilled milk. “And curse her! Did she bribe you to do this? Is that why you are meddling where you have no business?”

“It is not about money,” the shoemaker said, “But about loyalty. Not something that one such as yourself—or any other wealth-obsessed noble or lord—would understand.”

It was said with such scorn, such contempt, that Lindalórë could feel it settle upon her skin as a layer of oil, brushing past her and over her, immiscible with her being, and settling upon Calmacil instead as a stain which could not be washed away or hidden from sight. Offense might have lingered on his face, in the gape of his mouth and the clench of his balled fists, but he dared not say anything as he took in what she had already seen. The dozens of eyes that were watching all along the street, filled with a strange light of knowing, observant and waiting for a single false move to give them any reason to burst forth.

Who would have thought that a man who took pleasure in inflicting violence and terror upon a helpless victim would not enjoy the same threat being cast upon him by others? Lindalórë honestly hoped that he felt it all the way down to his soul, and that it burned him with the fires of shame and self-hatred until his spirit melted and boiled.

She wanted him to suffer as much as she suffered. And she was not sorry for that.

“Do remember,” the shoemaker repeated. “We _will_ be watching.”

As if he had not stopped at all, the shoemaker slipped away into the streams of people, walking languidly back to his shop and through the front door. But she could see that the large outer windows were open, the inside of the shop lit, and his tall frame lingered near enough that he could see the goings-on in the street with ease, no matter that it looked as though he sat behind the counter and worked on mending of slippers rather than spying on passerby.

Glancing down the street, she could see that the others were now pretending at being busy going about their day. Except, every few seconds, she would see the flash of eyes in her direction, assessing and sharp, before darting away.

Slowly, the swiftness of her breaths calmed as the world around her did not dissolve into some strange dreamscape and then fall away to the harsh reality of wakefulness. The cobbles were still hard beneath her slipper-bearing feet—still harsh against her heels and making her ankles ache—and the wind still scraped its naked fingers over her cheek, the only hint of coolness on the otherwise blazing-hot day, and the peoples’ voices still washed over her as a chaotic din of gentle noise. The tangible world still spun on around her, unfolding to the steady beat of time, and did not fall away.

And she did not feel so alone.

“Shall we be on our way then,” she managed to say, not carrying as much acidic bite as she would have liked, but not trembling with terror either.

The look Calmacil gave her would have struck her down had it been a blade. But he still glanced up and down the street, hand raising as if to dart out and grab her but hesitating at the knowledge that they were, in fact, being watched. And by more eyes—and harsher critics and judges—than the poor maid who could physically, in reality, do nothing to stop him, a nobleman who was much larger and stronger, if he wanted to make inappropriate advances upon his unwilling fiancée. After a few moments, the hand dropped, coiled like a snake into the fabric of his tunic and twisted the way he likely wanted to twist his those shaking fingers about her throat.

“Let us get this over with,” he growled out. “Pick a damn shop already.”

She sniffed but did not hesitate to accept his advice and make for the nearest shop specializing in expensive jewelry. The groan he gave upon realizing that she was going to make him spend the next three or four hours standing about in a corner while she contemplated gemstones and styles of chain and different purities of metal was, admittedly, satisfying.

Bolstered, she entered and immediately found her way to the owner. “Show me your selection,” she ordered, voice brokering no negotiation. “I want to see everything.”

And Calmacil, hearing her words as he followed her into the cool, dim environment, looked on with the glow of stinking vitriol in his eyes, as though he wanted to drag her out by her hair and scream in her face.

She ignored him and gave the owner her full attention.

After all, she just needed to continue to waste time. Calmacil no longer had the option of losing his patience and beating the resistance out of her in some hidden alleyway along the street.

There was certainly something liberating about knowing that her back was no longer unprotected. That a little bit of personal power was returned. That, for just a few hours this day, she would not need to worry so much that she felt as though she were going to burst into flames or shatter into pieces and die from the strain. The feeling of fragility faded and left her feeling strong in its stead.

“Right away, my Lady,” the owner said, sounding confused but compliant. “Let us start with our selection of diamonds…”

Not her favorite, she could not help but think, looking at the array of identical, flawless, colorless stones with no small amount of boredom. But she hid the expression beneath her china-doll smile and chirped out every question that came to her tongue, listening with half an ear as the jeweler happily prattled on and on about his wares. It would do. She might even pick a few pieces to purchase, just to annoy her suitor with the lengthy business of haggling.

When this was all over, she wondered if she might have enough diamond pieces to gift one to every wife and daughter of every man who had dared to put himself forward and offer his silent protection at her back, in solid support of her and her absent husband.

She would not hesitate to give as such. To give away all the useless and unimportant jeweled trinkets that littered her endless boxes and trays in her golden cage of a room in her parents’ house. It was the very least she could hope to do in return for these people who did not have her overwhelming wealth but still put their livelihoods and reputations on the line for her despite. The thought made her belly feel warm and soft.

Maybe, she would take what pieces were left after that and pass them out, one by one, to every woman she walked by on the street.

At least, then, they would be doing _something good_ for _someone._

At least, then, they would no longer be a symbol of imprisonment. And, maybe, they would bring good fortune to someone who needed it just as much as she.

Swallowing down the thought, she spotted a ring that was pleasant enough. She already knew looking at it that it could easily buy enough food for a small family for a month. Potentially more. Or would make for a pretty gift to a daughter-in-law upon her marriage. “Let me see that one,” she demanded in her soft, rich lord’s daughter voice.

“Excellent choice, my lady,” the jeweler complimented.

And, at her back, it was Calmacil’s turn to flinch at the cruel twist of her answering smile.

\---

“So that is him,” his son said, watching as the couple—Lord Curufinwë’s wife with the gemstone-green eyes and her tag-along harasser—went inside the jeweler’s shop three doors down from the smithery. “The way Eterúna described him, I almost expected an urco rather than a mere man of the nobility.”

The pair both shuddered. Certainly, the behavior described by the rumors was something that they all knew urqui did to their helpless captives. And much worse than that. They had been around at the liberation of the thralls of Angamando under the leadership of their wild-eyed and trauma-stricken commander, who had gone straight for the helpless slaves rather than focusing on slaughtering the servants of evil—And none could blame him for that!—resulting in his followers stumbling upon all sorts of unpleasantness that they could never have conjured forth even in their most vile, violent, battle-stricken daydreams.

The worst part of the entire ordeal, he recalled, had been the look on Lord Maitimo’s face. The look of expectation as they descended down into a hellish labyrinth of passageways that the Fëanárion knew too well. The look of dread flashing in hellfire eyes as they burst forth into the filthiest, lowliest of dungeons and mines where unfortunate men and a few even more unfortunate women were kept bound, wrist and ankle, in chains, naked and whipped until they worked, and worked until they bled to death or starved or, miraculously and cursedly, survived. Worst, though, was the lack of surprise when they found worse things still in the torture-chambers even further down into the depths of depravity.

While his men were struggling against inexplicable nausea and lightheadedness, against lightning-strikes of terror, against frozen and silent horror at the things they found, their commander had walked amongst all of it and looked at it with a familiar eye and a sharp downturn to his lips. Nothing more.

How could anyone ever forget such things as those? He certainly had not, and he had only seen them, not experienced them.

Seeing such horror spreading here, to his home where he and all others who walked these streets should be safe of the evil workings of the servants of Morgoth, left him with a disgusting and bitter taste on the back of his tongue. As had Lord Maitimo’s mouth then done, his own bowed and bent, the corners furrowed with an upward surge of displeasure that then settled and rested rancidly in the pit of his stomach and churned.

Perhaps, compared to such things as they had seen being done to men and women in the thralldom of the Dark Lord, watching a woman being grabbed and dragged and threatened seemed mild. But such things always began mild, and then mild morphed into harsh, and then harsh morphed into cruel and sadistic in a vicious cycle. It built and built and built until it had gone from a tiny flicker of a flame to a raging wildfire burning down everything it touched. Went from a few bruises upon a woman’s arm to the destruction of her spirit.

If the man was willing to drag and bruise and hurt a woman now, in public, what might he do to her later, in private?

At his side, he heard his son’s low growl, for Nirwë undoubtedly remembered their last harrowing days of Exile—at the very end of the long War of Wrath—just as vividly and unpleasantly as did his father. “Would that we could drag him off and beat it out of him,” the son commented harshly and with almost childish want, arms crossed.

It was most likely what would have been done to a man amongst Lord Maitimo’s company who displayed such proclivities when they were in Exile and no laws of the Valar were there to hold them back. Their commander, if he did not instigate such violence against the perpetrator in the first place, would have merely blinked and looked the other way.

But this was Valinórë, and the rules here were different.

“Would that we could,” he agreed, “But it is not so. We are doing all that we can be doing in watching over Lord Curufinwë’s wife. Nothing more would be safe. For her, for her husband, or for us.”

It was a bitter truth. Few beyond those who had loyally served the Fëanárioni would be on the side of the Kinslayers if things broke out into a physical altercation. Even other Exiles—the peoples of Nolofinwë and Arafinwë—could not be trusted to view their Kinslaying brethren in a positive light, especially given that their loyalty belonged to a family of murderers even now after rebirth and healing and reclaiming their old lives. No matter that they were far from the only Exiles to carry the red blood of the Eldar upon their hands.

_We are all of us murderers in one way or another,_ he knew. _But it is easy to forget that the Fëanárioni alone did not burn Doriath or sack the Havens, nor did Fëanáro's people alone slaughter the folk of Alqualondë. Yet, we take advantage of such blindness and denial to hide in plain sight._

Pushing such things from his mind—as often he did, these days—he decided now, more than ever, it was important to make headway in his potential lead. If Lady Lindalórë needed someone to deliver a message to King Arafinwë—unfiltered and guaranteed in a timely fashion—he had an idea of exactly who to send.

Much as he hated to bother a friend with such unpleasantness—especially given said friend’s own dealings with the ugly reality of the world in the past—this was more important than the temporary discomfort of one person.

And, besides that, he knew his friend would be more than willing to help. Would, without hesitation, put Lindalórë’s pain and need above his own.

That was just how he was.

“I am going to depart now,” the father said. “Help your brother watch the shop, and please give my apologies to those whose orders will be delayed by my absence. Tell them that an emergency has arisen that needed to be attended to immediately. Also, let Eterúna know that I have a lead on sending his message straight to King Arafinwë. Unfortunately, it will take some time, but I will do my best to hurry.”

“Of course, Atar,” Nirwë accepted without hesitation.

“Good man,” he complimented, squeezing his son’s shoulders. “And keep an eye on Lady Lindalórë. Should anything untoward happen…”

The message passed silently between their eyes. His son gave a sharp nod.

With a last pat on his boy’s shoulder and a strained but genuine smile, he disappeared back indoors, feet swift upon the wooden floors as he made for the upper levels where the personal quarters rested. He had a bag that needed packing. With any luck, he would be departed by this afternoon and arrived at his destination sometime tomorrow morning.

Which meant, the earliest he could guarantee a messenger was the day after tomorrow. And that seemed such a long ways away to a man who knew, very well, that lives could easily be destroyed in mere minutes. So much could happen in forty-eight hours.

But he had to try. And hurry.

\---

Strange things had continued to happen all throughout the day. 

First, of course, had been the appearance of the shoemaker. Then had come a tailor who gave Calmacil such a look of utter distaste that he might have been looking at something as disgusting as raw entrails or animal droppings on his dinner plate rather than a man wasting the air by breathing within the confines of his shop. Then were the random passerby, all of whom addressed her as “my Lady” and completely ignored the male trailing after her skirts as though he were invisible or, worse still, a servant unworthy of acknowledgment. Then there had been the jeweler plying his wares at a stall in the marketplace who eyed Calmacil the way one looks upon a rat they seek to catch and kill or an annoying insect in need of squashing, a nuisance that ought to be destroyed as quickly and efficiently as possible. Three more marketplace sellers had very politely done business with her and all but rejected the very space occupied by her unwanted companion, one outright refusing him business and another pretending not to hear any words that departed his tongue no matter how loudly or crudely spoken.

And, each time, said companion grew more and more angry and more and more frustrated. In part because he did not dare to take out his fury upon her person when they finally finished their business and walked away, because he dared not harm her either physically or verbally when there was a possibility of some unknown and unforeseen protector hiding in plain sight amongst the everyday folk going about their day.

It became clear to her that these men were taking their duties as followers of the Fëanárioni very seriously and considered her safety to be a priority. They continued to go out of their way to make their presence known—both to her and to Calmacil—throughout the morning and into the afternoon. Always, there were eyes on every street, watching and waiting with a smile and a bow of the head for her and a dark look filled with daggers and poison for him. They were protecting her without her even requesting their help, without demanding any sort of payment in return, and it left her reeling.

Even now, Lindalórë did not truly understand why. But that did not stop her from feeling the floating, bubbling, giddy gratefulness in her stomach threatening to lift her from her feet and carry her away, nor did it drive away the feeling of words freezing in her throat, resting upon her tongue with a savory taste but refusing to depart, her feet wanting to dance like a wildwoman down the center of the street in glee at the show of solidarity and loyalty. These men who, to the average public citizen, were known as evil, lawless monsters who would sooner cut you down than lend you aid in a crisis, they were _helping her_ and _watching over her,_ and it left her so relieved and so protected and so _safe_ for the first time in ages so as to leave her feeling like she might keel over right there on the ground in a pile of inappropriate laughter and tears.

While their guardianship did contribute to Calmacil’s mounting frustration, it had thus far kept his hands off her body. He hovered like an enraged, black shadow, but he did not dare to touch her again, not for the whole of the afternoon until Lindalórë, having satisfied her quota for “time to get to know” her purported future spouse, decided that it was time for her to return home and retreat to the prison-sanctuary of her private chambers to regroup and rejuvenate and prepare for another day of exhausting warfare against her foes.

“I think I am finished for the day,” she announced, adding a final parcel to the bags that poor Víressë was still carrying as she trotted after the pair down the street looking rather tired, frazzled by the strange happenings, and alarmed by Calmacil’s poorly-hidden rage itching through his fisted hands and the occasional appearance of a vicious snarl.

Much to her displeasure, he seemed to find something about that to be to his liking. So much so that he did not even protest and complain or chide her for taking the lead and making decisions without his consent.

She did not like it.

They retraced their path—she intentionally followed all those streets that she knew were guarded, feeling shockingly _safe_ spotting some familiar faces through the crowd, lingering, their eyes flashing towards her in acknowledgment and then away, present and at her call the very moment she needed assistance—and came back to the road with the shoemaker.

“Bloody commoner,” Calmacil muttered ungraciously beneath his breath, eyeing the shop of the shoemaker as though it housed bloodthirsty beasts rather than stacks and stacks of fine leather boots and other expensive footwear. Through the window, she could see said “commoner” shifting things about, moving back and forth on swift feet, and spotted a woman or two as well going about cleaning and organizing and preparing to close for the day.

The shoemaker looked up at her and met her gaze. And she swallowed down the burn of oncoming tears at the sudden, almost world-shaking epiphany that she was _not alone._

Turning back around with her eyes stinging and her throat taut around a knot of things that she longed to say but never would, she had just enough time to see a swift-walking man round the street corner and run into Calmacil, who was still mid-complaint and looking very much like he wanted to strangle or slaughter the next thing that came beneath his hands. This time, he was not flung backwards onto his rear end, but there was not denying that the man could very easily have done so without even trying. This man was not even built like a mere warrior. He was built for strength as well as precision with a frame that Lindalórë instinctively recognized, for she had seen it before in both her father-in-law, her husband, and her son.

One hand was wrapped in white bandages. Even so, burn scars twined and danced and laced his arms in abstract designs, exposed by the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Having a smith for a husband—albeit one who had little love for the art and even less for the trade—she recognized the look of prolonged exposure to the forge, of years and years of handling (and mishandling) glowing red-hot or molten metals.

Already annoyed with anything and everything, Calmacil lost his temper. And not in the sort of way Curufinwë sometimes did—which involved a great deal of tongue-lashing and usually some poor man’s nose being bloodied or eyes being blackened—but in the way a man more of good breeding and less of physical labor does. With a great deal of shouting and demanding and egotism that made him look utterly ridiculous.

And swearing. Some of that, too. Which did nothing but make the whole scene more amusing and harder to swallow with seriousness.

The smith, upon assessing the angry and shouting nobleman, just raised an eyebrow in that condescending way Lindalórë had never seen directed at another man—questioning the competence and intelligence of the person, in this case, doing the screaming right in the middle of the street under the view of dozens of horrified and scandalized gazes—and waited for Calmacil to cease his tirade in order to suck in an unfortunately necessary breath.

Too bad he had not just talked himself into unconsciousness through sheer lack of air. She would have felt some satisfaction from leaving his disheveled body lying in the street like the trash he was in truth.

“Get out of the way,” the smith said shortly without even the commonplace reverence showcased by a vendor or seller to a potential customer. “I am injured, tired, and in no mood to deal with the self-centered nonsense of the lesser nobility who believe they are much more important and powerful than they actually _are.”_

To which Calmacil puffed up like an enraged rooster and opened his mouth to shout. “ _You_ are tired? _You_ are in no mood to deal with _me? I_ am your superior in every way, and your job is to serve the upper class diligently and without question and without _cheek!_ To think, some plebeian nobody calling one of my standing _lesser_ and strutting about like a man above their station! I will have your employment for this! I will—”

There was a soft tap on her shoulder.

Stepping back from the continued shouting, Lindalórë looked over at another man unfamiliar to her but who bore a striking resemblance to the one with the bandaged hand. Perhaps a brother or a cousin?

A realization shuddered through her. That this was a little diversion to keep her unwanted suitor’s attention focused elsewhere. For this second man came so close that they were near enough to hold a conversation. Indeed, the man opened his mouth to speak, and she realized that that had been his intent. To create a distraction such that Calmacil did not interfere whilst they were speaking.

“We have heard that you seek to have a message delivered to King Arafinwë,” the man began in a hushed voice, not quite a whisper but low enough to not register beneath the gush of cursing and blaming and egotistical ranting departing Calmacil’s lips, “And we—my brothers and I—thought it pertinent to inform you that our father has gone just this afternoon to find an associate of his to carry out the job. At the very least, we hope to have your letter in the King’s hands in the next handful of days.”

A large bubble of tension, resting knotted sickeningly in the area of her solar plexus and leaving her feeling bloated and vulnerable, suddenly popped and deflated. _Oh, thank Eru!_

“Will you be safe for a few days longer?” he then asked, sounding concerned.

_A few days._ Not ideal, but better than a week or a fortnight or a month as would have happened had she tried to _post_ a letter to the King.

“I will have to try my best to be,” she responded.

It was clear that he found her answer to be rather unsatisfactory by the purse of his lips and the clench of his fingers in the fabric of his tunic, for which she could hardly lay blame. Just as she liked guarantees to soothe her mind and spirit when it came to a topic of great worry, so, too, must he have felt the same. Yet, she could not offer him as such, not without knowing her father’s mind and patience for her resistant behavior. For all she knew, he might order her to be wed this very evening—or tomorrow, or the morning after, or any number of other times—and she would be forced to take immediate action.

_But, if I were to flee now, surely someone would take me in. If only for a short while. If only for a single night._

It made her feel the tiniest bit more secure. But not enough to try and run. Not yet.

Glancing towards the one-sided argument in which Calmacil was still making an utter fool of himself in a public venue, Lindalórë sighed. “You should go, before he sees you over here speaking with me.”

The sideways glance the man gave his shouting, red-faced counterpart spoke volumes about his revulsion at both the person and the behavior, carrying something darker half-hidden in silver pools of light. “I will be making a delivery to the wealthier parts of town in just a few minutes, so I will be walking the same route as you and your… companion.” His nose wrinkled just a bit. “Just know that I am at your back if you need me, my Lady.”

With a short bow, he stepped away as if he had never approached. And Lindalórë wondered that she somehow managed not to burst into tears on the spot. Because a random man—a random _Kinslayer_ whose only tie to her was through fighting with (and, potentially, dying with) her husband in some faraway foreign land at war—was treating her with more respect and with more gentle care than her own father and her own suitor both. As Calmacil gave in to his rage, reaching over to grab her arm and literally drag her away as he stomped down the street, she looked over her shoulder (ignoring the feeling of new bruises being squeezed into her upper arm) and saw the stranger following behind, half-hidden in the shadows cast by buildings.

They turned onto a residential street, and the pace slowed. The maid lingered back, wide-eyed and nervous, and Calmacil, still dragging Lindalórë unceremoniously behind, turned to her, reaching with his hand as if to make a grab at part of her body or to fling her forth or to otherwise do her harm—

Only to freeze as he caught sight of their follower. Lindalórë did not look to see who was there. She merely tugged herself free of his grasp, brushed her skirts back into some semblance of order, and walked around the man frozen where he stood upon the cobblestones, horrified at the fact that he was being _followed_ and _hunted_ like the animal he was. She sincerely hoped that he was feeling that same primal and urgent need to flee in the face of danger that she felt whenever he was near.

The whole way back to her parents’ house, he said nothing, trailing after the lady and her maid. When they arrived, he stood white-faced and looking back every few seconds at the shadow that lingered across the way, standing and watching them unblinkingly until Lindalórë reached the door set with stained glass, her fingers finding the cold metal handle and pulling it open, forcing the maid inside with a firm push.

No goodbye did she speak. Instead, she shut the door in Calmacil’s face while he was too distracted by their follower to pay attention.

And then she went around to he dark sitting room window and watched as her unwanted suitor turned tail and nearly ran in his haste to take flight from this place. In his wake, the dark shadow passed silently, following the other man back up the street and out of sight.

And she could not deny the feeling of relief and vindication. Because he was feeling just the tiniest taste of the fear he perpetrated upon others. Because, so long as there were eyes watching, he would be required to suffer in silent rage and lust and shame while dozens of men stared at him and judged him unworthy and wagged their tongues whilst his back was turned. Because he was feeling powerless, and Lindalórë was not so nice a woman that she did not want to watch him suffer.

Feeling light in her steps and an effortless curl in her lips, more hopeful than she had since this debacle had started, she trotted her way up the stairs and into her room, Víressë following behind with her bags.

“My lady,” the poor maid said, voice low and whispery. “My lady, you have bruises on your arm. Should I…? Should I get something for you?”

The poor thing looked nervous and upset and on the verge of tears, having so very obviously been exposed to what Calmacil was truly like when he was out of sight of the Head of the House. Even to a woman he was not focused upon and threatening directly, he cut a frightening figure. Violent towards women. Willing to harm them to get what he wanted. Threatening them verbally when they resisted his advances.

Lindalórë felt a little sorry for the maid, who could not have helped or prevented Calmacil from doing exactly what he wanted even had she tried, who would likely have been physically harmed as punishment for trying, who would have earned herself the undesirable position of inciting Calmacil’s rage and personal attention upon her person in the process. “There is little to do but allow them to heal,” Lindalórë answered.

“Is he always so rough and so… uncouth?” the maid asked, fidgeting where she stood. “It is just, he seems like a poor match for my lady. Not very safe, or very kind.”

“He is a poor match for any woman, no matter their family name, their wealth or their lot in life,” Lindalórë responded snappishly. “While he is primarily distracted with his pitiful attempts to woo, seduce or threaten me into marriage, I implore you to take care, Víressë. You and all the other women in this household. He is not safe.”

Swallowing sharply, the younger woman nodded. “Yes, my lady.”

“There is nothing else I need,” Lindalórë added. “If my parents ask, I have retired early and wish to rest after a long day.”

“Of course, my lady,” Víressë said with a short curtsy.

“That will be all.”

Still looking pale and unsettled, the maid hurriedly departed the room, leaving Lindalórë with a few bags of useless jewelry but feeling more secure than ever before. If she could manage just a few more days exactly like this—taking Calmacil out in public on useless trips to buy useless items or perform useless tasks about the crowded parts of Tirion—then this situation seemed survivable. So long as there was no sudden attack, no swift change in the rules of engagement, and no direct interference from her father, she felt she could hold him at bay for a while longer yet. Until there was a plan in motion, until there was a place to go until she could reach out to her husband or brothers-in-law, until she knew she had somewhere to flee to.

_They said that they were going to deliver my message. I must hold out a little while longer. I must stay strong._

Letting out a long sigh, she collapsed upon her mattress, tucking her feet up onto the cushioned surface against the silken, rumpled sheets. Carelessly, she threw her slippers down upon the carpet and fell back against her pillows.

Looking up at the ornate ceiling, for the first time in days, she did not feel empty.

For the first time in days, as though sleep were worthwhile, for she needed to rest and prepare for tomorrow's battle. And her mind, no longer aflutter with panic, calmed to allow her eyes to droop with all the fatigue that had plagued her for these past few stressful, horrifying days.

She let the feeling of hope seep into her skin like sunlight, down to her bones like the warmth of a raging hearth-fire. And it lifted her spirits away from that pit of despair in which they had stumbled and fallen.

And that, more than anything, allowed her to breathe deep and look forward. And know that there was an end in sight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:
> 
> Amillë (Q) = Mother  
> urco (Q) = orc  
> urqui (Q, p) = orcs  
> Fëanárioni (Q, p) = sons of Fëanáro  
> Eldar (Q, p) = high-elves, people of the stars  
> Atar (Q) = Father


	59. Crawling Towards the Breaking Point

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath of the day before is stark. But all the consequences may not be favorable...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: plotting/scheming, stalking, verbal threats, battle-madness/mental instability, psychological warfare/torture, threats of physical violence/assault, allusions to torture/rape, dysfunctional family, betrayal
> 
> Guys, there exists a character here with trauma in their past who has actually dealt with it in a healthy manner and is working on healing properly (and not just shoving it all under the rug) and it shows. If you're curious about Angaráto's backstory, see the Silm Prompts and be prepared for excessive nastiness. Otherwise, we can see a tentative advantage in Lindalórë's favor still exists... for now. Enjoy it while it lasts, and read with care <3
> 
> Maedhros = Maitimo = Nelyafinwë = Nelyo = Russandol  
> Maglor = Makalaurë = Kanafinwë = Káno  
> Celegorm = Tyelkormo = Tyelko = Turkafinwë = Turko  
> Caranthir = Carnistir = Morifinwë = Moryo  
> Curufin = Atarinkë = Curufinwë = Curvo  
> Amrod = Ambarussa = Pityafinwë = Pityo = Minyarussa  
> Amras = Umbarto = Telufinwë = Telvo = Atyarussa  
> Angrod = Angaráto

_Aldúya, 52 Lairë (4 July)_

\---

A gentle knock came upon her door. “Come in,” Eressëa called softly even as she continued to unbraid her own hair, letting it fall loose and heavy about her shoulders.

The creak of the wood let her know that someone had entered, and the soft, short footsteps of a familiar cadence and pattern let her know that it was her maid, Víressë, who approached her from behind. The younger woman came to stand beside her at her right shoulder, hands folded primly in front of her as she waited for instruction.

“You look tired,” Eressëa commented, seeing the woman’s face reflected in the silver of her mirror. Pale and wane with darkened circles beneath the eyes. Physically, she seemed no worse for wear than she had been in the morning when the Lady of the House has tasked her to play chaperone to Lindalórë and Calmacil on their second day abroad, but the woman had come back looking as though she had aged a thousand years in the space of that mere day. As she stared at the reflection, she could see that Víressë’s hands, neatly folded though they might be, trembled ever so slightly. “Do you have anything to report to me?”

“My lady,” Víressë murmured, and her voice came out hoarse and strained, “My lady, do I have permission to speak my mind?”

The words were spoken so starkly with alarm and with dread that Eressëa could not help but turn and look at her servant, pausing with her hair half-unbraided and laying limp and tangled over one shoulder. “What has happened?”

“Lord Calmacil, he is awful,” Víressë admitted. “He is loud and brash and unkind, certainly, but also moves aggressively and grabs Lady Lindalórë too harshly. Her arms and jaw are bruised. And I… I was too frightened to intervene, my Lady, and I am so ashamed…”

Beneath her gaze, the maidservant’s lower lip trembled, lines forming in her chin as she struggled to keep her own emotions at bay. But no amount of stoicism in her face could hide the shimmer of tears coming forth in her eyes nor the terror that stared out of their depths. At seeing such a primal reaction to a mere man, Eressëa could no longer put forth any doubts about her assessment of Calmacil as a violent potential detriment to her family’s safety and wellbeing. No matter how ruthless a businessman he might turn out to be, he was a liability.

Even the _maid_ was frightened, and Víressë had not even been under the man’s scrutiny nor subject to his unwanted advances or violence. What might become of Lindalórë had they been wed? What might have become of any children they would have had—daughters or sons—raised or mistreated by such a person?

Hendumaika, of course, saw only Calmacil’s usefulness in the accumulation of wealth, his ability to make decisions through cold rationality rather than through soft compassion. Eressëa, however, could not help but think that, far in the future, having such a man for a son-in-law and heir would doom their family and its fortune to an untimely demise beneath a mountain of ruinous reputation. Cold rationality towards men and towards business, perhaps, but boiling rage towards women and towards commoners, but Calmacil showed all the signs of a man desperate for personal power, and he would drag them down into the depths as an iron weight through water chained to their figurative ankles. All of that would happen over her husband’s blind greed for more than the impossible affluence he had already achieved.

Her husband thought she was too stupid to understand. She thought he was too narrowly-focused to see the dangers of his own doomed alliance. Or to understand that even a passive woman such as she would not take well to hearing her daughter would be abused by and her son would be replaced by such stinking garbage.

Mood soured, Eressëa frowned down at her ocean of rings. “Think you that I should send more than one servant with on their next outing?”

Víressë shivered at the idea of enduring as such again but nodded sharply and quickly all the same. “I… My Lady, there was… something else.”

“Something else?”

The younger woman nodded. “There were strange men who acted out against Lord Calmacil. Men I had never seen before, commoners who worked in the shops and marketplace, who intervened in my stead when Lady Lindalórë was threatened. I know not if they are familiar to your daughter, my Lady, but they were not familiar to me, and I could discern no reason why they might decide that the protection of Lady Lindalórë was their obligation to undertake.”

Eressëa’s first thought was bribery. Perhaps, Lindalórë had paid off commoners to act as bodyguards for her during her outings. Though, Eressëa could not imagine that her daughter would be able to pay such an exorbitant amount of money out to such a large number of people once she had escaped the hold of the House of Helyanwë and was naught more than a tradesman’s wife with little in the way of pure wealth and monetary income. “Did Lindalórë seem to know any one of them?”

“It did not seem as though she did, my Lady,” Víressë answered, shifting in place with discomfort. “She seemed shocked at the interruptions, at least, at first.”

 _Curious._ Eressëa, thoughtful now, turned back to her mirror.

“Unbraid and tend my hair, and speak to me of all the happenings in detail,” she ordered. “Start from when you departed this morning. I wish to know all.”

Slowly, Víressë approached, and the young woman seemed to relax as she fell back into the tranquil repetition of the nightly routine, the tension slipping from her body like water from the feathers of a swan. The familiar rhythm of her fingers in her mistress’s hair calmed her mind and steadied her voice. The threat of tears faded. “Of course, my Lady. I shall start when we left the house this morning, before any of the strange happenings…”

And the maid’s voice fell into a quiet dance, a rise and fall of pitch and tone. And Eressëa quietly listened to all.

And thought about what was to come.

\---

There was something satisfying about experiencing again, for the first time in _so very long,_ the rush of the _hunt._

Núrwë had not felt anything akin to this feeling since the days of the liberation of the thralls of Angamando, since the War of Wrath was still tearing open the earth down to its molten core, since the sky was stained in soot and fire and the grass was blackened with poison and the trees were bare naked and all of life was one long mission to make the spreading of disease across the land cease. Since the days when it was commonplace—even expected—to hunt down and slaughter dozens of urqui mercilessly each day, tracking them through the wasteland that Beleriand had become like a hunting hound tracks a fox, tearing them apart and bathing in their blood because there was nothing left in life but the rush of the kill or the short bout of agony immediately proceeding death.

Unlike his younger brother, Nowë, who had perished in the earlier battles, he and his father and brother had survived long enough to reach Angamando, standing (with dozens of others, the last vestiges of the followers of Fëanáro) at the backs of Lord Maitimo and Lord Makalaurë in the final days before the _end._

The things he had seen there, he wished he could erase. Every time he closed his eyes, he wished that, somehow, he could claw the images away, out of the memory (of the sickness, of the horror, of the pain) embedded and rooted deep into his ethereal being, torn and rough from the abuse and loss of inflicting the sin of murder upon his spirit and the devolution into animalistic fury and from standing too close to the flames of desolation until its edges were singed black. It left its mark, a series of deep and horrific scars that could not ever be erased, for all that, sometimes, they were soothed into dormancy.

To see anything that even remotely _resembled_ what he had seen there, in the lowest dungeons and torture chambers of Angamando, made his blood boil, awakened that part of himself that he would dearly like to have left to sleep for eternity.

And so, as he stalked upon silent feet, chasing his prey, he felt no mercy or compassion, no need to soften the cruel edges of his smirk nor hide the way his eyes blazed with the lust to rend and tear. Here, in the silver-dusted streets of Tirion, there would be no bloodshed, no death in recompense for crimes committed, but that did not remove the twisted, convoluted _joy_ of seeing how terrorized his victim had become.

Ahead of him, only a dozen or so paces, the man called Calmacil—the man who had left little black bruises dotted all over a woman’s throat and arm and face, who had tried to beat and rape her and held no remorse in his heart for his crimes—was nearly running, feet skipping across the cobbles nervously every few strides. Between panting breaths rasping past his parted lips, the stain of sweat dark against the fine fabric of his tunic, and the wild white around the irises as eyes bulged from their sockets in visceral terror, the monstrous creature that lived hunched and curled up within the rotting section of spirit that every man who had slain kin carried in his deepest, darkest shadow-self was fed tantalizing scraps until it salivated for _more_. 

It had stretched and awoken, yawning and groaning with a grumbling belly hungering to taste fear upon the air as, during the dusk, Núrwë had followed Lady Lindalórë and her abusive false fiancé back into the residential districts of Tirion. He had gone forth expecting to play guardian against a defiant and threatening man, forgetting that reckless courage was not a trait of abusers of the weak, only to find that, while the lady was calmed at his presence, glancing back from the corner of her eye every so often, her companion found the presence shocking and disturbing, flinching from the untamed, cruel, hungering look that he saw staring back when he glanced over his shoulder.

The very same look Núrwë had seen this very same man give Lindalórë and her helpless maidservant earlier in the afternoon. One filled with the lust to rip and tear, to birth pain and fear, to see it in the eyes of the victim and know that they were under control, helpless and hopeless, ravaged against their will. It served the shit-stain right to have that very same look mirrored back from the eyes of a more powerful being, and for him to feel the very fear he sought to inflict upon others.

If only they had been in Beleriand—in the Hither Lands where the law was laid out by the tongues of their commanders and no other—for Núrwë and his brethren would have feasted upon that fear, would have been more than happy to beat and tear this man apart where he stood, to dance in his blood and _laugh._

Alas, it was enough that, when Calmacil rounded the corner (still fleeing from the perceived threat of his follower) he came upon a street filled with the staring of star-eyes from the windows above, from the eaves below, from behind doorways and through windows, all bearing that same threat within their radioactive glow of hate and lust. The pathetic shuffling steps turned into outright fleeing, boots clicking loudly down the otherwise silent street as he was pursued, breaths gasping out shallowly with panic at the instinctive urge to run away, to escape the demons haunting the nighttime, circling like scavengers waiting for a kill to be deposited amidst their hoard like a feast.

At the end of the street, Calmacil tripped over his own feet, tumbling to the ground in an undignified heap where he lay for long moments, too unsteady to stand, leggings torn at the knees from his fall and hands bleeding from scrapes. And Núrwë stood over the pathetic, sniveling man and let his white teeth show in a broad wolfish grin.

“Just remember,” he hissed out, “We are watching you.”

A whimper came. And the smell of urine. And the echoes of laughter and sounds of disgust vibrating up and down the street when the watchers realized their prey had pissed himself in terror at being hunted like a helpless bunny by an army of monsters in the night.

When Calmacil finally mustered the clumsy coordination to stand and continue to flee, Núrwë did not pursue. Instead, he watched the man flee into the darkness, humiliated and terrorized, and he hoped that that craven smear of rubbish and filth remembered what it felt like to be the one being hunted.

If he showed his face here again, he had best be used to it. Because Núrwë had no intention of ceasing his assault, nor did the many followers now closing up their windows for the night with a last nod of acknowledgment or brotherly salute over their heart or gentle reaching of the hand in acceptance and understanding.

Unified, they stood, a force to be reckoned with. And Calmacil had best be prepared to face the entirety of their strength if he thought he could traverse their streets during the day—at night, he would be nothing but a toy for them to chew upon until they grew bored and decided it was better torn to pieces and swallowed whole. In the interest of self-preservation, Núrwë suspected their newest _friend_ would not be about alone, especially after dark.

It really was too bad that they could not do more. With a snort, he turned on his heel and marched back to the shop where his younger brothers, his wife and his mother awaited his return.

And he hoped that Calmacil never forgot his face, the image of it wanting for blood and the stink of spilled entrails and the dying screams of his enemies. He hoped that it stuck with the man for all eternity until the End of All Things. And he hoped that that man thought of him—of his threat—every time he gazed upon Lady Lindalórë and thought something ill or cruel about her, thought about what sort of depraved and disgusting things he wished to do to her or any other helpless woman.

He hoped that Calmacil could never think of anything involved Lindalórë again without feeling the remnants of that terror. He hoped that Calmacil thought of rape and assault of women and remembered the fear of his own assault and murder on the streets, alone in the night but surrounded on all sides by enemies watching and waiting for the show to start.

He wished impotence upon his foe of the gravest sort, and thought that, the next time they spoke, he would offer to do the deed of sterilization himself with the red-hot, razor-sharp edge of his own sword.

And he imagined the look on Calmacil’s face…

And it was not quite so satisfying as _seeing it in person_ would have been as he dragged his red-hot blade over the man’s genitals and listened to him scream, but it was satisfying enough to settle the beast for now.

Inside did he go, feeling that dark part of himself drip away like water from an oilskin cloak as he wiped his boots upon the rug—streaking it with another layer of silver-white glow beneath the waxing moon as well as a layer of dark grime—and entered the sanctuary a man once again instead of a monster.

It was still there inside—Did the monster part of the man ever leave?—but he still offered a genial smile to his mother as he entered the humble dining room set for five instead of six, spotted his two younger brothers coming down from the bedchambers upstairs and his mother and wife setting the table and laying out the dishes laden with warm food.

Blond-haired and soft-eyed, his wife and lover, his one and only spouse, came to him and kissed his cheek. “How was your last delivery, melmë?”

“It was a surprisingly lovely evening trip,” he said truthfully, delivering the twin of her kiss upon her high cheekbone. “What are we having for dinner? It smells delicious!”

Her hand smacked him lightly on the shoulder, but she laughed and cuddled her face briefly in the crook of his neck, and he relished the heat of her hands on his body, of her torso pressed close and her breath on his skin as she laughed. “You say that about everything that we cook, even the things you do not even like!”

“Nonsense,” he teased, “I love everything you make!”

To which his mother promptly rolled her eyes and motioned to the table. “I distinctly remember a few rather silly little boys who could not stand to touch their greens. I doubt much has changed now that they are grown.”

It was true enough, he thought. Núrwë offered his mother a sheepish smile which his brothers—who had only minutes ago been snarling and hissing out the upstairs window like possessed, deformed shadow-monsters come straight out of the dungeons of Angamando—both echoed with chuckles and chortles. Wrapping an arm about his wife, he steered her to the table after pressing another kiss to her temple.

“I love greens,” he lied, probably for the thousandth time since rebirth.

His wife let out a soft peel of laughter that made his skin tingle, his brothers both covered their mouths against their instinctive laughter, and his mother gave him that exasperated fond look alongside a snort of amusement. “What falsity is that I hear? Sit down at the table and prove it, yonya, if you dare!”

Sitting down at the table obediently, he allowed his mother to give him a helping of some rather distasteful greenery—there were worse things, such as the stink of torn intestines spilling excrement all over the mired ground—and did not complain or give away the strange thing that lurked still in the shadows behind the glow of his gray eyes. In his brothers, he could see it as well, a wildfire being of black flame slowly fading back into silence.

His wife’s hand grasped his under the table. “Is everything fine?” she asked, and he realized he had been dazedly staring for just a few moments too long.

Offering her a smile, he shook his head. “Nothing at all, vanya. Nothing at all.”

And then ate their meal.

And no one said anything about the hunger for the copper taste of blood that still lingered on their tongues long after the food was gone.

He had a feeling it would not be going away anytime soon.

He squeezed his wife’s hand, remembered the rush of the hunt and the kill that had never come, and felt that shadow-being shift and purr just beneath the gentler being he had been for the last decades since rebirth.

And said nothing of it.

Just anticipated the next hunt. And the next potential kill.

(And hoped, desperately, that it would all be over soon.)

\---

_Menelya, 53 Lairë (5 July)_

\---

By now, it was no surprise that Calmacil appeared the next morning. Lindalórë had expected it, though her heart no longer beat quite so hard in her throat with anxiety at his sight nor did her stomach twist and turn quite so violently with upset at seeing him sitting in that place across the breakfast table with a plate full of sausage. With her mother tentatively at her back and offering protection, with a veritable army of strangers loyal to her family at her back if she so much as stepped outside the door, she no longer felt as though the whole of Eä stood against her and her pursuit of basic safety and happiness in the arms of her rightful husband. It truly was a relief, a weight that no longer hung off her soul like an anchor made from lead.

On the other hand, her unwanted suitor looked as though he had swallowed a lemon, choked upon it, and spent the whole night awake in abject terror contemplating the reality of his unsightly demise. At the sight of her, she saw that familiar ashy hate, but his eyes jittered nervously, unwilling to flinch back from her gaze but holding something she had not seen in those depths before.

_Is he… afraid? But certainly not of me! Then…_

“I hope your outing yesterday was pleasant,” her father said, talking directly to Calmacil instead of addressing her. In fact, he did not even _look_ at her, no doubt knowing what her opinion of this entire situation was, knowing that she would spout something prickly and snarky from her tongue if given the chance.

“It was pleasant enough,” Calmacil said, though his smile was strained across his teeth, too flat and lacking a curl at the corners. “Perhaps we might do something less bland than a shopping excursion this day. Something to help us _get to know_ each other better.”

Lindalórë almost hissed between her teeth, reaching out to pick up her knife and apply with it a layer of butter upon her perfectly-prepared toast. Even if it was dull, it felt good to have it in her palm whilst listening to that smarmy bastard speaking. Because, of course, that piece of slimy refuse was trying to remove her from an arena in which she now innately carried an advantage. Prevent them from being out in the open where the majority of her allies were at large. Clearly, he realized that, were they out and about in the city, the followers of her husband and his brothers—though Calmacil, in all likelihood, knew not of their relation to her nor the source of their loyalty—would curb every attempt he made to either harm or threaten her person.

Which meant he was trying to move his attack indoors. Fearful of the outside threat, he sought to rain down his cruelty upon her here, where commoner eyes could not pierce. Narrowing her own, glistering green with her fury and disdain, she stared straight into him and imagined what it might be like to jam her breakfast knife through his hand as it crept across the table, impaled like a squirming spider while he howled, or through his eye that dared stare at her with hunger, just to see it drip scarlet down his cheek, or through his chest, right through the heart, to just make it all _go away._

 _No, I mustn’t think such things,_ she thought to herself, carefully setting the knife aside. _I must concentrate on circumventing his scheming._

She could not be influenced to do something reprehensible unless in absolute defense of herself and her body. For now, she had more tricks up her sleeve than a mere stabbing with the pathetic knife she had just used to butter her toast.

“Perhaps we ought to spend some time out of doors in the gardens, then,” she suggested. “Surely, you would not want to spend all day trapped inside this stuffy house?”

There were too many places within the house where eyes could not pry. Too many places that he might corner her for an assault. Though she did not doubt that her mother would do her best to lend aid, it was a chance that Lindalórë did not wish to take, allowing herself to be so vulnerable.

Naturally, it would hardly be appropriate for a man to say: “I would rather spend all day cooped up inside the house, sipping tea like a useless woman.” And, so, he was forced to bite his tongue when his mouth seemingly parted without thought to scold or reject her suggestion. And, it would hardly be appropriate for him to suggest that he spend time with her inside, alone and unchaperoned.

“That would be acceptable,” he ground out, sounding as if it were anything but.

By no means was Lindalórë oblivious to the fact that her silent breakfast table warfare was obvious to her father’s gaze, for he was looking at her with something like scolding and disappointment in his verdant eyes. Not that she particularly cared, nor that she would allow him to see just how much his disregard hurt her spirit.

 _Let him disapprove,_ she internally snarled, pushing away the ache that flared up harsh and fierce once again beneath her ribs at seeing how he _blamed her_ for being stubborn and how he _distrusted her_ immediately for her circuitous maneuvering about his plans, how he _disapproved_ of the fact that she had spoken aloud and not let the man decide what activity they might pursue for the day.

Biting her lip, she met that gaze and stared it down. _I am so tired of all this posturing,_ she could not help but think with no small amount of venom dripping from each mental syllable. _I will not play his game as a silent object of obedience._

That would be surrendering, becoming what he wanted. From this point on, she vowed, she would not be silenced.

And no amount of disappointed, feigned fatherly glances were going to change her mind.

“Very well then, my lord,” she said brightly. “Perhaps we should arrange for the servants to put together a spot for us in the shade, and we can be enticed with snacks and refreshments while I catch up on my broidering and you ply me with stories.”

Without waiting for a reply, she finished her piece of toast (abandoned her sausage and cooling potatoes) and made for the door. One glimpse did she catch of her father’s utterly exasperated expression, mouth twisted and contorted, little wrinkles evident about the corners of his lips, and his brows lowering into what might have been a mild scowl. Displeased, he might be with her utter disrespect—she had not bothered to ask politely to be excused nor waited upon his word to be dismissed, and she was not about to sit back down and wait to be given permission to do as she desired—but she cared little for that and could not afford to allow it to distract her from her plans. Without so much as a backwards glance, she abandoned the men and made for the garden, humming quietly under her breath.

From the shadows, she could see Víressë and two other maids whispering. They silenced as she came within hearing distance.

“When Lord Calmacil finished his breaking of fast, send him on his way to the gardens. In the meanwhile, please notify the kitchens that I am in need of lemonade and biscuits out on the terrace where he will be joining me in watching the gardeners go about their pruning. Naturally, we shall be waited upon.”

Something sparked in Víressë’s eyes as she curtsied. “Of course, my lady.”

Lindalórë swept past them in her dark blue gown, her heart galloping a heavy tattoo against the base of her throat and the insides of her wrists. But it was not the feeling of panic that rushed through her veins, that tangled and twined itself up her spine, but the feeling of heated warmth settling just above her navel and boring deep and heavy into her solar plexus, burrowing into her gut.

It was the feeling of, for the first time in days, personal power once more surging through her veins.

No longer was she helpless.

And, somehow, as she settled herself out in the shade on the terrace, embroidery in hand and nameless tune hummed upon her voice whilst her fingers worked deftly in their familiar dance, she found that that meant all the world. When the door slid open to emit Calmacil, accompanied by a servant, she did not feel like cowering, but looked up and offered him an ugly smirk as he forced himself to sit silently across the table.

A female servant approached with a tray. “Lemonade, my lady?” she asked.

“That sounds delightful,” Lindalórë replied, sipping the tart, cold drink with relish whilst gazing at Calmacil’s sour face over the rim of her glass.

The sourness of his gaze could not compare to the contemptuous look he received from the maid as she approached with her tray. Her body language was that of a woman approaching a flea-infested dog on the street, or a diseased and infiltrating rodent hiding beneath the couch cushions. “Lemonade, my lord?” she asked, and her voice rang chilly and flat, as uninviting as her expression.

 _It seems even the servants have been gossiping,_ Lindalórë could not help but note, thinking of how Víressë had trembled with fear just yesterday at Calmacil’s violent outbursts. How he would have treated her—maybe hit her or harmed her—had she tried to interfere when he became physically threatening.

Her silence, evidently, had not stopped Víressë from using her eyes and ears to gather information which, Lindalórë suspected, had been disseminated amongst the staff. It had not stopped her from realizing just how unpredictable and worrying Calmacil truly was.

And this man could be, someday, the Lord of the House.

Whether out of care for Lindalórë or on the orders of Eressëa or out of sheer self-preservation, it seemed even the servants hated the idea of this man joining their family and becoming a permanent fixture beneath this roof. And, it seemed, they were more than happy to silently display their displeasure. Even in such a small way as giving him that sort of disgusted, irreverent look that made his cheek twitch with barely-veiled fury.

The maid held out the glass to him as though she worried that he might leap up and bite her hand like a rabid animal, fey and foaming at the mouth.

“No,” he rejected, and, rather than biting or something equally barbaric, he instead shoved the proffered glass aside hard enough to send the entire tray flying from the poor woman’s hands and tumbling down to the ground in a clamor or metal upon stone and shattered glass tinkling whilst it scattered out in all directions.

The maid gave him a bitter look.

“Clean it up,” he ordered her, face twisting with that smirk that Lindalórë, one day, would dearly like to tear off one strip of skin at a time. With her fingernails, preferably.

“Right away, my lord,” the woman was forced to reply, immediately leaving to fetch a broom for the glass and a bucket of water to scrub away the rest.

And, while she was diligently cleaning up the broken glass, sweeping it away as though it had never existed, a male servant approached with more lemonade, taking the place of his female counterpart given that the previous glass was nothing but a sticky, half-dried smear upon the stone below. The new tray carried but a single perfectly crystal glass balanced delicately at the center in offering. “My lord, your lemonade.”

“No more blasted lemonade,” Calmacil hissed out. “Begone with all of you! Go back into the house!”

The look he received in return was unamused. “Would you like something else, my lord?” the manservant asked.

“Were you not listening?” the frustrated noble burst out, hands slamming down upon thee table hard in such a way that his palms probably smarted. After all, these tables were not flimsy wooden things, but heavy and expensive stone carved by the finest craftsman in the arts of sculpting in marble and granite. “I need not your undesirable drinks. Leave us in peace!”

The manservant sneered down his nose at said petulant noble. “Of course, my lord. I will inquire again at a later time.”

He retreated off the terrace, taking up vigil at the door.

And Calmacil growled under his breath, seeing that, while they had been left to their own devices, they were still quite thoroughly under the watch of servants’ eyes. “You planned this, did you not, you bloody bitch,” he snarled out, voice as a whisper but infinitely more spine-covered and stinging. Or it would have been, had Lindalórë cared about being called a bitch to her face.

_I am called worse behind my back often enough._

His words hardly hurt her, and his frustration—when it was not accompanied by the imminent threat of violence or assault—was almost amusing. Here, a small army of servants flitted to and fro, some gardeners snipping away at the rosebushes and tending to the colorful flower beds, the maid nearby on her knees scrubbing the last of the sugary mess out of the expensive terrace tiling, and the manservant eagerly watching nearby, lemonade bourn upon his tray slowly growing warmer in the summer heat. They were far from alone.

Lindalórë had the advantage here as well. And he hated it. And she loved that he hated it. Because he had made her so miserable these past few days and, finally, it was her turn to return the favor and leave him fidgeting and squirming uncomfortably in his seat.

“I have no idea what you mean by that,” she said, looking down at the orange lilies she embroidered upon a handkerchief designated with his name in flowing, mocking script. In the back of her mind, she imagined plucking the fiery petals from each, imagined stuffing them down his throat until he coughed and choked upon them, and they bloomed from his lips like a deathly sunset. “I merely wanted to get a head start on this project, and I cannot do that if we are out and about all day. The fresh air is so much more pleasant than the stuffy drawing room for these sorts of pursuits, and the natural lighting unfettered by curtains so much better by which to see my own handiwork.”

Grumbling, he crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair, eyes flickering towards the servants. The maid who now carried the bucket away, leaving a shiny wet spot upon the tiling of the terrace, and the manservant still at the door watching with his piercing eyes, and the gardeners migrating slowly closer and eagerly (not at all subtly) listening for gossip.

His nervousness had abated some, she noted. Apparently, the servants were not so terrifying as the followers of Fëanáro had been yesterday and yester-eve.

But he was still sweating through his tunic.

“Are you absolutely sure you want not some refreshments?” she asked with a voice too saccharine to sound even remotely genuine. The false sound of caring concern made his teeth grit, the muscles of his jaw visibly flexing beneath his flesh.

“If I drink your lemonade, will it make you shut up, woman?”

Rudely did he wave the manservant back without waiting for her reply. “Leave the lemonade and then begone. Your hovering grows tiresome, servant.”

For his words, he received another filthy look. While Lindalórë’s family was certainly richer than any person needed to be to get by, they did not promote mistreatment or disrespect of servants who made a livelihood taking care of their home and doing their everyday tasks diligently if not loyally. The woman found herself frowning sharply as she watched the mistreatment layered down upon a man who was only doing his job and had done nothing to deserve being snapped and snarled at except cross paths with Calmacil, who was unpleasant on his ”good” days and seemed more out of sorts than usual and all the more unpleasant for it. Even Curufinwë was not so harsh towards servants, mostly because Fëanáro had preferred not to have many about his home and, for the few he employed out of sheer necessity, he did not tolerate his sons harassing the help and disrupting the efficiency of their hard work. Her father-in-law was many things—fey and cold to the bone amongst them—but, like her father, Fëanáro had had an appreciation for diligence in his servants.

 _I wonder if Atar would care,_ she thought bitterly. _I wonder if it would annoy him more to see Calmacil mistreating the servants than it would to see the slime mistreating his daughter._

It seemed likely. She decided not to dwell on how that left her aching.

Lost in thought, she absentmindedly watched with her unfocused gaze as the glass of lemonade clicked quietly upon the stone of the table. Immediately, Calmacil reached for it with his large hand, fingertips wrapping about the stem of the glass, and—

And the loud crack of a metal tray making contact with his head had her jumping in her seat, heart fleet in its racing beneath her ribs.

“So sorry, sir,” the manservant said blandly, “I did not see you there.”

“Why, you—!” Calmacil was on his feet, hands fisted in the manservant’s tunic. Alarmed, Lindalórë almost leapt to her feet, but what could she have done to halt violence between them? It was not like coming between Curufinwë and his cousin, because her husband would never harm her and, even in his drunken state, had recognized her and had _allowed_ her to pull him aside from his rampage. Calmacil, on the other hand, would not be halted if she stepped between him and another man, and Lindalórë might very well end up injured.

Except, though his hand raised as if to deliver a strike to the servant’s face, Calmacil still paused. It was not only Lindalórë who had frozen, wide-eyed and silent at the spectacle, but also the maid who had returned and was holding a tray of pastries in the doorway leading out onto the terrace and the gardeners who had ceased their clipping and pruning, all eyes turned and staring, waiting to see if, in fact, the nobleman would strike a servant for a mere mistake.

(Never mind that they all knew it had been purposeful.)

Slowly, the hand lowered. Growling, Calmacil used his grip upon the manservant’s tunic, fisted against the other man’s chest, to almost bodily throw him across the terrace towards the door. “Get thee gone,” he snapped. “Think not that this is the end of it! Think you that word of this will not get back to your employer?”

The manservant said nothing in his own defense, but his eyes flickered towards Lindalórë. Silently, she shook her head. It was not worth baiting her unwanted guest further.

With a last sullen look, the servant retreated.

Leaving the maid standing nervously in the doorway as Calmacil threw himself back into his chair with an irritated sigh, rubbing a hand against the side of his face which was already turning some rather strange colors. “Bloody servants. They are all a menace, as are you,” he commented, giving her a glare that said everything she needed to know about his continued malicious attitude towards her person.

Just as much as he would have liked to beat the defiance out of that servant, so, too, would he very much have liked to use his fists to make her pay for her disobedience and her resistance to his advances and his suit. That much had not changed.

Like a mouse, the maid crept forward with her tray. Her eyes swiveled back and forth between Calmacil, who looked as though he were nursing a terrible headache (she hoped he was suffering worse than Curufinwë with a bad hangover) and Lindalórë, who pretended to be engrossed completely in her work.

The poor woman did not see the slippery spot on the terrace left behind from cleaning up the previous mess of broken glass and sticky, half-dried lemonade. Or, perhaps, she did and thought of how delightful Calmacil would look with raspberry filling stained all over his gold tunic and pale skin.

Either way, Lindalórë heard a squeal of alarm, the crash of a tray, and looked up to see her unwanted suitor covered in red, smeared over his face, his arm, and his chest.

And no Power in all Eä could have kept her from laughing.

\---

His arrival in the countryside was greeted by the bell-like sounds of a child’s laughter and the sweet twittering of songbirds in the rich, fruit-laden trees. The road was smooth dirt, so unlike the silvery cobbles of Tirion, but it did not detract from the beauty of the large house that appeared, old and creaking but well-loved with its vining flowers perched upon a trellis about the door and ivies climbing virulently at the walls. The gardens were rich with all colors and shapes of bloom but wild and untamed, not the manicured perfectly that was seen so commonly in the city. A cat perched on the stone wall running parallel to the road let out a mewl as he approached the gate, flicking its orange tail in his direction.

Pushing the gate open, he stepped into the yard.

The small family was there. The mother sitting off in the shade with her auburn-brown hair braided back loosely, messy beneath the wide brim of her hat. The father was out in the sunshine with the small child—barely more than a toddler—laughingly offering the child a kiss on the cheek whenever the little one brought him gifts.

For a few moments, the newcomer watched. The young child went to fetch a “pretty” rock from the garden, giggling at receiving a kiss on his chubby cheek. And then went and picked a wild clover. And then brought back a fallen fruit and burst into laughter when the father took a bite and the juices spilled down his chin. The smell of peaches filled the air, heavy and welcoming.

Uncaring of the mess, the father offered the child a nibble, and the fruit was almost more smeared across the little boy than anything else before long, the squishy flesh devoured eagerly but some managing still to find its way between tiny fingers and into the grass below. A father himself, the newcomer knew that that was going to be a trial and a half to clean up—that sticky mess was going to be dried into that child’s clothes and tangled in his golden hair and smeared all across his giggling face—but he also thought the sight a beautiful thing. What good was childhood if not for making all sorts of messes that one could not get away with as an adult and enjoying it all the while?

It was only as the boy ran off again, this time in the direction of the gate, that those familiar gray eyes looked up and caught sight of the newcomer waiting silently for acknowledgment and an invitation to come in.

“Ah, meldonya, come in,” he was greeted. “This is a pleasant surprise!”

Having realized that there was an interloper, the child ran back to his father, climbing into the man’s lap and looking out from the tangle of their legs with shy curiosity. Helplessly, the newcomer felt a smile curl upon his lips. Perhaps, being a blacksmith, he was a bit large and burly and unfamiliar to one so small. Not to mention, he had not seen a single dark-haired fellow anywhere on the nearby farmsteads or in the town a short ride hence.

Formally, he offered a bow. “My Prince.”

“None of that,” the father said brightly. “We are friends, are we not? You ought to call me Angaráto!”

Because, of course, Angaráto Arafinwion was still the same man he had always been. His eyes still glowed with impossible inner strength as he stood, setting his son down upon shaky legs at his side, and the little one curled his fingers tightly into his father’s trousers, peering around to stare wide-eyed from the safety of his father’s shadow.

“Prince Angaráto, then,” he said.

The man scoffed playfully. “No one about here calls me Prince any longer,” the man complained, “But I suppose I shall just have to live with it. Are you simply passing through, or come you here with news?”

“With news,” the blacksmith answered, “Though, perhaps not news to be shared with one so young underfoot.”

A tiny line appeared at the corner of Angaráto’s lips. The only visible sign of distress on his otherwise placidly smiling face. The man looked down at his child, stroking a large hand through messy golden curls. “Aiya, Artaheru, pitya, perhaps you should go and show Emya all the lovely things you have found? I am certain she would appreciate seeing them as well.”

Of course, as all small children did, the child—Artaheru—could sense something not quite right but did not resist. The boy pouted a bit before sprinting off in the direction of his mother to hide half-tucked into her skirts, still watching the stranger with bright eyes.

“In the house, then?” the Prince suggested, voice taking on a slightly lower pitch as seriousness crept insidiously into the otherwise golden tone.

“The house,” the blacksmith agreed.

They went inside where prying ears could not hear, the door swishing closed with a soft creak and a thunk. Inside was cool, the interior rich but not the decadent sort of luxury that the nobility were so fond of bathing in back in the city, where all interior decorating was meant to show wealth and status to guests rather than bring comfort. Here, however, the carpets were plain but soft and the floors smooth but unpolished. There were signs of dirt and mess, knickknacks and items scattered about along with the toys littering the floor at random. They passed by an open kitchen, sunlight pouring across the plain tiled floors from the window and over little pots filled with flourishing herbs, strands of beads and braided rope strung from the ceiling and glowing as light bore through their glass and gem and weaving. Past that, they traversed a hallway that bore portraits and paintings but had a distinct lack of unnecessarily flashy gemstones and complex carved furniture, expensive artworks of an un-child-friendly variety replaced with sturdy tables and potted plants and other things that might be knocked down upon the ground without shattering or squashing any small toes.

It was lived-in, a chaotic sort of clean-but-not-clean that experienced parents knew well when they had a small child underfoot. There was so much to do that having a spotless home seemed a trivial thing in the face of cleaning up after a stubborn child in their tantrum years. Still, it brought a smile to the blacksmith’s face despite the news that he carried.

The news that was far from pleasant. He wished he did not have to spoil the lovely afternoon and the serene sort of pastoral peace with its darkness. But he was here on a mission of, at least to him and his ilk, great importance. A favor he was about to beg, and not a light one at that, considering the shadows that lingered in Angaráto’s past.

Looking at where and how the man lived now, one would never have guessed that he had survived centuries as a thrall in the lowest pits of Angamando. Or that that was where these two men had met.

“Now,” Angaráto said, no longer smiling as he brought them into a modest sitting room before an unlit hearth, “Share with me your news, meldonya.”

Parting his lips, the blacksmith began to share his story. Of a terrified woman being forced into an unwanted marriage to a man who had tried to assault her in an alley in broad daylight. And, with every word, his friend’s face grew paler and sterner.

And those eyes grew brighter.

\---

By the end of the day, Calmacil looked ready to kill.

“I hope you enjoyed today,” she said sweetly, knowing very well that he had been miserable for every minute but could not act on it.

“Every moment,” he lied sharply. “I have business to attend to on the morrow, but the day after we should, perhaps, consider staying indoors. For now, I wish to speak to your father before I depart. Where would I find him at this hour?”

Lindalórë resisted the urge to crinkle her nose. “He should be in his study.”

Without another word, he left her there, stomping back into the house. And she did not like it one bit. Until now, he had not been communicating his difficulties to her father, most likely out of pride, but she knew that that advantage was at an end. When her father heard of how the men in the market and shops were behaving and how the servants were subtly (or not-so-subtly) rebelling against the authority of the interloper, he would likely attempt a new tactic to force her compliance.

She would have liked to believe he would not use rape as an acceptable method of force, that he would not approve of Calmacil cornering her within the very house she had grown up in and lived most of her life, but he had just a handful of nights ago looked upon her bruised throat and cared nothing for how she had been harmed by her suitor. If anything, he might use it as an excuse to force their wedding, citing the potential for a child.

The very thought of it made her shudder and wrap her arms about herself. Never had she embroidered anything so truthful as the handkerchiefs in the deep pocket of her day-dress, a mess of layered orange lilies snarling brightly out of the fabric, embodying the depths of her feelings towards that man.

And the growing feelings towards her sire. Never had she understood Curufinwë so clearly as she did now that her own family bonds were in shambles. How torn he must have felt. How betrayed and frustrated and angry. Not just towards his father, but towards himself for still desiring love and attention from a man who was torturing him with every breath, emotionally and verbally striking maiming blows without even trying.

At that moment, she would very much have liked to scream.

“My lady?” one of the gardeners crept close. “My lady, is all well? Should we call for someone to come out with tea or water? You seem pale.”

“No,” she denied immediately. “No, I… I simply am tired and in need of a nap.”

The servant, who she vaguely recognized but knew not by name even after all this time—they had rarely, if ever, crossed paths but for peripherally when she dared walk through the gardens lost in thought—seemed concerned. But he acquiesced. “Very well, my lady.”

She paused.

“Actually,” she murmured, watching how he froze midstride, “There is something you might fetch for me.”

“My lady?” he questioned.

“Cut an orange lily,” she ordered, watching his eyes widen and his lips lose their color, “And have a manservant wait with it at the door for when Lord Calmacil leaves.”

The gardener swallowed sharply. “While I could not agree more with my lady’s assessment of the character of her suitor,” he murmured, “Is it truly wise to take such drastic steps at this point in time?”

“Most likely not,” she answered wryly, “But I must make myself clear to any and all who would see him leaving this house exactly what I think.”

It was a last effort to communicate to those who had paid attention, who knew he was playing court to a daughter of the House of Helyanwë and had seen Calmacil following about Lindalórë in public like a desperate hound, that she did not and would not ever love or desire his affections in return. That, should she appear married to him in the event that all went wrong, it would be known that she had not been a willing participant in the wedding.

“Add a handful of yellow carnations as well,” she said, thinking of the second handkerchief. The two little scraps of cloth would likely never make it to their intended owner, but she nevertheless could not help but think of them, of the message they sent in her very own hand, stitched eternally into cloth. Maybe she should add some yellow to the orange.

“As you wish, my lady,” the gardener said, retreating.

And Lindalórë, unable to bear the thought of looking again at Calmacil’s face this day, took herself back up to her room. If what he said was true, she would be free of him for a day, just for tomorrow. But she was not naïve enough to think that the lack of his presence would lend her any advantage except that it was one more day that those working outside these walls had to bring her situation to the attention of the King and, therefore, hopefully to the attention of her brothers-in-law.

One extra day could mean all the difference.

As she passed on her way up to her chambers, she could hear voices as a low murmur through the study door, the golden light bursting out through the small crack against the floor. This time, it was not left open, and she did not doubt that it was locked. That, as she walked through the hall on silent feet and paused to stare, her father and suitor might very well be negotiating her future on the other side of that heavy wood.

Resentful and tired, she cast upon it her darkest glare and walked by. Whatever it was they planned, whatever avenue of battle they pieced together against the army of allies she had assembled, she would have to be smarter, would have to be flexible and reactive. Even now, she knew that she did not truly have the advantage.

Within these walls, her father’s word was law. When he ran out of patience, she would be helpless to fight back against his demands.

Retreating into her room, she locked the door behind her and wondered, stark and cold, if it might be broken down in the days to come to force her out of hiding. She wondered if it would come to that, if she would be forced to wait that long.

The thought frightened her.

 _The situation is not so dire yet,_ she thought, shivering. _There is still time. Trust in your allies to bring aid. There is still time._

Now she could do nothing but wait.

And waiting, she knew, was enough to drive even the hardiest of spirits to madness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:
> 
> urqui (Q, p) = orcs  
> melmë (Q) = love  
> yonya (Q) = my son (informal)  
> vanya (Q) = beautiful  
> Atar (Q) = Father  
> meldonya (Q) = my friend  
> Aiya (Q) = exclamation, such as O  
> pitya (Q) = little (one)  
> Emya (Q) = Mama/Mommy
> 
> \---
> 
> Flower symbolism:
> 
> Orange Lily = hatred, disdain, confidence, pride, wealth  
> Yellow Carnation = you have disappointed me, rejection, disdain


	60. The Deep Breath Before the Plunge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Plans are coming to fruition...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: hints at rape/torture, psychological warfare, threat of assault, nightmares, insomnia, PTSD, a variety of unhealthy coping mechanisms, trust issues, discussion of murder/insanity, guilt in many flavors, flirting, getting drugged up on painkillers, stalking
> 
> Maedhros = Maitimo = Nelyafinwë = Nelyo = Russandol  
> Maglor = Makalaurë = Kanafinwë = Káno  
> Celegorm = Tyelkormo = Tyelko = Turkafinwë = Turko  
> Caranthir = Carnistir = Morifinwë = Moryo  
> Curufin = Atarinkë = Curufinwë = Curvo  
> Amrod = Ambarussa = Pityafinwë = Pityo = Minyarussa  
> Amras = Umbarto = Telufinwë = Telvo = Atyarussa  
> Fingon = Findekáno  
> Turgon = Turukáno  
> Aredhel = Írissë  
> Ecthelion = Ehtelion  
> Glorfindel = Laurefindil  
> Egalmoth = Aikambalotsë  
> Celebrimbor = Telperinquar  
> Enerdhil = Anardil  
> Angrod = Angaráto

_Menelya, 53 Lairë (5 July)_

\---

When Hendumaika came to bed, he looked unhappy. Not in any particularly harsh way, just in the sense that he moved slower and his eyes were distant and dark, and that aura of smugness he donned like a cloak about his shoulders was lost to the winds. Taking note of the change in her husband’s demeanor as she sat upon her side of their massive bed in her white nightgown edged in the finest of lace, Eressëa found that she did not like it.

Change was never a good thing in a man like her husband, who sought to control and regulate every aspect of his life down to the tiniest detail. He had been following the same routine for thousands of years with very little variation, and those few times he had deviated in even the slightest way from the usual behaviors usually spoke of impending power-play on the political or business stage. He was thinking about something, plotting and planning, trying to find a way to correct a situation which had resulted in his displeasure, and she knew to be wary.

“Vessë,” he greeted her stiffly, distantly, as he crawled into bed, donned in nothing but his nightshirt dangling down to his knees.

“You seem lost in thought,” she commented lightly.

“I should like for things to play out the way I desire,” he told her blandly, pulling up the blankets about him, “But one does not always get what they want. Lindalórë has been making her suit to Calmacil excessively difficult.”

 _I have been helping her with that,_ Eressëa thought, staying silent.

“I grow tired of it,” he confessed. “I would prefer to have this problem neatly solved and out of the way quickly. Preferably in the next few days, if I might manage it.”

Alarm danced through her veins, sparking and burning, but she did not allow it to show on her face. The mask of disinterest she had worn for centuries did not waver as she tucked herself in at his side, more than an arm’s length of space between their bodies as they prepared for sleep. “Have you a plan, then? Lindalórë will not comply easily.”

For long moments, he remained silent, and she wondered if he suspected her involvement and betrayal, if he was hesitant to share his plot for the thought that she might use the knowledge against him in their daughter’s favor. But, then, he sighed.

“It pains me that it has come to this, but… I do have a plan. It is not a particularly pleasant one at that. But Lindalórë has given me little choice.”

Eressëa swallowed. “What sort of plan?”

“Ah, vessë, that is for me to worry about, not you,” he answered in that condescending voice, as though she would be too stupid to comprehend the complexities of his strategies or was too delicate to hear of their unpleasantness without fainting dead away. “Soon, Lindalórë will be married and everything will be sorted. Worry not thy pretty head.”

Unsettled but unable to think of any reason why she ought to demand his compliance in sharing his plans—she had never vehemently demanded his cooperation as such before, and to start now would only bring unwanted suspicion down upon her and her motivations—she rolled over such that her back was facing him. The motion, beyond cutting her off from the sight of his half-smirk, had the added benefit of hiding her face, which had gone slightly white.

Said nothing had he in actuality of his plans, but if someone like Hendumaika found the planned tactics to be unpleasant, she did not like to think about what it was that he was going to use to leverage their daughter into an unwanted marriage.

“Goodnight, venno,” she said quietly.

“Goodnight, vessë,” he answered as usual, voice breathy and muffled as he rolled to face the opposite wall.

Almost immediately was he asleep. But she lay awake, restless in thought.

Little time did they have to wait now. Her husband was preparing to make a move now that Calmacil’s wooing—if it ought be called seduction and not something wickeder and crueler in truth—had failed to yield the desired results. Whatever it was, she had her doubts that her daughter was going to be able to pull another miraculous feat of luck or resistance against his onslaught. Inside the house, no matter how upset the servants were or how closely Eressëa tried to watch and assist, her husband was Lord and Master.

If he ordered them all to leave Lindalórë locked up with her suitor alone, they would be forced to obey. And that would be the end of that unless Eressëa went about breaking the rules outright and risking her own neck and safety in the process.

Little did she want it to come to that.

Which meant Eressëa might have to take steps of her own to see to it that her son-in-law’s brothers (she shuddered to think of the Fëanárioni as anything related to her even through marriage) were ready to receive her precious cargo as soon as they could manage. No longer could they gamble on a message sent through more circuitous means.

It would be risky to reach out. She would need to be clever and quiet about it to avoid risking her husband’s suspicions. It made her nervous and uncomfortable, and she had half a thought that, perhaps, she was doing this all for naught and should turn a blind eye. It would be easier on her in the long run, less risky to her personal safety and continued wellbeing, if she let her husband have his way and forced Lindalórë into an unpleasant situation. There was a part of her that would have reveled in such comeuppance on the part of her daughter, whose happiness had always been a bitter stain on Eressëa’s otherwise perfect life. And a part of her that basked in her terror, that wrapped a chain about her throat and sought to hold her at bay, because she was putting so much at stake for the sake of this one woman with whom she had never even shared a close bond, and it cruelly asked her _Why are you doing this?_

Why was she doing this? Through the bitterness, the pain, the disappointment and the fear, why was she fighting still?

All of it urged her to turn away, that it would be easier and kinder on her own spirit. Even now, her fingers coiled and bit into the soft fabric of the sheet, and she thought of pulling it up over her head and letting it all _drift away._

But...

Her grip loosened. In her chest, her heartbeat stuttered.

Well, she had committed to this path. To salvaging her daughter and this family. And the other part of her, the tiny part that had not been whitewashed clean by jealousy or scrubbed away by her husband’s dismissal, still clung to that small bit of love she held for her children. That they were important to her, and she wanted them happy and safe.

_That she would do anything to see that goal through._

And she was not about to let her efforts go to waste now. Not when, for the first time in millennia, she felt like maybe, perhaps, she had a little bit of something to look forward to. A purpose to live for. A goal to reach for.

It trilled through her body, ringing like a bell in her spirit, left her squirming in place against the sheets with urgency as it washed away the momentary bought of doubts and resentment.

Alone as ever she might be. But now…

Now she was needed. And that, at least, was something new.

\---

They made marginally acceptable progress.

Curufinwë did not call it _good_ progress. That would have involved a near-sprint through the forest to make up for several days of stationary loitering as their company waited for Findekáno to be coherent enough to make sense of the corporeal plane once more. But they were moving, even if the eldest cousin was still stumbling about with all the grace of a drunken moose while making just as much noise as one.

But it was still progress, at the very least. If subpar at best.

Subpar at best but marginally acceptable enough that Curufinwë did not try to press his cousins (and Turukáno’s bookends) into following the trail long into the night. He could have gone on straight through to dawn with little problem after a handful of days of _actual sleep_ to reinvigorate his body and mind, but he sensed the others were not so well-rested or so eager to hunt nonstop without so much as a nap. Not like Turkafinwë would have been had the silver-haired fiend been here in person.

 _He would have been salivating at the bit, dragging the rest of us along alike to heavy, useless baggage,_ Curufinwë thought with just a bit of mirth to season the self-deprecation. _At this rate, we are not going to catch him and Írissë until he allows it._

In other words, they were trapped out here for the foreseeable future.

The pair they hunted had turned south and were heading in the general direction of Tirion, but Curufinwë very much doubted that they had decided to return to civilization of their own accord. Which meant that their destination was further south still than most of the larger cities and the major roadways.

Curufinwë had a pretty good guess at where the pair were headed. He also was fairly certain that, once they arrived at their destination, it would take an act of Eru to drag the pair away, back to Tirion or anywhere else, against their will.

But he said nothing to the others about his suspicions.

Instead, he pushed them hard, pausing only when Findekáno needed to stop for a short breather. Which resulted in the whole lot collapsing shortly after their rather sparse dinner. Curufinwë was, to be frank, honestly surprised that there had been so little fuss with him taking the night-watch. But here he sat, upright and open-eyed, staring at the sprawled forms of his cousins littered all about. Even Turukáno had not fussed a bit, only giving him a long look before rolling over to face the other direction.

Tempting thought it would have been to knife the bastard in his sleep—or, if he were to be honest with himself (which he rarely was), to just play a meanspirited prank that involved snakes or spiders and the back of Turukáno’s tunic—Curufinwë resisted the urge. The past few days they had upheld their tentative truce, neither doing more than snapping and griping quietly at the other, and it made life in the wilderness with nothing to do and no one for company but these six other beings a _tiny bit_ more tolerable. Tolerable enough that the relative tranquility between the seven companions was not worth sacrificing just for a laugh over Turukáno squirming and shouting as he tried to shake spiders out of the back of his tunic.

Still, it was a nice thought.

Only about an hour or so after the others had all curled up and gone to sleep for the night, he heard the shuffle of one of his companions. At first, he thought they might be awake—turning his head, he realized it was Laurefindil, golden hair bound but growing tangled as he tossed and turned, voice murmuring low and raw beneath his breath—but it was clear that the man was still sleeping and merely plagued by nightmares.

“He has been like that for several days now.”

Truly, Curufinwë did his best not to appear startled, for he had not heard the approach of his brother-in-law. Still, he likely failed to keep the other’s sharp green eyes from dissecting his body language, from catching the way his spine went rigid with the sharp jolt of fear and now shivered as the shot of adrenaline drained away. Annoyed—with himself and with Aikambalotsë—he shot the man a look that may as well have embodied the jagged, broken blade he momentarily thought of jabbing into said man’s belly.

“Everyone is on edge,” Aikambalotsë said, sitting down a few feet away with a sigh, looking worn and tired but not so badly as some of the others. “Laurefindil is not dealing with the traveling very well. He did not used to be so high-strung.”

Curufinwë blinked, mouth twisting thoughtfully. “The middle of nowhere is not particularly reminiscent of anything triggering.”

Aikambalotsë snorted softly. “I doubt it is the setting which he finds disturbing.”

 _We all have our vices. All of us are equally disturbed and ruined._ Bitterly, he thought of his own inability to sleep out of paranoia, of the uneasy looks Ehtelion gave any amount of water deeper than ankle-depth, of the violent mood-swings that characterized the once stiff but quiet-tempered Turukáno, and of the worsening alcoholism of Findekáno that had now burned away into a quiet demeanor with distant eyes and shaking hands. Not much attention had he been paying Laurefindil, with whom he had never had much of a reason to speak or make nice beyond the most superficial of interactions, but he supposed the man had been thrown from a clifftop trying to defend hundreds of fleeing refugees as they escaped through the encircling mountains from Ondolindë’s burning husk. That would certainly be an extremely unpleasant experience to recall.

And Aikambalotsë had probably been there to see it.

“Turukáno told me that Telperinquar came to Ondolindë in the later years of the First Age,” he began gruffly. “Said that he became a guest of your House.”

“He is my nephew,” Aikambalotsë countered, “I would hardly have cast him aside, regardless of his parentage. But yes, that is so. I may or may not have enticed Anardil into taking him on as a student. There is something particularly tantalizing, I think, about having the grandson of Fëanáro for a pupil, claiming mentorship of such a well-known and infamous bloodline.”

Though he certainly felt pride in his progeny—perhaps more so than he deserved to feel, for Telperinquar had accomplished much with only paltry interference from his paternal figure—Curufinwë could not help but wince at having his own father’s name brought up so casually. “He is certainly talented and always has been. And it has nothing to do with bloody Curufinwë Fëanáro’s influence.”

Perhaps he was being sensitive. But, having spent the majority of his early life sharing his name with his sire—and having the amilessë Atarinkë following him about like dark shadow, a curse to never be so much as acknowledged without a reminder that he was the doppelganger child of his greater, stronger, more talented sire, a pale imitation of something forged from otherworldly magnificence—he did not want that for his son. Some of that talent, undoubtedly, had been passed down through the paternal line. But Telperinquar’s accomplishments were his own and not to be attributed to some magic perpetrated by his grandfather.

“Well, his relation to the most talented smith to grace of the Eldar certainly earned him a place in the House of Helyanwë, so it was good for some use at the very least,” his brother-in-law countered, though Curufinwë could read curiosity in those eyes. “He certainly did not disappoint his mentor. Anardil was quite possessive of his favored student.”

“Hm…” Curufinwë thoughtfully hummed, eyes slipping back over to stare at Laurefindil, who had rolled over in his sleep and looked to be uncomfortably twisted. His blanket was half thrown aside, and the back of his tunic had ridden up enough to see just the hint of scars—vivid, scarlet welts drawn deep into flesh—that were otherwise always kept hidden. The man even _bathed_ out of view of the rest of the company to avoid having them exposed where other eyes might see them, though anyone with a brain knew from whence they had originated.

Curufinwë had seen those marks before riddled across flesh. Many men were left thusly scarred any time the Valaraukar appeared on the field of battle. Their fire-whips certainly left a distinctive mark, burning easily through layer after layer of cloth down to the flesh below and scarring.

 _If Fëanáro were to be reborn,_ he found himself thinking absently, _would he bear such marks upon his skin?_

Curufinwë shuddered. Thinking about his father always left him in a sour mood.

“Did he survive?” he then asked, looking back over at Aikambalotsë.

“Your son? Yes, yes, he…” The Lord of the House of Helyanwë shook his hair, dark hair fluttering down over his shoulder where it had been unbound at the end of the long day of tracking through the wilds. “Telperinquar went further south, to the Havens on the Isle of Balar, to where Findekáno’s son had been sent. It was probably for the best. As much as I might like to think that your brothers could have had some sense talked into their numb skulls by their nephew, I also suspect, well… What with the state of Nelyafinwë when he led the sacking of the Havens of Sirion…”

Swallowing sharply, the fifth brother looked away. Might eldest his brother have been mad enough to repeat the same mistakes as their father, to slay a member of their own family who dared step in his way and try to put a stop to the chaotic madness that riddled the House of Fëanáro in the wake of their grief and torment? Might Telperinquar have fallen beneath the blade of his own uncle had he bravely (and foolishly) tried to stand against the House of Fëanáro as it committed the worst of sins and slaughtered innocent lives without hesitation or discrimination?

It was hard to say for certain. Now, with the phantom of madness tucked deep beneath layer after layer of evolving and developing happiness and contentedness, beneath the emergence of the extremely intelligent politician and prince who had once been the pride of the royal family for his beauty and his skill and his scholarly pursuits, Nelyafinwë appeared entirely sane and safe to the outside eye. Most of the brothers knew better than to be fooled into thinking that the shadow was not still there. Curufinwë had a reputation for being cruel in that terrifyingly intelligent manner of a man who brought others low and tormented them with merciless intent. Turkafinwë was much the same. Nelyafinwë, though, was another monster altogether when all the things that made him beautiful and good—all the things that made him the older brother (the father) that his brothers loved—were sucked away and locked up.

Depending on which Nelyafinwë had led the march into the Havens—the man who loved and protected his family to his dying breath or the monster who thoughtlessly slaughtered and laughed as he was splattered with blood no matter if it was scarlet or black ichor—it was very possible that any attempt to negotiate or negate the Kinslaying through words on Telperinquar’s part would have led only to death.

It was a miracle that Kanafinwë had managed to save two children at all. Once the battle-madness had passed, Nelyafinwë could be more easily reasoned with, but still…

He shuddered. He did not want to think too much on that either.

“It was probably for the best,” he agreed. “Do you think… do you think that he survived? There has been no news.”

“Telperinquar inherited enough stubbornness, craftiness and sheer intelligence from you and from Lindalórë that I have little doubt he has done well for himself. Perhaps he is amongst those who were called home and refused, and he makes a life for himself still in the Hither Lands.” Aikambalotsë’s face was static, eyes distant and mouth set in a firm and uncompromising line. But his hands writhed around each other, fingers tangling and unraveling over and over. “Forgive me. I know nothing more than that. He told me nothing of his plans except that he did not wish to stay where he knew the Fëanárioni were sure to, eventually, come. He warned me that it was foolish to build a life there, at the Havens of Sirion, knowing full well that Silmaril was housed with Lady Elwing, and I ignored his words. Perhaps, if I had taken my remaining people and followed his lead…”

Guilt. Something that all of them felt as a noose about their throats, as a latch-less collar attached to a short choke-chain, holding them back from rebuilding their lives. Even now, Curufinwë felt it tighten about his throat until his breath caught sharply and his lungs ached with need, until he reached up to grasp at the weight of a locket he would never capture between his fingers again, and instead circled bare skin and a rugged trench of scarred flesh where he had been slit open and bled out on the floor like an unwanted dog.

 _I am sorry,_ he wanted to say every second of every day for the rest of his existence, and it still would not be enough to take the feeling of failure away.

But then, they all felt it, did they not?

Aikambalotsë, whose fingertips were turning purple because his digits were wrapped about each other so tightly as he apologized in a wavering voice for not doing enough (for his nephew, for his sister and brother-in-law, for his people). Findekáno, who had drunk himself into a state of absolute oblivion and now looked so miserable he was almost certain to put himself right back into a wine-induced stupor at first chance. Turukáno, who screamed and bitched at everyone because it felt like doing something to make the pain stop when, in reality, he truly only wanted to scream and bitch at his own stupidity and lack of foresight, at how it got everyone he loved and cared about killed or pushed away.

Laurefindil, whose voice, even now, was rising from some murmurs to low shouts as his body writhed in his makeshift bedding, was likely no exception. His face looked the very image of pain. Yet, Curufinwë doubted it was the pain of being whipped by fire or thrown down to the sharp rocks below that he was remembering.

 _We are all ruined,_ he could not help but think again, wishing he could erase the sight and the sound from his memories. Wishing he could erase it all and tear it down and build something better in its place.

But time did not work like that. Not even for the Valar, let alone for the lowly Eruhíni puttering along in their stewing pot of misery.

Mood completely destroyed by a mere conversation—to think, he had actually felt, while not optimistic, at least somewhat motivated about this endeavor just minutes ago—Curufinwë wondered if there was any point to any of this at all. More than anything now, he wanted to go to Tirion, to scoop his wife up in his arms and carry her home, to lie abed with her and cry against her neck (breathing in her sweet scent) until he was drained and lay wasted and lifeless in a way no battle could ever hope to accomplish, and then apologize for not taking better care of their son, for not being the father Telprinquar deserved or the husband Lindalórë deserved. Leaning forward, he rubbed at his eyes with his hand and pinched the bridge of his nose as he squeezed them shut, hoping that would keep the tears burning behind them at bay.

He did not want to look at Aikambalotsë. He did not want his brother-in-law to see the glossiness of unshed grief he knew would be shining in the firelight.

“There is nothing to be done about it now,” he said, weary and cynical. “I am certain that your people do not blame you. After all, you did what you could. There was not much safety to be had in Beleriand in those final days, no matter if one stayed in the Havens of Sirion and was slaughtered by my brothers and their followers or if they fled to the Isle of Balar and waited for the armies of Morgoth to march down the coasts and rain down fire and death upon their ships and their newly-built homes filled with desperate and starving refugees. It is hard to say that you could have predicted which would have been a better decision.”

“I could have done more,” Aikambalotsë insisted. And the look of hatred was back in his green eyes, glowing with an inner fire that reminded Curufinwë too much of his father’s fey gaze and crazed smiles for comfort.

Except, it was not directed towards Turukáno or anyone else.

 _How easy it is to pretend the hatred one feels for one’s self is a hatred for someone else._ Looking away, Curufinwë gave his brother-in-law privacy and pretended not to see.

“When we all return to Tirion—if ever we do manage to catch Turkafinwë and Írissë, which I heartily doubt we shall—you might consider telling Lindalórë what you know,” he said, staring down at the waving of the grass in the faintest of breezes, ignoring the sounds of Laurefindil’s troubled sleep nearby and the sound of someone else stirring and shifting restlessly in their bedding. “I could only share with her so much about our son, and I know she worries.”

Aikambalotsë let out a little snort, a pained thing that lacked its normal acerbic bite. It sounded more like a sniffle. And Curufinwë still did not look. “I did not want to say anything because I really know nothing more of his whereabouts or wellbeing than you.”

“It will still bring her relief.” And, more than anything, that was what Curufinwë wanted. Even if it came from his asshole brother-in-law (who, really, was not so terrible when it all was said and done) instead of his own lips.

They lingered with silence between them but for the sounds of nightmares. Some ways away, Turukáno shuffled about beneath his blanket, and Curufinwë could see his cousin’s hands clawing at the edges of his blanket, pulling it up about his neck and cheeks as if to muffle the noise whilst his body huddled and shuddered.

 _Pitiful,_ his mind supplied half-heartedly. _But are you really any better?_

“Should we wake him, do you think?” Curufinwë asked then, motioning towards the vanya still tossing and turning.

“He will wake on his own after a time,” Aikambalotsë answered, sounding as tired as Curufinwë suddenly felt, “And I doubt he will appreciate your bringing attention to it. We have all been pretending not to hear. You have been sleeping so soundly with Findekáno in your lap these past few days that it has not even disturbed your rest, but it makes the rest of us… well…”

 _Anxious and uneasy,_ Curufinwë thought, as the soft shouts of garbled speech—of mixed Quenya and Sindarin, of half-formed names and half-finished commands—all churned together into some strange nightmare-language of death. It personified all too well the mess they had made of Beleriand, of its politics and its peoples and their homes and their lives. They were all uncomfortable watching it, knowing from whence the problem had originated but not knowing how to fix it or even begin to deal with it, so they all turned a blind eye and pretended it was not there whilst, all the while, it eased its way into their beings like an itching, irritating thorn under the skin, burrowing deep until the ache of it was always there, ignored.

Just like everything else, all the problems—Nelyafinwë’s instability and Kanafinwë’s sadness and Turkafinwë’s restlessness and Morifinwë’s lack of self-esteem and Pityafinwë’s overprotectiveness and Telufinwë’s ruinous silence—ignored.

Curufinwë’s guilt. Ignored.

_Ignored. Because how dare they need to reach out and receive help?_

Eru, but the only reason Curufinwë had never fallen head-first into a crazed state of senility as his father had done was the presence of his wife’s sanity whispering in the back of his mind. It made him want to laugh high and wild wondering how it was that they all had not crumbled and fallen to pieces by now, left on their own to rot at the seams until the pressure caused them to burst. It did not bear thinking upon too long.

“Are you going to go back to sleep?” he asked then, when the silence stretched.

“I will wait until Laurefindil awakens,” his brother-in-law said, still looking away, off into the shadows of the trees that were, Curufinwë supposed, infinitely more reassuring and fascinating than looking into the Fëanárion’s eyes where the naked truths hovering near the surface would be bare and easily discovered. On both sides. “Once he has settled back to sleep, then I shall try to rest. Before it starts up again.”

“If that is how you prefer,” Curufinwë muttered, eyes falling back to the grass again. Counting the blades one by one rather than listening to Laurefindil’s rising panic, second by second as he saw horrors in the mirror of his mind, reflecting before his eyes.

They sat together and waited for it to be over.

\---

_Valanya, 54 Lairë (6 July)_

\---

It took a long moment for Nowë to recognize that the man he had seen wander by was a Fëanárion. Not his familiar towering commander, for he would have instinctively recognized Lord Maitimo without the need for a coherent mental response to identify the tall redheaded man stalking down the sidewalk. One of his younger brothers, though, definitely.

The smith’s son had been quite minding his own business, pushing through the doors into the Healing House to get his injured hand checked—and, guiltily, he was rather hoping for more of the lovely poultice that the apprentice healer had provided a few days before, as well as some attention from the rather forward-minded young lady who had been telling him all the latest Healing House gossip as she soaked his hand and wrapped it skillfully—when he had dodged out of the way at the oncoming wall of muscle and wild russet hair. Too stunned to think straight for a few long moments, he had skirted around the figure, entered into the main room of the Healing House, and then thought to turn on his heel and make chase.

“Nowë?” a familiar voice cried from behind him, and he winced, recognizing it as the lovely apprentice healer from the day before yesterday. Smile now a little painfully stretched, he turned back to see her approaching, looking a bit breathtaking despite her plain gray garb and the restrictive knot of her blond hair at the back of her skull. “Back already, are you?” she asked.

Normally, this would be a prime opportunity for some flirtation, and he would be grinning like an idiot and leaning closer and begging her assistance in making quite sure that his injured hand was fine.

But, instead, he felt like an utter moron. If he left now, he would look like an inconsiderate, rude ass. But, if he did not, he would have lost his chance to catch Ambarussa and pass on a message. Most likely, he already had, and running after the man now would do nothing but result in a frustrated smith’s son with a smarting hand and no chance at all with the beautiful healing apprentice whose smile, even now, was dimming as she realized he was distracted and not truly in the mood to chat playfully.

Swallowing it down, he pushed it away.

 _Someone else will see him,_ he thought hopefully, while out loud he said, “Ah, Lady Inyë, I did not think you would remember.”

She let out a giggle, looking sweet as she blushed. “How could I forget you so quickly? It is not every day that a man comes in looking so flustered having burned his hand after being distracted by a beautiful woman.”

“I am still just as distracted, but by an even lovelier lady. Luckily, I haven’t anything to burn myself on here, have I?”

Her cheeks burned darker. “Does your hand feel any better?”

“Much,” he crooned out, allowing himself to be led away. “Your medicines worked magic, my Lady. Do not tell my mother I said this, but you quite outstripped her burn paste.”

“I will keep it secret,” she promised, sitting him down.

As she unwrapped his hand—it was revealed as an ugly thing, still blistered with just a hint of black along the edges, and it was going to leave quite a mark no matter how gently it was tended or with how many ointments and creams it was plied—he found his mind wandering. Carefully, she applied a numbing solution (and he could not deny that it was a great comfort, for his hand was throbbing painfully still and he was dying for a respite) and he bit his lip wondering if it would be too much to ask about the redheaded guest who had departed upon his arrival.

“I did not realize you had a Fëanárion visitor,” he commented.

“Oh, was that what had you startled earlier?” she asked. “He has been coming around every now and again to get his broken hand treated. Actually, he is rather sweet on one of the Lady Healers here. Wilwarin, over there.”

He followed her mischievous eyes towards the short, dark-haired woman bustling through the main room, finding that she was curvy and a little pudgy and had big, dark eyes. Overall, he wondered that she was not a tall, statuesque beauty of the sort that Lord Curufinwë had snagged in Lady Lindalórë, but she was still lovely in a rather homely and soft sort of way. Not at all the sort of woman that Nowë imagined one of his ruthless commanders would fancy, but what did he really know of the men beyond their prowess in battle and their dedication to loyalty. He supposed that he could not fault Lord Ambarussa for enjoying the caring sweetness of a healer when he, himself, was basking in the attentions of Lady Inyë, whose big cornflower blue eyes were starting to make his mind feel a bit fuzzy.

Or, perhaps, that was just the painkiller. It was hard to say.

“Who would have thought?” he said, eyebrow raised as he watched Lady Wilwarin disappear around a corner and out of sight.

“I think it is terribly romantic,” the young healing apprentice admitted, “But she is convinced that we are all imagining it. As if he were not staring at her bum every time she turns around and did not follow her about like a puppy desperate for attention and approval. Really, he could not be more obvious with his affections if he was purposefully trying to garner her attention and state his intentions in plain words.”

 _Many of us are fools for love of a woman,_ Nowë thought to himself, recalling the rather painful times when his eldest brother was courting his now-sister-in-law and how much of a wreck the man had been over the simplest, stupidest little gestures.

“Did he say to whence he was going after leaving here?” he asked then.

Only to receive a confused look in return. “I do not think so, no. Are you really so worried about his presence that you would go out of your way to avoid him in the streets?”

Nowë did not mind the misinterpretation of his curiosity. “Oh, no, nothing of the sort. It is just, one sees not often the sons of Fëanáro out and about in the streets of Tirion. Maybe I am just being nosy and hoping for some gossip to spread amongst the shopkeepers.”

“Well, you would have better luck asking Lady Wilwarin,” young Inyë said.

 _Perhaps I shall,_ he thought.

\---

As it would happen, he did not get a chance to interrogate Lady Wilwarin.

Shortly after having his hand tended (and feeling guilty for not properly outstaying his welcome in the Healing House to flirt with the lovely Lady Inyë, who he was worried had gotten the impression that he was annoyed with her rather than enchanted), Nowë found himself standing in the middle of the street wondering how it was possible that _no one_ to whom he had spoken remembered seeing a frighteningly tall redheaded man passing this way.

 _Perhaps he did not pass this way,_ the smith thought with no small amount of dejection. _Not everyone comes to Tirion with shopping and trading business in mind. Perhaps he was here only to have his injuries tended._

Still, it was a bit of a blow, and Nowë felt a touch ridiculous and stupid for allowing himself to let the opportunity slip through his grasp with such ease. It made his innards twist and turn to think of coming home and explaining that he _could_ have passed on Lady Lindalórë’s message this very day but did _not_ because he was an _idiot_ who was slow on the uptake and allowed the Fëanárion to escape in favor of uselessly flirting with a beautiful woman over a cup of very potent tea and the sharp, burning pain (soothed to numbness) of having his blistering hand bathed, treated and rewrapped.

 _It did not occur to me that he would vanish so quickly,_ the smith thought with no small amount of dejection, beginning the long trudge home with a bitter twist to his lips. _I owe Lady Lindalórë an apology for my inattentiveness and selfishness. One given on my hands and knees. What an idiot I am!_

It was then that, upon rounding the corner and coming into the marketplace, he saw a tall, familiar redhead weaving in and out of the crowd.

Almost swallowing his tongue in surprise, he set off at a light trot.

Normally, Nowë did not mind the afternoon busyness of Tirion, couples and groups and families mingling in the streets, voices raised in a low roar that disappeared as background noise. Except, at this moment, it had not disappeared, instead rising up in his ears like a tidal wave of sound, blocking his voice as he tried to shout over the tops of their many dark heads to capture attention. Naturally, his voice was as easily lost in that cacophonous ocean as his frantic face was in the sea of passing faces. Even if Lord Ambarussa _did_ happen to glance back towards him, the man would not be able to pick him out with ease unless he did something very attention-drawing and ridiculous.

In all likelihood, he would have done so at this point of desperation. But the tall redhead did not glance back. Nowë managed to squeeze his way through the milling bodies just in time to see him disappear into a small café, holding the door open for a tiny, slender woman.

_Wait, was he not panting after the Lady Healer?_

Confused, the blacksmith crept up to the windows, trying not to appear conspicuous to an outsider’s gaze as he looked inside and saw the pair seating themselves halfway between the door and the back of the tiny café. Much to his annoyance, the Fëanárion was facing away, and the small, dark-haired woman towards the windows, her hands set delicately on the table and twitching nervously. By the purse of her lips and the aversion of her eyes, he realized that, whatever was going on here, it was not some sort of romantic liaison. She looked uncomfortable. And here he was, lingering outside the door to the café like some sort of stalker, considering how much unwanted attention he would draw—to himself and to the Fëanárion in question—if he burst into the café and tried to explain the situation at hand in the middle of a public venue in front of a woman of unknown origin and relation to the Fëanárioni.

 _Hang it all,_ he could not help but think, resisting the urge to pound his fist on the glass to see if he could draw the attention of his desired target and lure Ambarussa out.

 _Do not be an idiot._ Turning away, he raked his fingers (of his non-injured hand) through his hair and looked back down the street. Down around that corner was the shoemaker’s shop. Perhaps he ought to go and notify Eterúna, and the man could send someone else to deliver Lindalórë’s message, someone with the patience to be conscientious of potential watchers and listeners. The last thing they needed was someone (an idiot like Nowë) tipping off Lindalórë’s father or suitor as to their plans, for any commoner would need be an utter moron not to realize that such powerful men as Hendumaika of the House of Helyanwë had ways of making certain messages did not reach their intended receivers. And, thus, would fail their attempt to arrange for the woman’s rescue without alerting her captors as to their plans.

He shuddered, knowing that keeping this whole mess secret could be the difference between Lindalórë being returned safely to her rightful husband’s arms and Lindalórë being married against her will on the morrow and thrown into bed with that absolutely awful nobleman Calmacil before they could even hope to have their message reach Maitimo Fëanárion’s ears.

 _If I let him out of my sight again, though…_ Nowë cast an annoyed look at the back of Ambarussa Fëanárion’s head. _But I have no choice. I cannot continue to stand here looking conspicuous and suspicious._

Spinning on his heel, he marched towards Eterúna’s shop, only stumbling over his own feet once or twice. At the very least, he could bring forth the news of the presence of one of the seven brothers. From there, it might be out of his hands, but, at the very least, they would know where to find the man. Then, they could head him off before he departed the city, hopefully in a location less out in the open than the middle of one of the busiest and most used streets in Tirion.

Added to this headache was his hand. The numbing cream was beginning to wear off, and the throbbing and swelling he had felt without the added nuisance of pain now began three times as painful as they had felt this morning. Another day relegated to shop-minding duty.

 _This is what you deserve for having a head stuffed full of air and nothing else,_ he scolded, looking up towards the sky. _It was going to come back to haunt you one day._

He turned the corner, saw the shoemaker’s shop, and made for the door.

No more time to waste being an idiot. Once he had delivered his report, he could return home and collapse over the shop counter like a wilting flower and wait for it all to be over.

More useful, he would probably be, well out of the way.

\---

Two different Fëanárioni had been spotted in Tirion this day.

It was frustrating for Eterúna to realize that, for all that he knew two of the very men he was searching for were out and about somewhere within the walls of the city, he was confined to his shop conducting his business. And, even had he the freedom to wander the streets in search of the wayward men, he had not the faintest idea where to start.

Rumors of the presence of Carnistir Fëanárion had been circulating for days, but no one could definitively say they had seen him or where. Someone had claimed to spot him just this morning, but he had vanished into one of the townhouses in the wealthier parts of town and remained inside, conducting business unknown, while an impatient watcher lingered out of doors trying not to look conspicuous to the residents of the street.

The only suspicious thing to happen since then was the delivery of a rather large bouquet of flowers. Leaving Eterúna to wonder if the original report of Lord Carnistir’s presence there was a farce perpetrated by someone who had not yet drunk their morning dose of caffeine.

And then there was word that Ambarussa Fëanárion had been seen.

One of the blacksmith’s sons had brought him the news, face red with frustration, eyes shifty with annoyance, free hand wrapped about his bandaged limb and squeezing to try and alleviate the agony of what was obviously a burn hiding beneath the white wrappings. Nowë had come across as being a bit mentally unsettled. And it had been slightly amusing at the time to realize that the younger man was sky-high on whatever brilliant pain-reducing herbal concoction he had procured from the Healing House that morning.

It was for that reason alone that he could forgive the younger man for stumbling about half-drunk on both pain and herbs, stuttering over his find.

Less altruistic did Eterúna feel when, sometime later, he sent another of his contacts out with the message only to have it returned to him with the Fëanárion in question none the wiser. Ambarussa Fëanárion had been followed after leaving a café in the presence of a young woman, had taken her back to her place of residence—the School of Dance of all places, and he could barely fathom how a Fëanárion knew a dancer besides—and had somehow, despite being at least a head taller than the average man and crowned in unmistakable russet hair, managed to slip into a series of mind-bending side-streets resulting in his errant follower getting lost somewhere between the marketplace and the north end of the city.

Feeling particularly unrepentant and unsympathetic, Eterúna had sent the poor man to stand guard outside the townhouse in which Lord Carnistir had last been purportedly seen entering. Nothing new, so far as he knew, had come of that particular watch-post as of yet. It made him grit his teeth, and it took all the strength he possessed not to ruin a perfectly good piece of very expensive, soft leather by digging his fingernails into it until there were sharp, deep crescents left behind to mark down his utter displeasure with the entire situation.

It was quite possible, of course, that the Fëanárioni knew they were being followed, that the watchers had not been subtle enough in their stalking and had set off the internal alarms of men who had once lived in the dangerous wilderness of Beleriand, who knew both what it was like to be the hunter and the hunted. Having no idea what they wanted or why, perhaps both Carnistir and Ambarussa had retreated to avoid confrontation or something uglier unfolding in the quieter parts of town.

Eterúna grudgingly admitted—if only to himself, silently and with much irritation—that he would not have allowed himself to be cornered in some dark alley by someone he recognized not with a willingness to listen to whatever the strange stalker wished to say. He would have suspected foul play immediately and would have given his followers the slip as well.

It was still a great and terrible annoyance. Most especially given how impotent he felt just _waiting about_ like a useless lump of flesh when every cell in his being screamed to take up a sword and move to take action against this injustice. Would that he could not simply march up to the doorstep of Lindalórë’s family and demand that she be handed over into the keeping of the followers of her husband for safekeeping until his return! It would have been more than acceptable a strategy had they been in the Hither Lands!

And, to make matters worse, it looked as though it was going to rain. The normally picturesque dusk splash of color across the sky was streaked with inky black clouds gathering on the horizon. Moving to stand in the open doorway of his shop, he gazed off towards the towering thunderheads with an equally dark expression. The wind on his face carried the buzz of lightning and the scent of rain, chilled against his cheek as it whipped back his hair.

Another day wasted. With a disgusted noise of frustration, he slammed the door shut in his wake, hearing it rattle but gaining little satisfaction from its abuse.

It was not ten minutes later as he was closing the shop for the evening that he heard the rustle of the door opening, the bell hanging above jingling happily away. Turning around, he could see two men enter, both wrapped up in their cloaks as sheets of rain began to beat down against the cobblestones outside, the first rumbles of thunder shaking through the earth. The storm was drawing imminently near, and Eterúna tried not to shiver as the small hairs on his arms and nape stood on end. Not only as a result of the flash of lightning outside the window, but at the thought of the omen painted in the blackness, in the flashing violence and rumbling thunder scraping across the sky and shaking through the air.

The pair came forth, the first peeling his hood back. The blacksmith. Eterúna sighed, praying for good news silently. “Meldo,” he greeted quietly.

And the second man pushed back his hood. The shoemaker swallowed air and almost choked.

It was not every day that one had royalty in their humble abode. The golden-haired man revealed had gray eyes that shone almost as brightly through the growing shadow of the storm as the lightning flickering and dancing through the clouds. Hastily, he bowed. “My Prince.”

“No need for that,” Prince Angaráto said, brushing the formality aside. “My friend here has told me that time is of the essence. And that you have a message you need passed on.”

“Indeed, I do,” Eterúna choked out. “Has he… explained everything?”

“Everything that needs explaining for now,” the Prince soothed. “We plan not to stay here long. My hope is to catch my father before he finds his way to bed this night.”

It took a few shameful long moments to realize that the Prince was _waiting for him to fetch the message._ “Forgive my inattentiveness! I will go and fetch the missive!”

Almost tripping over himself in his state of excitement mixed with glee mixed with the burn of embarrassment crawling across his cheekbones, he darted up the stairway and through the open living area—ignoring the questioning look of his wife and the surprised, widened eyes of his daughters setting out dinner—to the bedchambers he shared with his spouse. Grabbing the tiny (but impossibly important) little envelope written in a Lady’s delicate handwriting buried at the bottom of his shirt drawer, he bolted back out and down the stairs, almost stumbling on the bottom step.

“I have it here,” he said breathlessly, holding it out, “My Prince. If I might, I just would like to… I do not… You have my… my thanks for this. It means much to me. To us.”

Kindly, the Prince took the envelope and tucked it deep into the folds of his clothing. “There is no need for such reverence, meldo. It matters not who you have followed, before the Darkening, abroad in Exile, or now as a humble shoemaker in Tirion. You are a citizen of the Noldor, one of my people, as is Lady Lindalórë. And I live to serve. I would not see you suffer for your loyalty, nor she suffer for hers.”

It was a rare thing for one who was not a follower of Fëanáro to look kindly upon them and their loyalty to a madman and that madman’s equally mad progeny. “My thanks, nonetheless, my Prince, for your help in this. It has been… difficult.”

Looking down at the floor was easier than trying to meet those glowing, all-seeing eyes.

At least, until a gentle hand cupped his chin and lifted his head. “I know better than you might think what you mean. Worry not. Your task is done, meldo.”

Somehow, the look on the man’s face, the way he smiled and his eyes glistened, had the tension running out of Eterúna, spinning off his frame and circling down into the earth where his feet barely touched. Unsteady on his legs and throat too taut (with nervousness or with unshed tears or with knee-shaking, mind-shattering relief), he managed naught but a short, wobbly nod.

And then those eyes turned away. It was a miracle that he did not spill onto the floor as though his body had turned to liquid.

“Come along, meldo,” the Prince said to the blacksmith. “We have places to be yet this night, I should think.”

And, as quickly as they had come, they were gone.

Leaving Eterúna to the darkened shop, watching as two black-cloaked figures swept out into the night, hoods pulled up against the rain which grew harsh and fell in heavy waves with the wind. Overhead, the thunder shook beneath his feet as lightning shrieked across the sky. With shaky hands, he locked the shop door and blew out the last of the lanterns.

When he trudged up the steps to the living space above, his daughters were silent, and his wife’s brow was furrowed. “Eterúna?”

“Excuse my hurry earlier, melda,” he breathed out, almost collapsing in his chair at the table, too dazed to really be thinking about all the food—the fresh bread and the steaming-hot meat and the tease of cool wine—that was laid out and waiting. He served himself blindly, was vaguely aware of the others following suit and passing dishes about the table. Automatically, he received the next bowl, adding a lush decoration of mushrooms and vegetables to his plate. “We had a rather important guest stop by to pick up an order.”

If she was suspicious, it did not show on her face. Most likely, she would ask about it again when they were abed. “Ah, well, it is good that you finished before dinner cooled. We were not certain if you would be back up.”

“As if you could keep me away,” he teased with a half-grin, the shocked stillness melting away to reveal the lightness beneath. Even though the window shook with another rumble of thunder. Even though the sky outside was black and the sound of rain pelted down upon the roof, he could not help but feel just a little bit satisfied, just a little bit as though he were floating through the beatific meal with his wife and daughters.

Lindalórë’s missive had reached the hands of the royal family. It would rest within the King’s grasp this very night.

He had not failed his Lord or his Lady. Everything was—he hoped—going to play out in their favor, the war won in the end. And Lindalórë would not be subjected to a marriage she did not desire to a man who would beat the beauty and individuality out of her, nor would she lose her marriage to the man she loved.

How he had become so invested in her future with his former commander, Eterúna could not have said. But he was pleased to know that his part in the plan was done, that he finally put food upon his tongue and tasted it fully upon his palate without guilt, fell into the here and now as his wife smiled at him from across the table for the first time in days.

Relief was, he decided, a strangely blissful thing.

It felt now that, for all that the storm raged on just outside these walls, there just might be a sunny, crisp morning on the horizon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:
> 
> vessë (Q) = wife  
> venno (Q) = husband  
> Fëanárioni (Q, p) = sons of Fëanáro  
> Ondolindë (Q) = Gondolin  
> amilessë (Q) = mother-name  
> Eldar (Q, p) = people of the stars, high-elves  
> Valaraukar (Q, p) = Balrogs  
> Eruhíni (Q, p) = children of Eru  
> vanya (Q) = one of the Vanyar  
> meldo (Q) = friend  
> melda (Q) = dear (one)


	61. As the Storm Breaks in the Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A new alliance is born...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: strong hints at using torture/rape/coercion to force compliance, scheming, polite society being shitty, illegal activities, abduction (to be attempted), some underlying misogyny
> 
> I have finally reached a point in the story where I may have to make a decision about whether or not this story is compliant with the Pretend/Flat Arc from the Silmarillion Prompts. Hm... anyone have thoughts? Otherwise, this chapter is not _particularly_ triggering, but do read with care, as always. <3
> 
> Maedhros = Maitimo = Nelyafinwë = Nelyo = Russandol  
> Maglor = Makalaurë = Kanafinwë = Káno  
> Celegorm = Tyelkormo = Tyelko = Turkafinwë = Turko  
> Caranthir = Carnistir = Morifinwë = Moryo  
> Curufin = Atarinkë = Curufinwë = Curvo  
> Amrod = Ambarussa = Pityafinwë = Pityo = Minyarussa  
> Amras = Umbarto = Telufinwë = Telvo = Atyarussa  
> Egalmoth = Aikambalotsë  
> Fingolfin = Nolofinwë  
> Aredhel = Írissë  
> Turgon = Turukáno  
> Lalwen = Lalwendë  
> Finarfin = Arafinwë

_Valanya, 54 Lairë (6 July)_

\---

It took far too long to engineer a situation in which she might escape the house without any suspicion on the part of her husband.

After thousands of years of marriage, she and Hendumaika knew each other’s schedules and habits well. Perhaps too well. Just as, the night before, she had sensed his growing fatigue and irritation on losing control of the situation with Lindalórë’s engagement, she knew he could sense that she was restless and felt confined within the walls of the house, struggling her way through tea and embroidery whilst pretending nothing was afoot. If he guessed at the possible cause, he said nothing, but she could see the knowing light in his verdant eyes.

However, she knew that she might play this to her advantage. “I think,” she announced halfway through afternoon tea—fighting against the need to pluck at her gown and stuff an extra three biscuits down her gullet as the nervous hunger assaulted her belly—and set down her cup, “That I need to go out and about this afternoon and evening. If you have no objection to that, venno.”

“You do seem rather flustered today,” he commented lightly, eyes narrowing just a bit. “In search of female company?”

“Lindalórë is not exactly the best of company these days,” she responded, sucking slightly at the inside of her lower lip to avoid the frown that wanted to form at the deprecating comment she had been forced to aim at their daughter, and at his assumption that she had some silly female needs to take care of that were below his concern. “I may go and attempt to speak to her again, but I doubt anything will come of it. I thought, instead, I might take Víressë and wander about the city for a while. Perhaps seek out a friend for late afternoon tea and chatting.”

Boredom flashed across his face. Truthfully, she knew he could not have cared less what she did when she was out, for it had nothing to do with him and his interests. The idea of listening to her talk about the gossip she had to share with so-and-so nobleman’s wife or the patterns she wanted to embroider on her latest shawl or set of handkerchiefs was likely as mind-numbing for him as listening to him talk about numbers and stone impurities and diamond appraisals was for her.

“If that is what you desire, I see no harm in it,” he replied. “I have invited Calmacil for dinner, so I would prefer that you be back on schedule.”

_I would prefer it as well,_ she found herself thinking, wondering with dread what it was that Hendumaika was planning that his face took on such a placid blankness. Little did she desire to have _that man_ in her home, and even less so whilst she was not about to throw servant after servant in his way, preventing him from having her daughter alone at any time or in any location about the estate.

“I shall do my best to be timely,” she said, standing and brushing out her skirts. “Have you need of anything before I go?”

His green eyes blinked at her with consideration. Had they been younger, she might have named the look _interest,_ but the pair had not so much as kissed in centuries, let alone laid abed together. After procreating, there had been little need.

Sourly, she hoped he was not getting ideas. Perhaps he was seeing Calmacil for the rotten fruit he truly was and now was considering alternative avenues of procuring an heir whom he could shape and bend to his will. After all, they had never gotten around to having a spare son in the case that Aikambalotsë chose not to take over the family trade or was otherwise indisposed, most probably out of mutual laziness and lack of want to create any intimacy—romantic or otherwise—in their steady, stable and distant relationship.

“No,” he answered, though it sounded just a hair false, “You may go, vessë.”

Without further time wasted, she backed out of the room and headed upstairs, feet quiet in the hallways and padding up each of the steps in the foyer to reach the upper floors. She retreated not to her own chambers, but to Lindalórë’s. After all, she _had_ said she might speak to her daughter. She simply had not stated about what their conversation would be.

As per her husband’s orders, a maid was standing outside the door. The young woman stepped aside with a bowed head as the Lady of the House approached and knocked.

“Lindalórë,” she called softly.

In lieu of an answer, the door clicked open.

On the other side stood her daughter, whose face reflected her lack of sleep even more than did her restless fingernails as they drummed and clicked against the heavy wood of the doorframe. Deep, dark trenches ran beneath her half-feral green eyes. “Amillë,” she greeted as she let the older woman inside her sanctuary.

The door thudded shut and threw them down into heavy silence.

“I am concerned,” Eressëa admitted, knowing there was no point in playing coy about the matter. “I know not what your father is planning, but he has grown annoyed with the lack of progress being made in this courtship. I suspect that he seeks to force the matter, and that his methods will be most unpleasant.”

“Do you really think he would allow Calmacil to hurt me within the house?” Lindalórë asked, looking stricken and only half-managing to hide the wideness of her eyes and the white cast of her lips beneath a stubborn scowl.

“I think that he will try to manipulate you into accepting your place ‘willingly’ first.”

Her daughter gulped audibly, and Eressëa fancied that she could see the pulse at the base of the younger woman’s throat leap. “How? He knows I will not do so willingly.”

“I suspect that he will use threats to sway your mind.” It would not be the first time he had done as such, functioning in a setting that was not quite the purely legal and ethical business manner that he liked to project to clients and sellers alike. It was simply different for Eressëa to think about the subject of threats—of retaliation, of ruin, of the ruin of family members or friends or loved ones—being her own daughter instead of some nameless and unimportant lesser noble or obsolete courtier or completely irrelevant commoner. The ruin of any of those lesser folk would not so much as tap on the glass of Eressëa’s fortress of loveless wealth, not notable enough to grab her attention away from her own endless fixation on drowning out the sound of her own problems and unfulfilled wishes in the back of her mind.

“He cannot hope to ruin me more than marriage to a Kinslayer has already managed,” Lindalórë scoffed. “It has become abundantly clear to me over these past few days than economic warfare will result only in a divide—between those people who would stay loyal to the royal family who cared for and guarded their backs in Exile and the people who stayed behind and have a greater loyalty to their own wealth and power. He will never be capable of forcing my husband and I out of society entirely no matter how hard he tries.”

_So, that is the motivation of the men who protect her._ Eressëa could not really understand as such—she had never had anything to be loyal to but for her family and wealth—but she would never have imagined that the men who had served under the Fëanárioni (the men they all liked to pretend had never existed for their own peace of mind) would step forward and guard the back of their former leader’s _wife_ without being prompted or directed, without even requiring the presence of said commander at their backs to force their compliance. Living in a world motivated by monetary incentive, Eressëa could not imagine how they could risk losing business and profit by stirring the ire of a powerful merchant family such as the House of Helyanwë, how they could feel justified in doing it over the fate of a single woman.

She did not understand at all. But, perhaps, she was a little grateful nonetheless.

“I suspect he might take a more direct method.” The thought of it left chills crawling unpleasantly across Eressëa’s flesh. Doubt she did that her husband would try to use _her_ as a tool of manipulation against her own daughter—she was still useful to him in a rough and abstract sense, still a part of a cohesive partnership that could, in the future, still yield profitable results if necessary—but there were plenty of other expendable people in the house.

Hendumaika enjoyed maintaining the appearance of an employer her who looked after his servants. And he did, indeed, compensate them heartily and generously for their work. But would he choose a mere maid or a mere cook or a mere gardener over his own lust for further growth and expansion to feed his greed?

His own daughter’s desperation to avoid marriage was not stopping him. She could not imagine that he would mind destroying a few commoners’ lives in the process if it got him the cooperation he desired.

“Just…” She took a shallow, shaky breath. “Your father has invited Calmacil for dinner tonight with no mention of his plans for this evening. But I have my suspicions that he means to press his advantage and try to move forward the engagement now that he has grown impatient and annoyed with your recalcitrance. I have an errand of great importance to run, and I will be back by then, or try. Do _not_ leave your room whilst I am away. Even if it means disobeying direct orders from your father.”

_Even if it means someone else gets harmed in your stead,_ was what she truly meant. And she hoped that her daughter heard.

“Yes, Amillë,” the girl whispered, looking even worse for wear now that she had breathed in the full seriousness of the situation, could see it in her mother’s pale face and bitten lip and hear it in the crack of that normally pristine and poised voice. “Must you leave this evening? You said you had an… an errand?”

“We can no longer wait for your message to reach royal ears.”

Startled, Lindalórë looked up from where she had been staring at her nervously wringing hands. “You mean to contact someone directly? But is that not dangerous? What if Atar finds out that you have…?”

“That is my burden to bear,” the mother said softly, wondering at the barest, softest ray of warmth and affection that managed to sneak through he overcast sky of her emotions. “I have averted his suspicion of my motivations so far. Of all there is to say of my marriage to your father, there might be no love, but there is trust, if only the trust of a man who believes his wife is too obedient and too indoctrinated to even consider betraying his trust.”

It was true that Hendumaika thought her below plotting against him. And, truly, she was not certain that that was what she was doing. To her eyes, this was the best decision. For her children and for the House of Helyanwë.

Calmacil would need to be discarded at any cost.

And then things would go back to the way they had been.

(Except, could they truly do so when she now knew the true depths of her husband’s desperation for more wealth and power? Could she truly forget that he had wanted to marry their daughter to a man who would do her physical harm and rain threats upon her until she was terrorized into compliance? Could she truly forget that he had spoken so cavalierly of casting their firstborn son aside because Aikambalotsë lacked a ruthless spirit and a cold heart, because their son could never become the same sort of monster as his father?)

“Heed my words,” she finished. “Stay here and hidden until I return.”

“Amillë,” Lindalórë acknowledged, for once not straining against the orders, not pushing back against the guidance or snarling in the face of authority. Instead, she simply looked rather tired and rather ready to have seen this whole dark shadow upon her life pass by. “I just… I just want to get out of this house. The sooner the better.”

There was longing there. A burning need to escape. To be in the arms of her true family.

Eressëa could not quite understand the look on her daughter’s face, the cant of that voice, the glimmer in wide eyes. Forever had she been alone, a deep connection with her spouse out of reach, and forever that way would she stay.

But she had promised to lend her aid, and it was the correct thing to do. And her heart could not bear to sit and wait in silence any longer.

A little risk would be necessary.

“I shall return,” she promised. And went forth.

\---

“There is a visitor for you, my Lady.”

It startled Anairë out of her distant thoughts, drew her back to the here and now where she sat, enrobed with her long damp hair over her shoulder, luxuriating in the afternoon. Or, perhaps, it was more accurate to say that she _would have been_ luxuriating in the afternoon had her thoughts not long since taken a dismal turn into wistfulness. Long were the days now as she stayed home and waited for news to come. All her children were far from her sight and far from the circle of her arms. And deny it she could not that it made her ache in her bones, that it left her feeling lonely and bereft.

Try, Nolofinwë did and often at that, to soothe her. But, as oft was the case during the daytime hours, he was off on courtly business and not in the house, leaving her alone to her pastimes. As she was now, fresh from a long and pointless bath, rubbing sweet oils into her skin as she sighed and wondered to whence her daughter might have gotten, to whence her sons were now traipsing through the wilds. Imagining the glee and delight she would feel when they were all home and safe, when she could wrap them all in her arms once more.

Even Írissë. Especially Írissë.

_She does not need me,_ beat at the back of her mind like a constant drum, like the thudding of a fist trying to beat her longing out of her heart. _She can care for herself. She always could._

Her daughter had long since outgrown the nest. Their attempts to force Írissë into obedience, to keep her bound and chained to their will at the whims of society, were what had resulted in this whole stressful mess unfolding in the first place. And with all the grace of a plate of food splattering facedown upon the floor and leaving behind a grotesque mixture of disgusting color behind to clean.

Maybe another solution could have been found? They could not have let things continue on as they were, not without risking Írissë’s reputation at court, but perhaps they could have handled in the issue better, with a more open mind and a more welcoming approach?

Truth be told, Anairë thought about that every day. Wondered if she could have said something or done something to stop this before it had started. If she could have found a way to protect her daughter without leaving Írissë feeling trapped and stifled, locked away in her parents’ house like a bauble or a toy with no free will or agency.

But, in the end, it mattered little. What had happened had happened and could not be changed.

That did not stop Anairë from _wanting._

It was for that want that she knew, should her daughter return with a Fëanárion as her chosen spouse, Anairë would smile and kiss his cheeks and name him son-in-law without fuss. And, perhaps, laugh at the inevitability of the sour and mournful look that would cross her husband’s face at having one of _Fëanáro’s boys_ as a son of his own through marriage.

It was for that want that she knew, also, that, should her daughter return alone, she would do her best to help Írissë start anew. Even if it meant that they would be apart.

But those, she knew, were thoughts for another time and place. As her maidservant had announced, she had a visitor. Arising from her vanity, she shed her robe upon the floor, walking shamelessly naked through the private chambers to select a dress. “What sort of visitor, melda?”

The maidservant was completely unbothered by her lady’s nudity. It was rather a common occurrence for those who attended Anairë personally. “A Lady Eressëa of the House of Helyanwë.”

Anairë paused, thoughts derailing for but a moment. “Lady Eressëa? And not her husband, Hendumaika?”

“Just the Lady,” her maid confirmed.

It was strange, she immediately thought, as she donned a dress of a finer make than she would have preferred, allowing her servant to help her with the intricate lacing that crisscrossed down her spine and tied about her waist in a wide and vibrant bow. The House of Helyanwë had once been friendly with the Nolofinwion branch of the House of Finwë, their friendship forged by the companionship of the children of Hendumaika with the children of Nolofinwë—Írissë and Lindalórë first, and then Turukáno and Aikambalotsë later—but that friendship had long since become frayed at the edges and loose at the seams, falling apart slowly with the bitter march of time as it lay neglected and abandoned in the back of that closet of subjects that no one truly wanted to speak about. That place where the poor marriage decisions and the hasty vows of loyalty and the forsaken bonds of brotherhood and the memories of betrayal lay heavy and gathering dust, not forgotten but unacknowledged.

So, indeed, to have the woman knocking so suddenly was an oddity. Anairë and Eressëa had only ever been on passingly friendly terms—more acquaintances than anything else, two women who once thought that there might be a slight chance that their children might be wed back before it became apparent that Írissë would have no man in Valinórë as her husband no matter if he was handsome and the heir to a wealthy merchant family or not, before Lindalórë had dedicated herself to a life with a Fëanárion rather than considering one of Nolofinwë’s sons in Curufinwë’s stead—and they had not spoken outside of formal obligation since the Darkening. Certainly, they had not had any private meetings.

_I wonder what it is that she seeks…_ Frowning, Anairë let her hair be braided. The tail was simpler than she would have liked when facing a woman whose wealth could only be out-measured by the sad truth of her namesake, but, at this point, she ought to prioritize timeliness over presentation. It was rude to keep guests waiting.

With the addition of a simple but large pendant—a ruby that she fingered fondly, remembering it as a gift during courtship with a quirk of her lips—she departed her chambers and moved with swift grace to the foyer.

Her guest was waiting quietly, eyes fixed upon a rather unnecessarily large portrait of Nolofinwë and Anairë together hung decoratively upon the wall, seeing it while not seeing it at all. A maid hovered nearby looking nervous.

Something about the image was… strange. Unnerving.

“Lady Eressëa,” she greeted calmly.

Faint startlement could be seen in the abruptness with which the other woman turned on her heel—gray eyes looking up and up to settle upon the face of the higher-ranked female standing at the top of the landing—and dropped into a deep curtsy. Though that surprise showed not at all upon the blank canvas of her china face. “Princess Anairë.”

Formally, she supposed she still was a Princess—perhaps even a Queen—but, seeing as that her husband had come and gone as regent, she rarely used the title. “Anairë will do.”

“Anairë then,” the other woman echoed.

“I cannot deny that I am surprised to see you,” Anaire continued without pause, descending the steps to meet on even footing, but not without putting on an elegant and long-drawn show of grace as she traversed the steps down to the earth. “This is rather unexpected. A visit in the late afternoon, almost dinnertime, without warning or previous note to tell of your impending arrival. One might even consider it rude.”

Normally, that was enough for anyone to take offense. It was an unspoken rule about the upper echelons of Tirion that politeness was always first and foremost necessary to make a good impression and prevent tongues from wagging unkindly behind cupped hands and closed doors. Were there anyone to see this strangeness unfolding, certainly they would be speculating wildly about what had left the Lady Eressëa deranged and unhinged enough to foist her presence upon a lady of a higher station so suddenly and without call or reason or permission.

But Eressëa seemed unbothered. That, more than anything, had Anairë alert. “Is there something afoot, Lady Eressëa? You seem troubled.”

“There is… something I need to speak to you about,” the interloper said, and her voice darkened, losing the glittering façade of a lady delighted to be in the presence of her Princess. “I did not know whom else I should turn to.”

Lips now pinched tightly, Anairë found her mind racing, twisting and turning away from the constant state of nostalgic longing for her children. “What sort of happenings would bring you to my doorstep as such?” Here, she had thought perhaps the woman had had a moment of airheaded and oblivious nonsensical thought and shown up here without considering how it might look—perhaps it was cruel of her, but Eressëa had always seemed rather of the less intelligent sort, happy to simply float through life on the short leash her husband allowed, content with the simplicity of being rich and otherwise ignored—but now it was clear that that was not the case. It was hard to see through the icy mask layered over those pretty doll-features, but Anairë had looked into her own eyes and her own face in the mirror enough times in the last weeks to know what a mother’s worry looked like when worn. Even when hidden beneath layers of face powder and a stubborn adherence to social protocol.

Eyes glanced about, taking in the servants milling about. “My Lady…” Hesitant to speak with so many watchers, the other woman shifted from foot to foot and looked down flatly at the fine tiling of the floor and the intricate weave of the expansive, handmade rug beneath her slippers. “Might we… speak somewhere more privately?”

“I suppose we might,” Anairë allowed. “Come, let us retreat.”

Not often did Anairë use her own private rooms, preferring to share space with her spouse instead. But she did have her own study of a sort, a place to tend to her correspondences and scheduling outside the domain of her husband, mostly left to (figuratively) gather dust once he had been reborn and returned into her life like a ghost with a harsher set to his mouth and a more desperate gleam in his eyes. Opening the door, she let their small company in. The hearth was empty, dark and cold, but the sunlight still lit the chilly room well enough when the curtains were pulled open by the maid and tied with tasseled velvet rope.

“Leave us, please,” Anairë requested, shooing the servant. The maids—both Anairë’s and Eressëa’s—cast them a curious look, obviously wishing they had been allowed to stay and eavesdrop, but obediently retreated. Behind them did Anairë close the door firmly and wait to hear the retreat of soft footsteps down the hallway.

“We are alone,” she announced. “You can speak in confidence, meldë.”

All at once, the outer walls were shed. For the first time, Anairë could see a person beneath the layers of glittering jewels and perfectly-styled hair and overwhelmingly excessive skirts that personified the Lady of the House of Helyanwë. Eressëa looked very much, in that moment, like she was about to cry. Widened eyes and a quivering mouth broke through first, and then her hands clenched into her skirts and began to shake.

“My husband is trying to force marriage upon my daughter,” Eressëa announced, the words vibrating through the tense air between them and leaving Anairë feeling a bit wrongfooted as they registered and made no sense.

“Pardon me?” She did not quite believe what she was hearing.

“Hendumaika is unhappy with the state of Lindalórë’s marriage to Curufinwë Fëanárion. Now that he has made his intention to reclaim our daughter’s hand clear, my husband intends to counteract his unwanted suit by forcing her to marry another man against her will. A lesser nobleman named Calmacil. A man of the sort who treats women roughly and cruelly when he thinks no one is looking.” It all spilled out in a rush, so fast that Anairë felt a little dizzy. “With Curufinwë and Aikambalotsë out of the city at present, he has made a move to force the issue upon our daughter.”

Fear trembled through the other woman’s voice, a subtle vibration that almost escaped notice. But, now that she had heard it, Anairë could not unhear it. Could not unhear any of it. Horrified, she collapsed back into the cushion of the soft chair before the hearth, heart stuttering in the back of her throat.

“Sit,” she ordered, watching as Eressëa’s legs all but collapsed, leaving her almost spilling into the broad armchair before the unlit hearth, all the while looking tiny and pale and lost. “Tell me everything. Start from the beginning.”

And she did.

And Anairë felt sick.

\---

Coming home to a hysterical wife was not on Nolofinwë’s list of expectations for an otherwise bland and uneventful Valanya. It was the end of his week, a day of relative quiet and rest in which he finished his business and came home early looking forward to more time than usual spent with his beautiful wife trying to forget that every single one of his children were off adventuring through the wilderness with varying degrees of propriety involved.

It was easier to avoid being overtly worried now that he had returned to his wife’s good graces. Easier to avoid spending every waking moment thinking about Írissë and Lalwendë and what was going to happen when—if—his daughter finally came home. Distracting himself from the unfolding drama within his own family had become something of an artform, and he anticipated no break in that now-commonplace methodology this night, figuring that he and Anairë would dine richly and he might, perhaps, seduce her into a little bit of time in the gardens before going to bed. A sweet-scented and serene pursuit to calm her nerves.

Though, looking up at the sky as he crossed the street and came upon his modestly-sized townhouse, it did rather look like it might storm. Perhaps indoor pursuits only, then.

Letting himself in—because, really, he appreciated the butler but had no need for the door to be held open when he was perfectly capable of opening it himself—he shuffled out of his boots and inhaled deeply the scent of home.

Though, oddly enough, he was not smelling dinner.

_It is a bit early yet for feasting,_ he thought, for all that the abnormality did not sit well in his mind. Nor, he thought, did the lack of movement and noise about the house. Few servants did they have, he and his wife, but they did keep some. A few maids to tend to the housekeeping. Kitchen staff, naturally. A manservant and a butler and a housekeeper.

But all was quiet.

Curious now (refusing to name the feeling _unsettled_ for all that his skin itched with it), he traversed deeper into the house, searching for occupied rooms. The normal sitting room where Anairë preferred to take tea, embroider and read was empty and quiet, unlit. So, too, was the room where she would less often—but not rarely, he would say—retreat to take part in messier pursuits, such as painting.

Glancing down the hallway to his right, he spotted a glimmer of light beneath a closed door. And the frown intensified. It was not that he minded his wife having her own private study—he had, in fact, encouraged her to keep it out of respect for her private business—but that she never used it. Not once had he come home to find her entrenched there within that private domain where once she had spent her days when he was away in Exile. Once, she had told him that the room made her feel empty and lonely.

Cautiously, he approached, tapping slightly at the wood. “Anairë?”

Within was the sound of feminine voices. At least two. Murmuring together but too low for him to make out words. _Has she a visitor? But why entertain here? Why not in the parlor or the sitting room as per usual?_

At the sound of his voice, the inner dialogue went silent. The sound of footsteps approaching the door had him stepping back.

It swung open to reveal his wife, who looked very much like she had just finished crying.

Which, naturally, was cause for alarm.

For the first long week since the willful disappearance of their daughter, it had been painfully commonplace for Anairë to cry, locked away in privacy where he could neither see her nor try to tend to her emotional sores and blisters. But the weeping had turned into a strange sort of languid wistfulness these past days, her heart hopeful but her mind realistic in that they might never have their daughter home and welcome in the same way ever again. It had not been _better,_ per say, but at least she had not been overwhelmed with grief and sobbing twice a day any longer, which, in turn, helped Nolofinwë feel a little less like an _utter failure._

Now, with her eyes red-rimmed and gummy with the residue of tears, she stared up at him. “Anairë?” he asked, taking half a step forward but refusing to touch her without her say-so. “Ammelda, what is wrong? Has something happened?”

Looking over her shoulder, he spotted Anairë’s companion, who looked every bit as wrecked as she. It took him a few long moments to recognize Lady Eressëa, to remember that she was married to Hendumaika of the House of Helyanwë and that she was Lindalórë’s mother. At the sight of him, she went wide-eyed with something that closely resembled primal terror, and he did not know what to think or how to soothe her visceral reaction to his presence, to his intrusion upon the women’s inner sanctum.

“My Lady?” Eressëa called out, sounding a bit panicked.

“It… It is alright,” Anairë huffed out, scrubbing at her tear-slicked cheek with a sleeve. “He is not going to like this news any more than I.”

Doubt crossed the other woman’s face, hesitation and mistrust swiftly following. “How know you that he will not think it just? After all, why would Nolofinwë Finwion be willing to lend aid to a member of the House of Fëanáro? No friendship lies between him and Curufinwë, and therefore no friendship between him and my daughter.”

“Is Lindalórë in trouble?” he burst out, feeling his heart swell in a way that was pure instinct to lend aid at the thought of a young woman being in some sort of deplorable trouble. That swiftly overcame the brief but damning thought that _Lindalóre is the wife of a Fëanárion and none of my concern_ which would otherwise have left his heart cold to the young woman’s mysterious plight were he a man without his own daughter.

Helplessly, Eressëa looked from his face to Anairë’s, grasping for any sort of reassurance that could be offered. Clearly, she trusted Nolofinwë not at all.

But Anairë trusted him. She reached out to grasp his hand, pulled him into the room and closed the door in his wake. “He will help. I swear to you, Eressëa, he will not do any harm, nor will he jeopardize your safety or Lindalórë’s. I would trust him with my life and the lives of my children without hesitation.”

A high honor, indeed. In any other situation, Nolofinwë might have been unable to control the urge to puff up and preen like a tropical bird. Alas, he was too anxious to feel too much pride in the moment, eyes shifting from his wife to her visitor and back.

“Please,” Anairë implored. “Trust us. You came here for help. Let us help.”

Slowly, Eressëa sucked in a deep breath, her chest expanding with its weight and breadth. “Okay,” she agreed, sounding wretched. “Okay. If you think that he will help rather than hinder, I will trust in your judgment.”

Determined to do the former rather than the later, Nolofinwë let himself be seated. Felt tension build in his spine when Anairë grasped his hand and squeezed. Not in the way that send warmth and comfort spiraling up his arm and glowing warm and golden about his heart, but in that desperate way of someone clinging to his strength, begging for his aid.

He squeezed back. “Tell me what is going on,” he asked softly.

And, soon after, wished that he could have washed away all that he heard from his mind.

\---

When they sent Lady Eressëa on her way, bundled up in a cloak with her maid trailing after her, the pair trotting down the street to beat the nasty approaching weather, Nolofinwë felt a little adrift. A little unfocused. Like his feet had been knocked out from under his body and he had fallen backwards in surprise and hit his head hard enough to leave his thoughts scattered.

The back of his throat hurt from the tightness.

Guilt. That constant companion, was striking hard and fast. Along with the rush of adrenaline bursting through his veins as he prepared to make chase, the conversation had over the last hour heavy in his thoughts and churning in his gut.

_“What are we going to do?” Anairë asked quietly. “How are we going to explain this? To Eärwen and to Arafinwë? Do you think… do you think they would help?”_

_Nolofinwë knew his younger brother would offer aid, though perhaps a form of quiet assistance rather than a march up to the Lord of Helyanwë’s doorstep demanding the release of his daughter into the custody of the royal family. It came to mind that they might simply enfold her within the palace walls and keep her there until her husband’s family had been reached, that there would be nothing Hendumaika could do to force them to surrender her back into his keeping when she was legally married to Curufinwë. But…_

That would not look so flattering to the rest of Court.

_There was always that damning problem of reputation to consider. Kidnapping a woman from her father’s house for no apparent reason and without any justification—and then accusing the man of abuse of power without proof, most especially considering that many would think it Hendumaika’s rightful place to be negotiating marriage upon his daughter’s behalf—would do nothing but make the House of Finwë looked biased and rash._

_Even now, so long after the shaky period of the Darkening, when Arafinwë’s rulership had settled and the people’s grumbling had quieted, it would be dangerous to so openly side with the Fëanárioni a second time when the first had ended so terribly in Exile, to make it seem as though the cursed brotherhood sworn between the sons of Finwë took precedence over the calm and collected wisdom of a King putting his loyal subjects first. There would be an uproar, a panic, mutinous voices wondering at whether the appearance of the sons of Fëanáro was truly a coincidence or if something darker and more suspect was afoot, plotting and stewing in the privacy of council between members of the royal family. The trust the people once held in Finwë’s line—before Fëanáro’s charisma had seduced half the people into a war over glowing rocks and egotistical revenge, before Nolofinwë and Arafinwë had stood publicly at his back in support whilst he did so—was no longer so steadfast that they would blindly look away and trust that their sovereign was not planning yet another disastrous incident that would rip and tear their quiet and steady lives apart._

_The stigma of the Fëanárioni and their ill intentions—whether justified or not—was still too great. And the stigma against the House of Finwë and their poor judgment lingered like an ever-present cloud of shame._

_No, they could not be seen to favor Fëanáro’s line over their other subjects._

_Could not be_ seen _to did not mean_ could not, _however._

_The look on Eressëa’s face as she turned her head, the way she struggled to maintain a look of distant removal from the situation rather than the desperate reaching for assistance he could see in her eyes, swayed Nolofinwë with ease._

_He was a man, after all, with a daughter whom he would have been desperate to see protected and to see fled from potential harm. It that, though in little else, could he understand this woman completely. But Eressëa did not have the luxury of maleness with which to battle her husband’s words of law, nor the higher position of authority with which she could have fought back against his rule of their House and their daughter’s life, and Nolofinwë knew he would never be in a situation as dire as hers._

_And he vowed that Írissë would never be in a situation as dire as Lindalórë’s._

_“Arafinwë will certainly pass on the message to Nelyafinwë,” he said, watching closely enough to discern the disappointment in Eressëa’s gaze that more help could not be offered and sooner. “He will not go outright against Hendumaika in this matter. Not without a thorough investigation into the accusations at hand and proof beyond doubt that his interference is justified in the public eye. Such is the plight of a King.”_

_Across from him, Anairë bit her lip, looking as though she wanted to argue but knew that it was a moot point. In this instance, they both knew Nolofinwë had the right of it._

_“However,” he said then, causing both women to look sharply over in his direction, “Something might be done in secret.”_

_Eressëa’s spine straightened. “What do you mean?”_

_“She can be smuggled out of the house,” he answered, wondering at how his life had come to this. “Is there a way?”_

_Blank eyes met his. “Pardon?”_

_“Is there a way to sneak her out of the house?” he clarified. “Anything at all?”_

_“I… yes, there is,” she confirmed. And then shook her head to dispel her surprise at his sudden suggestion of what essentially amounted to abduction. Certainly, it was something for which, should he be caught participating in willingly, Nolofinwë could get into a great deal of trouble. It would look absolutely terrible to outside eyes, a married man of only distant relation smuggling a woman out of her father’s home for unknown reasons. Even sitting here now, he could think of dozens of shady and suggestive rumors that would fly if anyone were to ever learn of him participating in such a plot. But, at this point, he cared little._

_He raised an impatient brow. At that, Eressëa startled a bit and hastily continued, “Curufinwë used to sneak her out by climbing from the balcony into the gardens below.”_

_What with the oncoming of bad weather, Nolofinwë rather had hoped for something that involved less potential for slipping and neck-breaking. “Nothing else?”_

_She shook her head. “Hendumaika is already suspicious. He has Lindalórë guarded whilst in the house by the servants. If she slipped away, he would know which maids or manservants were involved, and I am little interested in seeing what punishment he might have in mind for such disloyalty to the family. Termination of employment would be the very least of their worries, what with how irritated he is that this whole affair is not going his way in an acceptably timely fashion. I would not want them to risk their livelihoods or wellbeing—or that of their families.”_

Retaliation, _he thought grimly._

_Naturally, it was a concern that Nolofinwë had not foreseen—he was a male member of the oldest living generation of the most powerful family in Tirion—but he could understand. A commoner who managed to work themselves into the ill favor of a man as powerful as the Head of the House of Helyanwë could not hope to make a living within the city walls again. Perhaps not even in any urban location governed by the Noldor._

_“If that is our only option, then we will have to make it work,” he said then, mouth set into a firm line. “Will you be able to speak with her, to let her know of a plan in advance?”_

_Eressëa shook her head. “I think… I think Hendumaika might already suspect me of passing on information as well. He has been very reluctant to share his plans in my presence. If I come home from a trip about the city unsupervised, speak to my daughter, and then she disappears out from under his nose, I will only be confirming his suspicions.”_

No, that would not be so safe, _he was forced to admit as his jaw tightened until it ached._ Throwing rocks at the balcony window it is, then.

_It almost sounded romantic. Were it not for the fact that a woman’s very life was at stake, or that it was going to be happening in the middle of a rather violent thunderstorm, or that he could very well find himself jailed if he were caught and identified as a kidnapper. And there was the small matter that he was married and Lindalórë was the wife of his nephew. To an outsider, the whole debacle would look rather ridiculously scandalous._

I cannot believe I am truly going to do this, _he thought to himself, resisting the urge to look up towards the ceiling and mutter a prayer to Manwë and Varda for luck in his righteous (if illegal) endeavor._

_“Listen to me,” he said sharply. “You will return home with your maid and pretend nothing untoward has happened. I will follow you there, sneak around the back of the house—which balcony belongs to your daughter?”_

_“The second one over on the second story coming about the house from the easternmost side,” she managed to choke out._

_“I will find a way to get her attention—climb up if I have to—and she will come here with me. And we will keep her in this house in secret until contact can be established with Nelyafinwë or until Curufinwë returns. I have faith that Arafinwë will support us in this endeavor and will say nothing when he learns.”_

_“Wait, you are going to do this without informing your brother first?” Anairë burst out. “What if you get caught?”_

_“I will not get caught,” he countered, perhaps with more bravado than he felt. “And you, ammelda vessenya, should go and inform my brother and his wife of these happenings. You are close friends with Eärwen, so it will not look so strange for you to visit the palace later in the evening. If you must, blame me, tell anyone who asks that we had a small row and that you wish to have a night away from your irritating spouse.”_

_Anairë was biting her lip again. “This is foolishness, Nolofinwë. But… I agree. If we want to get Lindalórë out of the house tonight, we do not have time to wait and come up with a better plan, nor ask Arafinwë for advice.”_

_It was only a little risky. Surely, once his little brother heard all that Eressëa had explained to him and to Anairë, Arafinwë would understand and support his decision, for all that it was made in rather terrible haste._

_Nolofinwë tried not to think about other foolish decisions made in haste._

_“We should not wait,” he said then, standing and reaching out to help first Eressëa and then Anairë up. “There is not time to waste. The poor weather is already upon us.”_

_Indeed, there came the first tapping of rain upon the windows, heralding the arrival of the poor weather that had been lingering on the horizon all evening. The storm was about to break upon their heads._

_When he moved to make for the door, he felt Eressëa’s hand upon his own, clamping tight about his wrist and clinging. “Thank you,” she whispered._

_And Nolofinwë flinched. Because he truly did not deserve her thanks for this._

_He did not deserve her thanks at all. Not when it had been his decisions and his scheming that had resulted in Lindalórë’s precarious situation in the first place. He said that not, of course, but he thought it. Felt it, like needles jabbing into every inch of his flesh, like a heavy bands of iron constricting tightly about his lungs, wrapped again and again about his chest to constrict his ribs._

_He felt it. The guilt._

_“Come along,” he said, rather than turning her thankfulness away, rather than explaining that it was he who had done this—to her and to her daughter and to her family—in the first place, unintentional though his actions may have been. “Lindalórë is waiting.”_

_And Eressëa said nothing more._

It was honest to say that, once, Nolofinwë would have considered this entire affair none of his business, no matter that it had been his actions which had resulted in the perfect situation for which Hendumaika could take advantage. When he was young, still caught up in the net of political intrigue, still clamoring jealously after his father’s love (that was never enough, that could never compare to what Finwë felt for Fëanáro, just as his father’s love of Indis could never compare to what Finwë felt for Míriel) and still bitterly gazing upon his older half-sibling as a rival, daydreaming of sweeping the throne out from beneath Fëanáro’s feet just to show that egotistical, narcissistic, self-absorbed _bastard_ exactly what a heartless, thoughtless, conceited person like him _deserved,_ he would have scoffed and turned away. Lindalórë and her fate were someone else’s problem. His older brother’s problem.

Everything, in those days, had been _someone else’s problem._ Until Nolofinwë had been thrust into the role of leadership, he had not realized how much blame he had foisted off upon others, often upon those who did not deserve fully his ire.

As Fëanáro had never deserved his ire resulting from _Finwë’s_ lack of paternal affection, for all that the man had been insufferable. As Lalwendë had never deserved his ire for being _Finwë’s_ favored daughter, or his smugness when she had been cast aside for her follies. There were days when he found himself sitting still and in silence, wondering, if he had just done something differently, if he had reached out to connect instead rather than pulling away, if he had done _something different_ and _made an effort to overcome his hate_ would things have turned out differently?

And now, here he was. Reaching out to Fëanáro’s side of the family thousands of years later. Nolofinwë pursed his lips, knowing that, even now, he was not really doing this entirely because it was _the right thing to do._ There was too much guilt. Over failing Lalwendë. Over losing Írissë. Over teasing and tormenting Curufinwë in response. Over setting this whole mess up accidentally and leaving a helpless woman to reap the “rewards” of his tendency to foist blame onto someone else because it was _easier._

After all, what other reason had he for mocking, tricking and forcing Curufinwë out of Tirion but as vengeance for the slight of taking Írissë’s side over his own?

And he did not particularly even want to think about why Írissë had taken off in the first place. No matter how many times Anairë calmly and soothingly walked him through that tangled mess, he still… It was easier to…

It was easier to look away.

But he would not look away from this.

Donning his own cloak, he swung the door open to the rain already pouring down across the streets. By the time he returned, even with this damned oilskin, he was going to be soaked down to his bones. Peering down the way, he could see Eressëa and her maid disappear about the corner and spotted no one else out upon the street.

A hand caught in his elbow just as he made to step out the door. “Take care,” Anairë murmured, leaning up to kiss his lips lightly. “Bring Lindalórë home safely.”

_Bring her home?_

“Of course,” he said, pressing their brows together for a short moment, trying not to think too long on what that meant. That he was offering sanctuary to a daughter of Fëanáro. “I shall return shortly, vessenya. Try not to worry.”

“I have ample reason to worry. Always, with you men,” she scolded wetly. But, nevertheless, she gave him a push out the door. “Hurry.”

With a last deep breath, he darted out beneath the deluge, instantly feeling the dampness seeping in at the edges and corners of his body, the droplets splattering across his unprotected legs and the water seeping down into his boots. Quickly, he made for the sides of the buildings, taking advantage of what little protection they afforded. A backward glance caught him the sight of Anairë slowly closing the door behind him, the golden light of the entryway to their townhouse cut off and plunging the street into blackness.

But he knew his way well enough even through the haze of the storm. And he had faced worse than a little bit of rain. Nothing was this compared to a blizzard whilst stranded in the never-ending icy wastes of Helcaraxë with ice pelting his skin like tiny spears and frigid wind tearing at his face and eyes with invisible claws. Even now, the remembrance of it—of not only the physical pain but the mental agony of leading his people, of knowing some of them would not live to see the other side, and being able to do _nothing…_

He shook the awful memories away. Those, he found, never led to anywhere good.

Pulling his cloak tighter about himself, he trudged off into the night with determination. There was work to be done, and no time to reminisce. He had a new mission to complete.

Lindalórë was going to be taken out of the house. One way or another. Tonight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:
> 
> venno (Q) = husband  
> vessë (Q) = wife  
> Amillë (Q) = Mother  
> Atar (Q) = Father  
> Fëanárioni (Q, p) = sons of Fëanáro  
> melda (Q) = dear (one)  
> meldë (Q) = friend (female)  
> Valanya (Q) = 6th/last day of the week  
> ammelda (Q) = dearest (one)  
> vessenya (Q) = my wife


	62. In the Dark Before the Dawn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A rescue commences, amongst other happenings...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: frustration, plotting/scheming, abduction, panic/shock, sexism, swearing, objectification of women, derogatory language, psychological torture, luring/baiting, torture/beating, rape (non-explicit but heard), vomiting, minor injuries, blood imagery, trauma
> 
> These happenings almost immediately follow Arafinwë learning of the unpleasantness going around at court from his sons (same night). This chapter, my friends, is one where a real and serious trigger warning is necessary. Read the warnings. There is very heavily-implied, off-screen, non-explicit rape (along with a slew of derogatory language and psychological torture) so proceed with caution. This is (I think) probably going to be as dark as this story gets.
> 
> As a side note, the story naturally wrote itself following canon instead of the Pretend Arc, so I'm sticking with that. I might do another story (at some unspecified date in the future when this monster of a piece is complete) which might explore that idea further. Though, if anyone wants to steal the idea for their own use in the meantime, I'm not against that either.
> 
> Maedhros = Maitimo = Nelyafinwë = Nelyo = Russandol  
> Maglor = Makalaurë = Kanafinwë = Káno  
> Celegorm = Tyelkormo = Tyelko = Turkafinwë = Turko  
> Caranthir = Carnistir = Morifinwë = Moryo  
> Curufin = Atarinkë = Curufinwë = Curvo  
> Amrod = Ambarussa = Pityafinwë = Pityo = Minyarussa  
> Amras = Umbarto = Telufinwë = Telvo = Atyarussa  
> Finarfin = Arafinwë  
> Finrod = Findaráto  
> Angrod = Angaráto  
> Aegnor = Ambaráto = Aikanáro  
> Egalmoth = Aikambalotsë  
> Fingolfin = Nolofinwë  
> Aredhel = Írissë  
> Celebrimbor = Telperinquar

_Valanya, 54 Lairë (6 July)_

\---

 _This day,_ Arafinwë could not help but think as he pulled off his outer robes and carelessly left them piled upon the floor, too tired to be bothered with making certain they would not wrinkle, _has been truly awful._ Awful enough to take it out on the dirty laundry. He would have to apologize to the staff later, but, as he stepped away from his now-shed tunic and reached for the laces of his leggings, he just could not bring himself to care.

“You are troubled,” his wife said, knowing immediately that something dark and heavy rested upon his mind. She, of course, was already abed at this late hour but had diligently awaited his company in their shared bedchambers, sitting up with her silver hair loose and spilled in a mercurial wave across the finely-woven, dark blue sheets, book in hand but now carefully laid to rest face-down on her belly just below her breasts. Normally, the sight of her donned in but a thin nightgown—thin enough that he could see the pink of her nipples peeking out against the pale fabric—would have his face growing rosy and his interest rising hot in his gut.

But not today. He wondered if he would be able to partake in sexual interest at all until this whole mess had been flushed out and dealt with, because the thought of it—of young women or married women or _any women_ being _forced_ to share the same intimacy that he shared abed with his wife, of the striking realization that it was happening here, in this place that was meant to be safe where he had never expected to see it nor suspected its presence, of _What if I had gone into Exile and left Eärwen and Anairë here defenseless and alone?_ —had his stomach twisting and squeezing and pushing up uncomfortably against the back of his throat until he wanted to gag.

With a sigh, pants undone and hair wild as he tugged it from its neat braids and ties, he buried his face in his hands. He could not even bear to look at his wife. Not right now.

“Arafinwë?” From behind, he heard her shifting, sitting up and pushing the covers down in a soft rustle of heavy, richly-embroidered cloth and cloud-soft sheet. “Arafinwë? Has something happened?”

Her hands touched him from behind, whispered across the sore stiffness of his shoulders, down over their blades, sweeping in a braided pattern across his spine. Beneath her touch, he shuddered, feeling the outer shell of his shock and his horror crack and then shatter like a delicate glass bauble. This time, he did gag. And his shoulders hitched sharply with the catch of his lungs against a sob.

 _I should not weep,_ he scolded himself harshly and without forgiveness. _I do not have the right to weep about this._

Except, that did nothing to make the burning in his eyes stop. Feeling Eärwen wrap her arms about him from behind, tasting her sweet-salty scent on the air, taking in the fall of her long hair tangling with his own in a waterfall of silver and gold that trailed down his chest, he felt it all coming unraveled. Nothing in the world could have made him feel so safe when he felt so weak as her embrace wrapping all around him, enfolding and gentle as she breathed against the back of his neck. “Arafinwë, talk to me.”

“I do not think I can speak without blubbering,” he admitted, choking on the words as his breath hitched again. “It… It is not good.”

“It is okay,” she murmured against his shoulder. Her hands, folded over his shoulders, massaged deep into the trembling muscle. Another sob shuddered its way out of his lungs, and he squeezed his eyes against the tears that wanted to come, that stung harsher than hard liquor in the back of the throat, that burned hotter than the lick of the hearth’s flame upon bare skin. “Arafinwë, you can let it out. It is just me here. Just me.”

They were alone, encased in their own private sanctuary. Slowly, he turned in her arms, leaning forward to rest his face against her body, nuzzling into the crook of her neck like a child seeking comfort from his mother.

It would not be the first time she had held him thusly. Or the last.

Her fingers trailed through his hair. “You do not need to tell me now what it is that has you so worried and so aggrieved. But I like it not seeing you so upset, aurenya.”

Her words were like golden light in his veins. At that moment, he knew he would willingly curl up in her arms and spill all. And he would weep whilst doing it. And she would not shower him in shame for being weak and needing her strength—for she had always been the stronger of the pair, and Arafinwë would never dare deny that to himself or anyone else—nor would she blame him for his folly.

After hearing his words, she would stroke his hair until he ceased in his lamentation. And then she would already have a suggestion about what to do to fix the problem. Eärwen was like that, and he knew not what he would do without her at his back. Probably crumble and fall apart into a mess of jelly and anxiety on the floor. He certainly would never have survived even his first day as sovereign over the bloodthirsty and vicious courtiers of Tirion, let alone the countless years since.

“Findaráto and Ambaráto have been working on an extracurricular project for me,” he whispered against her skin. “They came to me tonight to speak of their findings, and I…”

His voice choked up again at the thought of telling her what had been found, of explaining what they had missed and how he had been so blind and lax in his duties, and he shivered down the length of his spine. At his back, her hands clutched tighter, and then stroked over him soothingly, almost petting him back into languid calm even as his emotions tried to rise up and strangle him into silence. “There is no need to rush,” she said against his temple, her lips softer than the softest rose petals. “Take all the time that you n—”

And then came the knock on the door.

Jerking sharply within the circle of her embrace, he lifted his head. A helpless sniffle departed as he peeled himself away from her slender body—from the circle of her arms where he desperately wanted to remain—in a herculean effort through the pain shrieking across his spirit, and separated them once more into two entities where they had begun to merge fully into one. The sense of safety and softness, of warmth and welcome, vanished as though carried away by a sharp winter wind.

Carelessly, he scrubbed at his eyes, blinking them to find that Eärwen’s face had morphed from tender into a frown, her eyes grown sharp as they rested upon the door to their bedchambers. “What could they possibly want at this hour?” she hissed out.

Shakily, he forced his hair back into some semblance of order and prayed that his eyes were not red-rimmed. Pushing the tears back made his head ache, but he did it anyway. As a sovereign, it was his duty to serve first and care for himself later, and, thus, he was not going to ignore an interruption to his private time with his wife, no matter that it was likely to be some overblown message of supposed importance from a noble with an over-inflated belief of their own self-importance who wanted something done _right this second_ and felt they needed to let him know immediately despite the fact that he was not going to get back up and go do paperwork or some such nonsense until he had had at _least_ three hours of sleep.

If he got any sleep at all this night. Which he doubted he would.

“Yes?” he called out, “What is it?”

His manservant peered inside, naturally hesitant for how many times he had stumbled across the royal couple in the midst of a compromising situation. Seeing that both were fully-dressed (if a Eärwen’s translucent nightgown and Arafinwë’s undone leggings could really be called as such with decency) he stepped inside. “You have a visitor, your Majesty,” the servant announced with a bowed head, “A very insistent one.”

Arafinwë sighed. His least favorite type of nighttime interruption: the sort that required he actually get from his bed up and redress. “Who has come knocking at this time of night?”

It would not have surprised him if it were some councilor or adviser. It would not even have surprised him if it was his brother—Nolofinwë could be that much of a demanding ass sometimes—or, perhaps, another high-ranking courtier.

“It is Prince Angaráto,” the servant answered, and then added hesitantly, “He brought a blacksmith with him.”

Just like that, Arafinwë was up on his feet. If his face had been reddened by the oncoming threat of tears just moments ago, it must now be the white of stripped bone, because he _felt_ the drain of blood from beneath his skin as a splash of icy water to the face.

“Arafinwë?” Eärwen jerked in alarm at his sudden movement.

Of course, she knew of their son’s imprisonment, knew that Angaráto lived away from Tirion and in seclusion for the most part to escape the stresses of the city and its loudness and brusqueness, but she did not know details. Not the sorts of details that Arafinwë knew because he had _seen_ with his own two eyes what had become of his child in the deepest pits of Angamando, because he had _been there_ in the flesh when the followers of Fëanáro had literally _carried_ his boy out of the smoldering rubble of the Dark Lord’s fortress, because he had sat through the first long months of nightmares and insomnia and panic attacks and hysteria that followed.

He could not have forgotten the person who had _been_ the one carrying his son out of the ruinous fortress of Angamando either. Not even had he wanted to. Which, he acknowledged, a rather great part of him _did._

“If Angaráto is here in the middle of the night in a storm, it would be for something important,” he answered, hastily doing up his leggings and reaching for the wrinkled tunic lying in a lump on the floor. Nothing more did he say, for he did not particularly want to think of _why_ Angaráto would be here in the middle of the night with _him._

Just that it could mean nothing good.

Dressed enough to face his son, though looking rumpled and exhausted as he saw when he glanced sideways at the mirror of his wife’s vanity, Arafinwë deemed himself decent to leave the privacy of the bedchambers. “Take me to him,” he ordered, perhaps more vehemently and shortly than he might usually order the servants about, judging by the slightly taken aback wideness of his manservant’s eyes.

“Right away, your Majesty.”

It was out in the hallway, right outside the still-open door, that they ran into his wife’s primary handmaiden donned in her own nightgown with a heavy robe thrown haphazardly over and her hair pulled into a hasty bun at the nape of her neck. She had been trotting along at speed and turned the corner almost so swiftly as to run into the manservant’s back, just barely managing to keep the candle she held from being thrust against the man’s tunic where it might have set him aflame. Her gasp drew the eyes of both King and servant, as if the sudden blurred swish of candlelight in the otherwise darkened hallway had not already captured their attention.

“Forgive me for my haste, your Majesty,” she apologized immediately.

Arafinwë, already somewhat annoyed at being interrupted after a long and harsh day, still feeling more like weeping than going to have a late-night meeting with his most damaged and potentially most fragile child, could not help the rising feeling of ire as his headache throbbed behind the bridge of his nose and his patience began to fail. “For what reason are you running through the halls so late at night?” he questioned.

The maid also looked startled at the snap of his voice. Her curtsy was deep as her face lowered to avoid his gaze. “Your Majesty, I came to inform the Queen that Lady Anairë is waiting in the marigold sitting room. She is in quite a state.”

Biting back an inappropriate snipe about how _everyone was in quite a state tonight,_ he turned his head to meet his wife’s gaze. Eärwen, already sensing that he was feeling overwhelmed, let out a quiet sigh. “Worry not, vennonya. I will go and see what it is that has happened. Most likely, she just wants some company away from her nitpicky husband.”

It was awfully late at night for needing _just some company,_ but he did not argue. The mysteries of women were beyond his understanding at times. “Very well.”

Seeing that the King’s gaze had swiftly migrated back to rest heavily upon him, the manservant offered a bow. “This way, your Majesty.”

It was only by assuring himself that _it could not possibly be worse than the news he had already received this night_ that he managed not to completely lose his composure as he was led straight back to the cold study he had vacated not long before, the hearth relit and smoldering, and two men soaked through by the rain—now pounding with the heaviness of angry fists against the shaking glass of the windows—standing in wait.

One, his son, golden hair damp and dark, his curls weighed down by the water streaked through his mane. The other, the blacksmith, looking exactly the same as he had on _that day_ except for a lack of blood-splatter all across his front and face. The same dark hair blending in with the shadow-ridden corners of the room and same dark eyes turning to stare unnervingly into Arafinwë’s soul.

“Go,” he ordered the servant, not patient enough for kindness. Only when the door clicked shut did he eye his undesirable visitors, feeling his heart pound and his palms sweat. “What is it that brings you both to my household so late at night?”

“An important missive,” Angaráto said without hesitation, face set in harsher lines than Arafinwë had seen it since the birth of Artaheru. The younger man reached into the layers of his clothing, pulling out a small envelope that had somehow managed to completely avoid being soaked despite the wet outer appearance of its royal carrier. At the look on his father’s face—truly, his son had come all this way in the middle of the night in the _rain_ and the _lightning_ over a _letter?_ —Angaráto held the missive out. “It is quite important, Atar. I would not be here if it was not.”

Reaching for the letter-opener on his desk, Arafinwë almost violently sliced the envelope open, taking note that he did not recognize the hand upon the parchment. Pulling out the small paper, he began to read.

It was short, concise, and disturbing. And he dearly wished that he could put it back within its papery housing, pretend that it did not exist, and go back to bed with his wife.

_Why is all of this happening now?_

\---  
_To King Arafinwë of the House of Finwë:_

_I seek contact with the House of Fëanáro urgently but know not whence they live or otherwise how to send a message that will reach the hands of Nelyafinwë Fëanárion expediently. Have you a way, please, tell them that my father, Hendumaika of the House of Helyanwë, seeks to negate my marriage to Curufinwë Fëanárion against my will, and that I am in need of immediate aid as soon as might be sent._

_In humble gratitude,_  
Lady Lindalórë Fëanáriel  
\---

He threw the message down upon his desk in frustration. “How long ago was this missive written? Is she still in dire need?”

The pair exchanged glances. “To my knowledge from speaking to my friend here,” Angaráto began, “It has been some eight days since the departure of Curufinwë and Aikambalotsë—Lindalórë’s brother—from Tirion on a quest to assist the House of Nolofinwë with recovering their wayward member. This letter was written three days ago, however.”

 _Much can happen in three days,_ Arafinwë could not help but think with dread. “And she is not married against her will already?”

“Not that we are aware,” his son answered. “From my understanding, her fiancé, chosen for her by her father, is a man named Calmacil. He has been observed on multiple occasions acting in a cruel manner towards her, leaving visible injuries. Lady Lindalórë herself has not been seen abroad for two days now, so none know whether or not she remains safe or if something of ill nature has happened to her already.”

It made Arafinwë’s legs felt weak at the knees. First, Findaráto and Ambaráto bring horrible news of his long-standing oversight of dark happenings in his own court and his own kingdom, and now something like this…

He could not understand it. For long moments, he tried. Tried to think of why a man would try to hand his daughter off to someone who treated her violently. Was it out of fear of the Fëanárioni now that they were creeping insidiously back into society? Was it out of revenge or intentional cruelty and Lindalórë was but a tool in that vengeance? Was it something else entirely which had driven a man to sacrifice his child in such a manner, condemning her to such a horrid fate?

No matter the answer, Arafinwë could not understand it. Not for a moment. If he had found a man harming his daughter, he would have wanted to set said man aflame and watch him scream and writhe as he burned to carbonized dust!

With a mixture of instinctive rage and protectiveness and guilt and horror all swirling together with the exhaustion that was creeping heavily through his bones, Arafinwë found himself resisting the urge to throw something at the far wall and cry right there in the middle of his study. Not the quiet, intimate, picturesque type of crying. The loud, sobbing, screaming, raging type of crying. The kind that ended in shattered china and cracked windows and chips in the fine marble of the mantlepiece above the hearth.

Instead, he sat in his chair with his hands folded on his desk and his lips pursed in a thin line. “What would you have me do now, in the middle of the night?” he choked out.

Because what _could_ he do now, in the middle of the night? Not march up to the house belonging to Hendumaika and demand that his daughter be handed over, certainly, though that was very much what he would have liked to do! Feeling as powerless in this matter as he had when sitting before his other two sons not but a little more than an hour ago, he wondered that they called him a King at all when he could not do _anything_ to help _anyone_ with expediency for fear of how it might _look_ because he, more so than any other person in the entirety of the kingdom, was bound by _propriety._

He could not afford to be rash. And he hated it.

Angaráto let out a sigh. “For one, we should make a plan to contact Nelyafinwë and be certain it is implemented at the earliest convenience. I would ride up that damn mountain tonight if I thought I would not get lost or break my neck in the storm! And there is also the matter of removing Lindalórë from her father’s house.”

“Without inarguable _proof_ of something reprehensible going on, my hands are tied,” he said immediately, slicing through the naïve belief that he was some sort of all-powerful being capable of taking in hand any situation at the drop of a hat.

“Dozens of men have seen Calmacil mistreating Lady Lindalórë in public,” the blacksmith burst out, speaking for the first time since Arafinwë’s arrival, voice low and raspy with his fury now peeking out from behind an appropriately reverent façade. “I have seen it myself! My sons have seen it! The shoemaker across the street has seen it! Many, I am certain, would be willing to give their _word!”_

And it made Arafinwë feel saddened and infuriated both—on behalf of these well-meaning men and on behalf of Lindalórë—that he could not leap to his feet and declare that _enough._ It _should_ be enough. But it was not. Especially given that the man before him was a follower of the Fëanárioni and could be labeled biased in favor of Curufinwë Fëanárion—perhaps even beholden to lie for the man out of loyalty or debt—should anyone ever learn. And it was Court. They _would_ learn. Of that, Arafinwë had no doubt.

“No courtier will believe the words of a commoner over the words of Hendumaika of the House of Helyanwë,” he said, voice low and calm. Too calm.

“But _you_ know that we speak the truth!” the man bit out. “Certainly, you trust the words of your own people!”

Letting out a long breath, Arafinwë tried to remain calm and level-headed about the situation, about the unfortunate circumstances that left his hands tied. “I do trust your words despite your former affiliation with my half-brother and his sons,” he tried to soothe, “But I cannot hear the story from a man on one side of an argument without hearing the story from the other side as well before casting judgment. I am a King, subject to the scrutiny of my councilors and advisers and courtiers who can and _will_ try to remove me and my family from this throne should they feel I am compromised, not a god who might do whatever he pleases. I cannot show favor to one man over another no matter my personal opinion of their trustworthiness.”

Disappointment burned in the blacksmith’s gaze, and it echoed in Angaráto’s, which stung all the more. Feeling pitiful and disgusted with his own situation, Arafinwë leaned back and tried to maintain his fragile mask of calm thought. “I will certainly send a message to Nelyafinwë as quickly as possible, but I cannot—”

A harsh knocking at the door interrupted. Arafinwë grabbed his own wrist to resist his instinctive and violent reaction as he began to reach for something to throw at the door; he instead bit the back of his lip and tasted blood whilst he struggled to keep from snarling out an ill-thought-upon response to match his current dark mood. And he was glad that he did, because the voice that came through from the opposite side was not the appropriate respectful tones of his manservant.

“Arafinwë! Arafinwë, open this door, we need to speak! It is urgent!”

His wife. Eärwen.

 _And here I thought that Anairë was only here for some comforting and reassurance over something stupid my brother had done,_ he mentally groaned, immediately moving to open the door. _Why is everything happening now, at the same time?_

As soon as the door opened, his wife and sister-in-law spilled in.

“Your brother,” Eärwen began, halfway between disdainful rage and wild panic, “Has gone and done something incredibly brave and incredibly foolish! That blockhead has decided, in his infinite wisdom, to go on a self-assigned mission to _abduct_ Lady Lindalórë alone in the middle of the night in a thunderstorm!”

It took precious long moments to process those words. In a deep swoop, his stomach seemed to fall down to the vicinity of his toes and, somehow, simultaneously try to launch itself up and out of his body through his throat.

“Nolofinwë has _what?”_ Confused and very, very concerned, he looked from his wife to Anairë and back.

Let it never said, though, that Arafinwë Finwion was a dim man, however. Quickly, his mind assembled all the evidence laid before his eyes from the words and faces of all those present before him, and he arrived swiftly to a conclusion.

Now, with all five of them standing in the room together—a commoner, a Prince, the King and Queen, and the King’s sister-in-law—it became apparent that the plight of Angaráto and the blacksmith was the very same as the plight of Anairë, that these two partnerships of Angaráto and the blacksmith and Eärwen and Anairë represented two fronts of two allies in the same battle unknowingly working together towards the same goal, each blind to the presence and movements of the other, suddenly colliding in a tangled mess of limbs and swords.

And Arafinwë stood ankle-deep in the resulting mess.

“I am going to need a more thorough explanation,” he choked out, feeling as though he had been hit in the face suddenly and could now no longer find his former train of thought, “Because it sounds to me like you just said that _Nolofinwë_ has decided to recklessly give aid to a _daughter of Fëanáro_ for no discernable reason and without my permission in the middle of the night, and I am not quite certain I understand or that I heard that quite correctly.”

The pair of women exchanged a glance between them. One that made his heart sink down to rest low in his gut. “No, that sounds like a correct summary,” his wife said, only slightly calmed now that she had shared her news. “Did you… did you already know about Lindalórë?”

Of course, she was going to pick up upon the fact that he was not shocked about Lindalórë needing aid, but about the fact that Nolofinwë was lending it. And recklessly at that.

But then, this was the man who had died foolishly engaged in single combat against a being more powerful than any singular Vala. There was a brief moment of shock, and then the horrible feeling of wondering why he was even surprised. For all that Nolofinwë acted shocked and disturbed by his daughter’s tendency to run off out of the blue, he was hardly any better or saner than his progeny!

 _Concentrate on the matter at hand,_ he scolded himself as his mind began to slip into a state of dread.

“I… You are not the only important guests come to speak on her behalf,” he said, looking over his shoulder at his son, whose eyebrows were raised, and the blacksmith, who looked as though he wanted to seep into the cracks in the floor. “I think we should all take a deep breath, sit down, and discuss this matter civilly. Starting with Nolofinwë running off thoughtlessly to… what… kidnap a woman from her father’s house?”

“Yes,” Anairë murmured, wringing her hands. “Yes, that is what he is doing. Right now. There was no time to waste in asking for aid.”

“Of course,” Arafinwë groaned and took care to _not_ bury his face in his hands like he wished to do. Anyone who claimed that Nolofinwë was neither as impulsive nor as maniacal as Fëanáro had been clearly knew nothing about his older brother at all!

 _I am going to be lacking half my sanity by the end of the night,_ he thought to himself, wanting to curl up and cover his face. If he could not see it happening around him, might he then wake up in the morning with sunlight streaming down upon his face and know that none of these awful things happening were true?

Except, as Anairë began to explain, in brutal detail, the inner workings of the House of Helyanwë—as the blacksmith, pale-faced and nervous, corroborated her details one by one from the perspective of the outsiders looking in—he knew it _was_ real.

Somehow, that just made all of it so much worse. So much more tangible. So very impossible to wish away.

 _I wish that I could just go back to bed,_ he thought, horrified.

Instead, he listened.

\---

There was no word from her mother.

But she could hear them outside her door.

At first, it was just a maid informing her that dinner would soon be served and that she had a guest waiting downstairs. With her softest voice, feeling shaky all over, her hair standing on end with static fear, she asked if her mother was yet home.

“No,” the maid answered, sounding just as quiet and nervous from the other side.

And Lindalórë refused to leave her room. Instead, she locked her door and curled up on her bed wearing a loose dress and a thick, soft and fluffy robe. Yet, the warm comfort of the softness did nothing to combat the chilly note rising and falling in the symphony of her nervous spirit as it flitted and shuddered, waiting in the following silence as the seconds ticked away in oozing waves of stretched and distended time. Nothing came to her mind that could distract her from the tiniest noises from outside, from every creak of the house and every squeak of a floorboard beyond her sanctuary.

There was the sound of footsteps again, sending her heart racing so quickly that her head spun, and the following gentle knock at the door. “My lady?” It was the maid again, and her voice trembled gently. “My lady, are you ready for dinner? Your father is demanding your presence downstairs, as they are waiting upon your arrival.”

Lindalórë said nothing. Outside, the sky rapidly darkened as the last of the afternoon sunlight was dyed to black. The curtains were half-open, and she could see the way the sky churned into a muddy gray, could taste the oncoming storm upon her tongue and breathed it deep into her lungs. She let out a sigh that sounded too much like a sob.

And she said nothing.

“My lady?” the maid called again, sounding distressed. But, eventually, she went away when Lindalórë refused to answer.

The rain started pouring. And Lindalórë pulled her robe more tightly around her shoulders as she waited for something to happen. The first rumble of thunder beneath her feet made her jump, her voice squeaking in panic, and she covered her lips with her hand to quiet herself as her eyes stung.

Her mother’s words replayed in her head. That she should not leave this room until Eressëa was home. That she should stay here and not open the door for any reason.

The next time someone knocked, it was loud and hard, the rhythm short and filled with infuriated sharpness. It made the door’s hinges rattle, and she pressed a pillow against her mouth to keep herself from shouting in response. Wide-eyed, she stared, waiting for someone to speak, frozen where she sat upon the bed. Even though her whole spirit screamed that she should get up, that she should hide in her wardrobe or lock herself in her bathing chambers, she could not make her muscles move. If she tried to stand, she feared that she would stumble and fall as a puppet cut from its strings, so weak did she feel in that moment, staring down the rectangle of wood between her and a fate she did not want to imagine.

“Lindalórë!” It was her father. “For the Valar’s sake, wendë, what are you doing in there? Quit playing these damned childish games and come out here!”

She squeezed her eyes shut and prayed that he would go away.

“Do not make me take more drastic measures,” he added, and the timbre of his voice was one that put the wildest threats of Fëanáro—always uttered in rage rather than purposeful malice—to shame with ease. Because, rather than sounding angry, he sounded like he _meant those words,_ so calm and collected and passionless were they, dripping in ice-cold premeditated threat. “Do not make someone else suffer for your stubbornness, yendë.”

When she did not answer, he let out a long-suffering noise and went away.

And her muscles unlocked. Indeed, she stumbled, but only as a newborn fawn, immediately crawling back upwards, her knees smarting and aching, with her hands against the wall until her legs were again steady beneath her weight. Keeping a hand on the wall and another over her mouth—not only to keep herself quiet, but because she felt as though she might be sick then and there—she found her way into the bathing chambers and locked the door. Having used all the strength she could muster through the throbbing gray speckles of panic dotting her vision, she collapsed on the cold floor and scooted back into a corner, looking around.

Nothing here would she have called a weapon. There were a handful of small items that could have been thrown, but nothing heavy enough to strike a true blow. Little did she want to think of it, but, if someone were to come inside, she must do _something_ to protect herself, even something so simple as throwing jewelry or baubles or pots of cream at her attacker.

Hopelessly, she stared at the door. Outside, now, the storm was raging. And she cursed it, because she could not hear or differentiate the coming and going of footsteps from the near-constant rumbling, could not hear if there was someone coming from violent gusts of wind buffeting the side of the house. It all blurred together into a cacophony of confused and tangled noise that made her nausea all the worse, bile making itself known on the back of her palate.

And then the sound of something scratching along the door almost left her shrieking, brought her to the knife’s edge of weeping. Shakily, she stood, looking for anything she might use to stay an attack as the handle of the door was jostled, twisting and turning until it rattled. Then, when that did not yield results, she heard a voice through the door.

“Lindalórë,” it hissed, male and unfamiliar but deep. “Are you in there?”

 _There is a stranger in my room,_ she thought to herself hysterically, wondering if this was some new ploy of her father’s and Calmacil’s to lure her out. _There is some man I do not know standing in my room, whispering to me through the door._

Did she say something? Did she try to stay hidden?

Did she come out of hiding?

“I know you are in there,” the stranger said, sounding caught somewhere between annoyance and stress. “Your mother said you were not to leave your rooms until she spoke with you, and she only just arrived home moments ago, so I know she has not. Therefore, if you are not out here, either you are stupider than I thought or you must be in there. She sent me to fetch you.”

 _It could be a lie._ Her father was no idiot. It was very likely that he had grown suspicious of his wife in the past few days, especially given that she had gone out of her way—albeit logically and rationally with her voice cold and dead—to be certain her daughter was not “compromised” by being left alone with a suitor unchaperoned. If he had discovered Eressëa’s plotting and betrayal, if he had learned of their agreement, might he send someone to flush Lindalórë out by tricking her into believing the stranger was, in truth, a friend rather than a foe waiting to attack the moment she opened the door?

“For Eru’s sake,” the man on the other side of the door growled, “Come out, or I _will_ find a way inside. Damn you, nís, I did not come all the way out here, almost slip and kill myself climbing up to that damn balcony in the rain, only to be caught in the bedroom of my nephew’s wife as though we were having some sort of illicit rendezvous! Come out of there before we are caught!”

_His… his nephew’s… wife?_

Her husband had but two uncles. In her mind she tried to gauge if the voice she heard resembled either one, but she knew neither of them so well as to recognize them by sound alone. Not only that, but she could not imagine either of them willingly doing anything so rash to help her as breaking into the house like a robber in the night nor assisting her as she fled into the wild storm raging just beyond her window, and it made her mind bend and twist trying to reconcile that mental image with reality. “Who… who are you?” she asked nervously through the door.

“Nolofinwë,” he hissed out, trying to remain quiet but still be heard over the roar of thunder. “For fuck’s sake, it is always like this with thou damn men and women of the House of Fëanáro! Why must all of you be so damn difficult?”

Well, it perhaps did sound a little like it could be him. He was not one for pleasantries when it came to her husband’s family, that was for certain. But, even so, everyone knew of Nolofinwë’s disdain for Fëanáro and his brood, so it could be anyone pretending to be the Prince. Biting her lip, she leaned against the door.

It was perhaps asking for too much, but…

“You came to speak to me about Írissë when she first disappeared,” Lindalórë gasped out. “When you asked whether you might question me about what she said when she visited my home that morning, what did I say?”

Through the door, he groaned quietly. “You said that I may ask but you may decide not to answer. Like a damned little brat.”

She swallowed sharply, because that was so.

“And… and when I told you I wished to speak about her frankly, what did I say?”

The previous question had been an interaction that happened before an entire roomful of people, including her mother and father. But the second question was about a private conversation that they had had alone. And she wondered if he would remember, when _she_ remembered that he seemed to hear naught at all of what she said next.

There came a quiet thump on the door, as though he might have laid his head upon it with force. And he sighed. “You said that she was upset that I allowed her brothers the privilege of companionship with whomever they might choose but restricted her from the same consideration and kept her locked away to keep her in check. You said that she felt restrained and restricted, that she felt alone without friends or family at her back, and that she felt like she had no voice that could be heard. And you said that she was not perfect, and that she had limits to what she could endure. And I ignored you.”

 _At least he is willing to admit it,_ she thought, no matter that he sounded both exasperated and hesitantly ashamed when he spoke.

Slowly, she unlatched the door and peered out.

It was definitely Prince Nolofinwë standing outside the door to her bathroom, his eyes so pale a blue that they almost shone white through the darkness of the unlit bedroom beyond. He was sopping wet, dripping all over the expensive carpet, and letting in a flurry of torrential rain through the balcony door left open. The curtains whipped violently back with the wind.

“Amillë sent you?” she asked hesitantly.

“Lady Eressëa came to my wife to beg for help,” he answered. “She said it was urgent, and we decided we should not wait to remove you from the house. Forgive my intrusion, but she dared not try to warn you in advance.”

Had she not been in such a state—caught between hysterical laughter at the ridiculousness of having a man of the royal family who did not even _like_ her or her husband breaking into her father’s house to _rescue her_ like something out of a maiden’s novel and falling straight out of her mind and into a state of blank panic at the sheer stress of knowing that the clock was ticking and her father could be back _any moment_ with Calmacil on his heels—she might have been angry. Of course, leave it to a man to be ridiculous enough to try to jostle open the door _before_ announcing himself and his intentions! But she was a hair’s breadth away from throwing up all over his boots, so she said nothing.

He looked her up and down with a judgmental eye, more like a man eyes a sword than like he eyes a woman. “You should change into something you can climb in,” he said, eyeing the heavy robe and the way her gown tangled about her legs, “And grab anything you want to bring with you. We should not wait long.”

Shakily, she nodded, forcing all the panic back down, taking in his suggestion and deeming it wise. Her small pack was still situated beside her bed, prepared and ready to go. Somewhere in her wardrobe, she was certain she had an old pair of Curufinwë’s trousers that, while undoubtedly being too large, would be less likely to make her trip and fall from great height than a flurry of wind-whipped skirts soaked and heavy with the flood of rain.

Forcing her legs to move, she started ripping through her clothing, looking for something unrestrictive to wear. It was just as she threw out a pair of old boots (likely too big, she thought they might have been Telperinquar’s at some point but he had outgrown them and she had taken them for working out in the garden of their cottage home), which clattered to the floor, and grabbed a ratty pair of old trousers hidden at the bottom of a drawer filled otherwise with underthings, that she heard another knock at the door, just as hard and cruel as the first. Her head shot back out of the wardrobe, her eyes finding Nolofinwë standing still as a startled doe and staring at the singular entrance her to her chambers, teeth bared.

“Lindalórë!” This time, it was Calmacil’s voice that bled through the wood, and she felt the blood seep from her face. Lightheaded, she swayed.

“Open up!” The knob was twisted and shaken as he attempted to force the door. “Bloody bitch! If you would just quit being so stubborn, this would not need to be so unpleasant as you have made it! But, rest assured, what with how much you have attempted to humiliate me in public and before your father’s eyes, I will make this as painful and unpleasant as I can! And I will enjoy every second of hearing you cry, you damned cunt!”

The threats had her quivering, wanting to press her legs together. The other member of the room looked disturbed, mouth twisted with horror and brows lowered in a furious glare. Nolofinwë’s lips parted as if to speak, but no words emerged.

“Or, maybe, I should demonstrate on your damn maid first,” he crowed through the door, “Since you do not want my attentions for yourself. Maybe she will enjoy them more than you, you ungrateful bitch!”

_No… He would not. Atar would not allow that. Surely, Atar would not allow that!_

There was the sound of a half-stifled cry from outside, blatantly female, followed by a thud against the door and the sound of skin upon skin in a loud crack to rival the boom at the onslaught of thunder. And then the sound of his laughter as that yielded another shrill cry stuttering through the deafening slurry of the rain and the scream of the wind. Lindalórë, almost unthinkingly, shot towards the door. Because she _needed_ to do something to make that _stop right this instant!_ She could _not_ allow someone else to be punished in her place, not like _that!_ She would take her own fists to Calmacil before allowing it!

A hand grabbed her about her arm and dragged her away, kept her from her goal. And Lindalórë fought its grip as she was pulled further and further back, struggled and clawed at the grasp, and then writhed when another arm came around her and covered her mouth to stifle the shout that had begun to emerge when she was not released.

“Think,” Nolofinwë hissed furiously against her ear. “Do not let him lure you out. That is exactly what he wants.”

“No? Are you going to just stand in there and listen?” Calmacil was calling, and the sound of it made her blood boil and her skin crawl. “Maybe we should go inside and show Lady Lindalórë exactly what she is missing, hm? What say you, whimpering bitch?”

The door handle was rattling again.

And Nolofinwë was pulling them into the bathroom and locking the door. Standing between it and her as he released her from his iron grasp, back against it and blocking access to the handle as she began to pound and claw at his front. “What is wrong with you?” she cried out. “Let me… You have to let me…”

“Get ahold of yourself,” he responded sharply. “What will going out there accomplish?”

 _It will make him stop,_ she wanted to say. Except, part of her knew that it would not. Part of her knew it would only encourage him to continue. Part of her knew that, if she opened that door, he would come inside and continue to beat both her and the maid. Or worse. Because he was not there to make her yield. He was there to torture her, to make her hurt. And he was not going to cease if she surrendered and allowed him inside.

Slowly, her struggling gave way into clutching at the fabric of Nolofinwë’s tunic. “I cannot leave her like that,” she whimpered out, and it came out sounding too much like a cry.

“You need to think straight,” he ordered her, coached her, not gentle but not unkind. Just straightforward in a way that some might have called ruthless or callous. “If you go out there, if you open the door, that will be it. You will have lost and he will have won. And it will do nothing to help you or your friend.”

He was right. Damn him, but he was.

“I would throw you over my shoulder and carry you down to the damn gardens if I could,” he said then, his frustration hiding the shimmering sound of fear riding upon his breath, “But even I am not that talented. You need to be focused on escaping, because I cannot get you out of this house without your cooperation, Lindalórë.”

She just nodded, mouth set and eyes still dry. Now was not the time for crying, no matter how much she would have wished to collapse right there and scream until her vocal chords tore.

It was then, while they stood there waiting for her to recover her breath, that both stiffened at the sound of the bedroom door being forced. The wood must have cracked and splintered, because the sound zipped through her ears and left her flinching sharply. Heavy footsteps beat into her carpet, as well as the sound of a woman sobbing as she was dragged along, heels digging in and scraping upon the floor.

“Hiding in the bathroom,” Calmacil scoffed. “Fine, you will be able to hear the happenings out here just fine from in there, will you not, Lindalórë? Just remember, this is but a _taste_ of what you have earned when you come out!”

Looking up, she could see a strange glaze to Nolofinwë’s eyes, staring straight forward over the top of her head and seeing nothing of the bathroom wall opposite his gaze. Felt the same shocked horror fall as a veil in her own eyes as she listened to the sounds coming from beyond the door. They stayed there, pressed together in the bathroom with nothing but a candle for light, and she buried her face into his chest and covered her ears at the sound of flesh upon bone and the tearing of fabric.

And the screaming. And the begging. Well could she imagine what was going on outside that door, but she kept her eyes closed and did not move.

It lasted forever. And there was nothing she could do to make it cease. All she knew was the half-muffled sounds and the feeling of broad hands biting into her shoulders until they ached and the rise and fall of another’s breath beneath her cheek.

Until, eventually, it was done.

“Still not ready to come out?” Calmacil asked her through the door, and she knew he was so close, just on the other side, that the sound of rasping was his hand upon the wood, and the jiggle of the knob was his fingers trying to force it half-heartedly. “Worry not. I shall be back. Again, and again, until you decide to cease making others suffer for your stubbornness.”

And then he left, smug voice lingering in the air heavily.

Pulling away from Nolofinwë, she could think of nothing but kneeling at the porcelain pot and being violently sick, and the tears came along with the acidic sourness on her tongue and the coughing as she tried to clear her airway of the mess. Gentle hands pulled back her hair, braiding it silently with swift, practiced fingers and knotting the bottom to keep it out of her face as she retched.

But he did not give her long. As soon as she managed to cease, she heard his voice through the ringing in her ears.

“We have to go,” Nolofinwë said to her, voice soft. “Please, we do not have time for this. We have to go now, while we have the chance.”

As soon as she felt like she would not vomit again if she moved, she nodded in ascent. The pair of trousers were still in her hands, clutched so tight she wondered that they had not been torn or dropped in the midst of her fury, and she did not even care that he was in the room as she pulled them on beneath her gown and then tore the flowing fabric off over her head to replace it with a loose blouse left lying dirty on the floor. He at least did her the dignity of looking away, occupying himself with unlocking and peering out into the ravaged bedroom warily.

The door was hanging open when she followed him out of hiding, and no one was standing guard. Clearly, the men believed she would be too cowed to try to make an escape, if she was stupid enough to attempt one through the house at all. They thought her trapped here and knew they could wait her out through torture. Quietly, she closed the bathroom door in her wake, left it looking as though she were hiding within its flimsy sanctuary still such that, when they came back, perhaps they would not suspect she had left at first glance. 

The maid was gone from the room, taken with Calmacil when he left, but the smell of blood lingered. And the sight of it upon her sheets and on the carpet and against the wall. It left her feeling nauseous and staring blankly, standing still with shock, until Nolofinwë grabbed her arm and pulled.

 _Put it aside,_ she told herself. _Be strong. Put it aside. Concentrate._

Forcing her brain to work, she reminded herself that she needed her cloak and her pack. Both were out and waiting for her, and she was ready to leave within moments. Still, no one came knocking even as the pair hastened out onto the balcony and into the sheets of rain falling as an onslaught upon their bodies.

Nolofinwë went first, nimbly going back down the side of the mansion the way he had come. Cautiously, Lindalórë followed, feeling cold down to her bones but refusing to tremble until her feet touched the grass below.

As she took the final jump, she landed and stumbled with a shot of pain in her ankle. Larger hands steadied her with a grip at her shoulders, and she would see pale eyes through the night.

“Pull your hood up,” he ordered. “We do not want to be recognized.”

Hastily, she pulled her braid back and pulled the hood up over her already-soaked head and rain-slicked face. Would that she could have left it down and let the rain wash against her in all its raging glory, drowning everything she had just seen and heard away into its swirling masses, down deep into the earth where it might never reach the light of day.

Alas, it was not to be.

The pair went around the side of the house following that familiar path she had traversed the last time she had snuck out with Curufinwë. Through the garden, over the fence, out onto the street. They stuck to the shadows as they went all the while, though the blackness of night and the heaviness of the rain were enough to hide their presence from prying eyes looking out of windows into the darkness.

It felt like the blink of an eye. Compared with the small eternity of sitting behind that bathroom door and listening as another woman was ravaged, she wondered that time seemed suddenly to pass so fast. She wondered that it passed at all and did not remain as frozen as her mind felt, fixated upon what she had heard through the muffle of her hands.

Too soon, they arrived at their destination. He led her into the house, lit from within. It was not the great luxury she would have expected from a royal family, but she would not have said anything about that even had she the heart to speak.

“Let us… let us find you a room,” he said then, sounding uncomfortable as he stripped away his cloak and hung it. As if in a daze, she followed suit.

And then followed him through the townhouse and up the stairs. Followed him until he led her to a room that looked pristine and empty of all life, clearly meant to house temporary guests and not belonging to anyone. Floating upon the shock, she set her pack down upon the done-up bed and then sat beside it, trembling.

“We left her there,” she said brokenly.

And he hovered awkwardly in the doorway. “Yes, we did,” he answered, hand clenching upon the doorframe. “I am… I am sorry we could not do more.”

And he truly seemed to mean his words, for they resonated in his voice in a way that spoke of empathy, of personal experience, and of haunting nightmares. If she had not felt so shattered, she might have laughed at having such understanding with such an annoyingly self-righteous man like Nolofinwë. Or maybe she would have snapped and screamed at him instead, because how _dare_ he try to make this better, to fix something that could not be fixed.

But, in her heart of hearts, she knew he just did not know what to say. Anymore than she knew what she wanted to hear.

“Is there… is there anything that you need?” he asked instead.

He did not draw closer, did not invade the new sanctuary he had gifted her, and she was thankful for that. Slowly, still fighting against the urge to cry again—to scream and break things and slam the door in his face—she shook her head. At that, he fidgeted nervously, glancing uncertainly about, looking anywhere but at her face.

“When Anairë is back, I will send her in my stead,” he said then, not meeting her eyes, looking into the vast abyss over her shoulder.

She nodded in acceptance, even though she was certain that she would send the woman away without even speaking. Not sure was she that she even could speak right now. Her throat was pulled too tight by the noose of her screams vibrating silently in her vocal chords, held prisoner by sheer stubborn will.

Backing away, he closed the door. And she was glad to see him go.

Slowly, she laid down upon the bed, feeling only distantly its softness, the fluff of the pillow beneath her damp hair and the find make of the comforter beneath her shaking palm.

Closing her eyes, she felt the tears come.

At least she had the dignity of being alone when they did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:
> 
> aurenya (Q) = my sunlight  
> vennonya (Q) = my husband  
> Atar (Q) = Father  
> Fëanáriel (Q) = daughter of Fëanáro  
> Fëanárioni (Q) = sons of Fëanáro  
> Vala (Q, s) = one of the Valar  
> wendë (Q) = girl  
> yendë (Q) = daughter  
> Amillë (Q) = Mother  
> nís (Q) = woman


	63. The Return of Vanquished Foes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Coming down from the battle-high to hit rock bottom...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: shock, memories/depictions of death/war, self-harm, brief (past) suicidal ideation (of a sort), PTSD, guilt, mention of rape, unhealthy coping mechanisms
> 
> This is a fallout chapter, and the main trigger here (other than the mention of rape) is severe PTSD and self-harming behavior, including minor (past) suicidal ideation half-hidden under all the messiness of the FA. Basically, Nolofinwë's thoughts on the matter are not pretty. Lots of introspection to start. Please read responsibly! <3
> 
> Maedhros = Maitimo = Nelyafinwë = Nelyo = Russandol  
> Maglor = Makalaurë = Kanafinwë = Káno  
> Celegorm = Tyelkormo = Tyelko = Turkafinwë = Turko  
> Caranthir = Carnistir = Morifinwë = Moryo  
> Curufin = Atarinkë = Curufinwë = Curvo  
> Amrod = Ambarussa = Pityafinwë = Pityo = Minyarussa  
> Amras = Umbarto = Telufinwë = Telvo = Atyarussa  
> Fingolfin = Nolofinwë  
> Turgon = Turukáno  
> Argon = Arakáno  
> Aredhel = Írissë  
> Finarfin = Arafinwë  
> Aegnor = Ambaráto  
> Angrod = Angaráto  
> Orodreth = Restaráto  
> Finrod = Findaráto

_Valanya, 54 Lairë (6 July)_

\---

It might not have been the worst thing to which he had ever been forced to silently listen. But it most certainly ranked amongst the top few.

Screaming and begging were nothing new. They happened more often than one might think on the field of battle. Sometimes, the servants of evil seemed fearless of death and pain, willing to throw themselves on a blade or spear without second thought. But the fear still showed in their eyes, and they still often begged beneath a blade for their survival when they were crippled and crawling through the mire with wounds leaking their lives out into the mud. Nolofinwë, like all other warriors, had learned to silence the part of his spirit that reached out in empathy, that desired to do no harm, and leave the rest heartless and ruthless enough to slaughter even those who begged or wept for their lives. Every warrior had been that person who looked into the glassy, terrified eyes of their foe and still slit that person’s throat, knowing they were the demon reflected back from that wide gaze.

One of his earliest memories—one of his first nightmares—was of that first kill in which his victim begged for their life and he did not spare them. What he had heard tonight, for reasons he, at first, could not quite comprehend, outstripped the horror he still felt when thinking of that singular moment all those centuries ago.

It was different. The sound of it was different. The circumstances of it were different. The motivation of it was different. It was nothing at all like the necessity of war to which he was accustomed. It was something which he had not ever experienced up close.

(It was different, but, for reasons he could not immediately fathom, did not feel different at all.)

Still, his mind tried to compare it to what he knew, to what he remembered, to the nightmares that lingered like sneaky fiends in the back of his mind always. To the death and the pain he had both seen and experienced in so many flavors of bitter and rotten. Tried to make sense of it all in a context that he understood.

His mind tried to compare it to the senseless suffering endured in the early years of Exile. He had walked Helcaraxë with his starving, freezing people huddled at his back, looking to him for guidance. And he had listened to many screaming and weeping their grief through the whistling of the frigid winds when he failed to protect them all from the grinding ice below. He had sat in the snow with his second son as Turukáno fell apart, breaking violently with the loss of his wife between the shifting glaciers. And, at the time, he had wondered if anything could hurt more than his son’s wails half-stifled against his shoulder, that he could do nothing to make it stop.

That suffering had not been intentional, purposeful and full of malice, inflicted for the enjoyment of the snow or the ice. It had been brutally unfair, and it still left the acidic lining of disgust in the back of his throat that he now felt.

(With himself.)

And then he thought of battle, when he had stepped onto the field of battle at the Lammoth, and he would never forget the sound that the clamor that killing and dying made in the echoing vales of the mountainous terrain. He would never forget that it had been _loud,_ so deafening that he could not even hear the screams of the foes he slaughtered nor of the men under his protection dying. But he could see the blood, could smell the piss and the acid and the bile and the blood, gagged at the memory of tasting it on the back of his tongue as he dragged in each breath. He remembered how his knees had gone weak, knowing that he had led his people through the worst that the Helcaraxë could offer only for so many of them to be slaughtered as soon as their feet once more met dry land.

He remembered how he had felt the misfortune of it like a spear-wound to the gut. How he had stood still in the aftermath and heard men beg for their lives in their last fear-filled moments. How he had been forced to stand aside, unable to act, knowing it was _his fault_ that they lay dying in their own bodily fluids.

That he must dampen the ache in his chest and move on. That had been alike to tonight.

And then he thought of when he had counted his children and come up one short. When he had scoured the battlefield to find his dying son, when he had swallowed down his own screams and wails when Arakáno shuddered in his arms and slipped away breath by breath, coughing scarlet across his hands and his face as he pressed their brows close and wondered that he had not done better. The loss of a daughter-in-law, though devastating, had not at all prepared him for the loss of his son, of a young man who had, not so very long ago, been a little boy clinging to his trousers and asking all sorts of ridiculous questions. And that young man was then dead in his arms, and he was covered in hot blood.

It panged through him again. Someone else hurt, someone else’s life in ruin, because he had interfered where he ought not, careless and cruel. And now there was blood on his skin once more, invisible but stinking of copper and guilt.

And then he turned his mind to war. When he had marched his armies forth and conquered his foes with determination. He had learned to slaughter with efficiency and precision, and he had learned to look away from the death without feeling guilt and ignore the smell without feeling sick and pretend all of it was for a greater cause because what else was he supposed to do? All his men dying around him had to be there for a reason. And he, their leader, had to be strong, had to reassure them in their deepest hearts that they were doing the right thing, that their sacrifices _meant something,_ even when he did not receive that same reassurance in return.

That did not stop him feeling every lost man as a personal failure. It did not stop him feeling, in the dark of night when he was alone, as though he had slit each of their throats with his own knife. It did not stop him from, even now, feeling the tightness of panic in his throat as the walls of helplessness closed in.

It did not stop him from remembering when it all fell apart, he rode off to die with the last thought that he had nothing to lose. Overrun by the enemy, separated from his allies, waiting to be slaughtered—and for his remaining children to be cut down one by one—he felt as though he were already suffocating by the time he left and headed north with all the garishly bright fury and brilliance and vehement hatred and bravery he could muster. Standing before the gates of Angamando, he demanded single combat with the Dark Lord and wondered if losing his life this way would make it all mean something so that the feeling of having wronged all these people—all these men and women who depended on him for protection and guidance, who believed in his words with steadfast faith, who he had betrayed with his incompetence and inability as a leader—so grievously would _go away._

And he had died. Little did he remember of the pain or exhaustion, as often, in battle, they faded away to nothing until the aftermath struck like a hammer’s blow. The last thing he did was stab the Dark Lord, was hear Morgoth bellowing in agony into the churning, ashy-red skies, and feel vindicated and devastated.

Because it all meant nothing. He had failed.

This was something different. Something _else._

But, in some ways, it was not different at all. It still left him feeling caked in sin, deserving of pain, trembling with the need to _get it all off his hands_ and _feel the sting of it until the guilt was overcome_ and _make the thoughts dissolve into fire and water_.

No Morgoth was there here and now to ride out and challenge, to bring down upon himself death and destruction. But he had learned his way around such limitations.

He still remembered what to do to make the guilt go silent.

Standing before the sink, he washed his hands in scalding water. And washed them again, though they were stained with no visible blood. And washed them again, because they still felt unclean. And again, because he still felt helpless. And again, because he still deserved to feel that agony as he bit the back of his lip against a cry.

By the time they were red and sore, he still felt as though he should wash them again. But they shook and screamed at the idea of going under the steaming water, and he relented.

( _Weak,_ his mind hissed. _Cannot even except your own punishment.)_

Instead, he thought about Lindalórë, who was four doors down and crying loudly. He could hear her through the wall, though she was trying her best to remain quiet and keep her grief and shock to herself rather than announce it to him and anyone else in the house. Slowly, wondering why those muffled wails sounded louder than he remembered the din of the Lammoth, he lowered himself down to the tiled floor, pressing his back up against the wall, and picked at his fingernails until they bled beneath the edges and at the corners.

She was here, crying and traumatized, because he had felt the need to punish her and her husband for not falling at his feet like sycophantic servants, spilling all their secrets because he was the authority and deserved their respect and obedience and willingness to betray their friends without question. Nothing about what he had done to Curufinwë in retribution had been righteous, and nothing about it had been meant to protect. All of it had been done in fury. Fury at Írissë for resisting his will. Fury at Anairë for turning her back. Fury at his sons for being incompetent. Fury at Curufinwë for being his father’s son. And fury at Fëanáro for being dead and beyond reach. None of those reasons were any better than the cruel motivations of Fëanáro, nor were his actions any better than what had done to him when his brother had abandoned Nolofinwë and his ilk in Araman to starve and left them to watch the ships burning from across the ocean, their hopes going up in towering smoke and a glow of hellfire.

And he thought of the maid they had left behind. Through the door, he had listened to her being viciously beaten and then raped, and it made his stomach heave. It was different than seeing death, different than hearing the cries of dying men, different than the violence of war where all participants were armed to the teeth and prepared to face the pain and suffering of sacrifice and death. The maid was no warrior, and she had done nothing to anyone to deserve such a thing being brought upon her. Not only that, but the man who did it to her did not do it for a cause or purpose beyond inciting terror and agony in his victims, beyond trying to bring down guilt (undeservingly) upon Lindalórë’s head for not being willing to take the woman’s place. _You are forcing me to do this,_ that man had told her cruelly. _If you had only complied, only behaved, only been obedient, this would be happening to you and not to her. And no one else would be getting hurt._

There were words Nolofinwë had wanted to say to Lindalórë, then and now, that he felt he could not bear to utter or did not have the right to speak. That they could not hope to save everyone. He had tried and failed many times, and this time was no exception, and it still hurt. That the world was not fair or just. He had seen so many good men and women die and listened to their loved ones weep when they were gone, and that was the way of things. That it was not her fault that someone else committed acts of great evil and that she should not feel guilt. But that would have been hypocritical, because Nolofinwë felt guilt for every life he could not save, whether they had died by his order, by his hand or by his foe.

Moreover, he wanted to apologize. But he did not think any apology would suffice.

(And he did not deserve her forgiveness anyway.)

He doubted she would want to hear it. Not from him and not from anyone else. He knew that it would have done nothing to make him feel better to hear an apology. Not even from the lips of Fëanáro himself, for he would rather have watched his older brother burn than try to make nice and rebuild their brotherhood in the wake of Helcaraxë, in the wake of holding his youngest son while Arakáno died painfully choking on his own blood.

(And it was easy then to blame Fëanáro, to use his brother as a scapegoat upon which to take out his rage, back when he had resisted taking it out on his own mind and body out of blind pride and sheer stubbornness.)

So, instead, he just sat and listened.

Quietly, he waited until her crying and soft wailing died down into hiccupping sobs and then vanished into unnerving silence. Still, he did not move, only aware of his own even breathing, trying not to think too much about the rest. Trying not to think too much about what he had seen or heard, this night or any before, even though they repeated endlessly in the back of his mind, over and over. Trying to focus on the pain as he began to mutilate the blisters formed shiny and red upon his pale flesh.

Anairë found him there on the floor.

“What have you done to your hands?” Her gasped words were scandalized, and she reached out as if to grab the limbs, as if to tend them, and he pulled them away swiftly. Not because her touch hurt—though it was painful indeed where the flesh was scalded red and had blistered—but because it felt wrong to let her tend to him first. Or tend to him at all.

“You should go and see Lindalórë,” he muttered, ashamed and looking away.

“Is she injured as well?” his wife asked, sounding a bit frantic. “I should have come straight home and not let myself get caught up in planning and discourse. By the Valar, how long have you been sitting here? Is she okay? What happened?”

 _I do not want to talk about it._ That was what he wanted to say.

Only a choked sound came out.

“Nolofinwë?” She was kneeling now next to him, and her voice had gone soft and silky in that way she used to use to soothe their children when they were of the age of coddling. It should have felt demeaning, should have urged him to pull away at being emasculated, but instead made him want to draw close.

He resisted. Of course, he did.

“You should go and check on Lindalórë,” he repeated. “She is in the guest bedroom. It was a difficult night.”

“Is she hurt?” Anairë repeated.

“I do not think so,” he admitted, though he was not entirely certain. He had seen too much of her. Had bruised her arm with his grip and held her in the crushing circle of his unwanted embrace with his hand over her mouth as she struggled in mad panic about to do something foolish and get the both of them caught in the act of her abduction. Had held her against his chest while she wept and trembled in fear, had been pressed tightly against her trembling form as they listened to someone being tortured and violated through the thin shield of the bathroom door. Had pulled her hair back and braided it thoughtlessly as she vomited like he had done when Anairë was pregnant and suffering from morning sickness. Had seen her bare legs as she lifted her skirts indecently to pull on trousers and her naked back as she tore off her gown and her slender feet before she had crammed them into her filthy old boots.

He did not particularly want to get near enough to her to find out if he had missed an injury. He doubted she wanted him that close besides.

“You should check on her,” he repeated.

“You should let me check on your hands,” she countered.

But he shook his head, mind feeling blank. He knew this was right. That she should check on Lindalórë first. He was supposed to go last. That was how it was meant to be. “She was crying. You should check on her.”

And his wife sighed. He felt her push his hair back from his face. “You are terribly stubborn, Nolofinwë,” she said, but got up and left him. He watched her as she moved into the bedroom, felt a frown come over his features when he heard her rifling around in a chest rather than going to see to Lindalórë.

She returned with a heavy quilt, the sort usually reserved for the cold winter months. Wordlessly, she wrapped it about his shoulders and pulled it close. Until he had the thick fabric about him, forming a bubble of warmth about his body, he had not realized how _cold_ he felt, how he was shivering and his teeth were chattering faintly when he clenched his jaw. Everything was wet down to the skin, and his fingertips were wrinkled from the damp.

“Take off your boots and socks,” she demanded.

“Anairë,” he protested half-heartedly, already moving to obey. It felt good to have the soggy leather and fabric away from his feet. His toes were wrinkled, too, he noted with a faintly disturbed glance.

“You stay here under that blanket and do not move,” she ordered. “I will return shortly.” And, where he might normally have felt rubbed raw by being ordered about, even by his own wife, right now he just felt tired. He let her have her way and did not fight, more than happy to sit on the floor in silence where he could hear as she walked down the hallway and knocked gently on the guest bedroom door. There was a long breath of silence before she was welcomed inside, and he heard the door click shut behind her.

And he sat still under the blanket, knowing that he should remove the rest of his wet clothes but feeling too weighted down beneath the onslaught of sudden warmth about his body and his hands and his feet to care. Happily could he sleep right here on the floor.

Worse places had he slept during campaigns in Beleriand. The bathroom floor was clean and dry and smelled fine in comparison.

Eyes drooping, he leaned back against the wall.

And waited some more.

\---

It was a relief that Anairë had dismissed the few servants they kept from the house before leaving to deliver news of Lindalórë’s plight and Nolofinwë’s ill-thought-upon plan to his brother at the palace. Doubted, she did, that her husband would have wanted to be seen by anyone in the state he was currently in, white-faced and in shock on the bathroom floor, visibly coming apart at the seams.

No explanation had she given the help except that her husband wanted space. Used to how finicky Nolofinwë could be—and how unpleasant when he did not get his way—the servants had vacated without question on leave with the promise of their normal pay, happy to allow the couple their privacy.

Normally, that meant a weekend or, occasionally, a full week of unabashed sexual intercourse on every surface and quite a bit of amateurly cooked meals to taste-test and laugh over when they turned out to be awful. Now, though, it meant that there were two people nearly catatonic in her house and Anairë had no idea what in the name of Eä had happened to get them to that point. Perhaps, she could have understood if something terrible had happened to Lindalórë to leave the young woman lying so limp and still upon the bed for all that it was soaked through with rainwater and cold—she did not want to guess that something so wretched _had_ happened, could scarcely even imagine what might have been done and wished not to try, but she was not naïve enough to think that nothing terrible could have befallen the young woman at the hands of her tormentors before Nolofinwë had managed to rescue her—yet, that explained not why her husband was shivering on the bathroom floor with a blank and glassy look about his eyes and blood and blisters all over his hands.

She knew the behavior, had seen it before, but not for a long while. Self-harming behavior. Not that he had ever considered it to be harmful— _“It is hardly permanent maiming or severe blood loss,”_ he would say scathingly when she fussed, _“I am not going to die from a few blisters and a bit of blood”_ —and often implied that he deserved it— _“I have seen and heard many in greater pain, so I hardly have room to complain,”_ he would say, averting his eyes, _“Others have been hurt much worse through my follies”_ —but she had always worried that it might escalate to something truly dangerous and debilitating, and she had worked hard to help him quell the behavior, to get him used to talking instead of scrubbing or picking at his skin. It used to be commonplace, an every day and then every week and then every month and then every year struggle after Nolofinwë’s rebirth. Now, it was rare.

And she hated it. Hated to see it emerge again, an unwanted foe she had thought vanquished and put in the past.

But there was no time for her to be irritated or bitter or frightened over the matter. Her dumb jackass of a husband had refused to let her touch him until she went and made certain all was well with Lindalórë first. It was so _Nolofinwë_ that she wanted to smack him but knew it would not help. And, therefore, here she was, sleepless in the middle of the night and walking blindly into a potential disaster-zone of a woman’s psyche without knowing what tripwires and booby traps might be lying in wait upon which she might stumble.

At least there was no screaming or blood. Which already, she thought, put it a step above walking into the middle of a live birth.

No movement did she hear when she knocked on the door and let herself into the dimly-lit bedchambers. At her quiet approach, Lindalórë shifted and pushed herself upwards, eyes blinking hazily as they took in the older woman and deemed her not a threat. “I am sorry about the bed,” the younger woman whispered unprompted, seeing the wet spot she left behind where she had been lying in her damp clothes and boots.

“Worry not about that,” Anairë soothed, carefully drawing near and feeling a bit of relief when her proximity did not trigger an unpleasant physical or emotional reaction. “The sheets and blankets can be changed in but a few minutes. Let us get you out of those clothes first and into something dry and soft.”

“I brought clothes,” the young woman volunteered immediately, reaching for her pack with hands that shook too hard. Her fingers struggled with the tie. “Really, you need not provide anything for me. I can… I can…”

And her voice was trembling.

Carefully, Anairë pulled the pack away. “Let me find you something comfortable to wear,” she said firmly. “You just wait right here.”

Lindalórë, unsurprisingly, was a stubborn woman, and she opened her mouth to protest being left to sit uselessly while the older woman did all the work. But her words were quelled by a finger upon her lips. “You need to rest and stay calm,” Anairë said gently but without give for questioning. “Let me worry about the clothes.”

 _You just breathe,_ she wanted to add but did not, knowing that Lindalórë would find it strange and unnerving to be told to exist and nothing else. That she did not need to go anywhere or do anything to earn the kindness about to be foisted upon her person. To the surprise of exactly no one, Nolofinwë was much the same, restless and shifting about worse than a squirming toddler if he was bade exist purposelessly while she worked around his still form. And he always pouted (in a way that would have been adorable if it did not always follow upon the tail-end of a panicked incident) and said, “I know how to breathe, nís.”

Except, for the few long minutes before, he had not, because he had been wheezing and gasping and it was frightening. And she wanted to just have him sit quietly and remember how to suck oxygen into his lungs, because it made her feel less like her heart might fail.

Anairë had learned ways around his stubbornness, of course, garnering the same results through suggestions and embraces instead. She had plenty of practice tricking him into believing things were his own idea, and she made use of them often. Such was the consequence of having a stubborn husband who viewed being helped as a form of coddling.

 _And damn Finwë and Indis for that,_ she thought sullenly even now. _And damn Hendumaika and Eressëa for this. Especially Hendumaika._

For, now, she had an entirely different traumatized patient with whom to treat.

It took only a minute or two to find a suitable nightgown—one of Írissë’s—and return to their guest. Lindalórë was shivering, though her eyes were distant and hardly aware of her own body’s suffering.

“Come on, melda,” Anairë crooned, helping the younger woman stand and deftly stripping her down. Lindalórë did not protest being in the nude, nor when Anairë pushed her arms skyward and fit the gown over the top of her head and shoved the arm-holes over her raised hands. It was alike to dressing a very large and well-behaved child.

Afterwards, while Lindalórë lingered, floating in place like a phantom in her lace-edged gown, Anairë stripped down the wet blankets and sheets and brought forth new ones. Her skills in the art of bedmaking were paltry in comparison to the help, but the plan was for their guest to be using the bed and mussing the sheets anyway, so the older woman settled for the slightly rumpled make with the sheets not quite pulled to even lengths on each side. With a loud, swooping swish, she had a quilt—a little thicker than necessary for the time of year but perfect for someone just shivering and fresh from a cold summer thunderstorm to huddle beneath—laid out over the top and ready.

“Come along, sit down,” she urged. “Are you hurt anywhere?”

There were bruises, of course, that were visible in an array of bold color against alabaster skin. Old ones in tones of sickly yellow and green on her throat like a heavily-jeweled necklace of abuse, and her arms in vibrant bangles, and a layer of new ones over the top of one bicep, only just turning black and blue. Blankly, those eyes swiveled to stare at Anairë, almost confused by the question. “I… do not think so?”

Anairë, used to wayward children who injured themselves and then forgot all about it, checked the girl over swiftly. A few scrapes here and there upon her hands and arms, a rather large bruise forming on her shin where she might have hit it upon, for example, a stone railing, and a swollen ankle joint. There was barely a reaction at all when Anairë touched it, just a small instinctive flinch away from the source of pain.

“How does this feel?” she asked, gently but firmly turning the foot this way and that.

Only for her patient to look down at the injury in a blasé fashion. “It barely hurts. Really, my lady, it is nothing to worry about.”

And Anairë could only sigh. So, Lindalórë was one of _those_ patients then.

“First, you may address me by name. Anairë is more than enough without all those silly titles getting in the way. And you may do the same for Nolofinwë, no matter what he says on the matter. He needs not to have his ego boosted or stoked any more than it already is.” For all that she loved and adored her spouse, he had been raised as a pampered and spoiled Prince, had gone into Exile as a well-respected commander and had become a long-standing King reigning over the entirety of the Noldorin people abroad, and he could sometimes be a bit big-headed and expect more obedience and reverence given to his word than he perhaps deserved. “Second, if it hurts even a little bit, you should be honest. I have a poultice for the swelling that can be chilled, and I can assure you that it feels quite lovely on swollen ankles.”

Lindalórë nibbled at her lower lip, refusing to meet the older woman’s gaze directly. “It… it does hurt a little, my la— I mean, Anairë.”

 _Well, I already knew that,_ she mentally said with a figurative eyeroll, knowing sarcastic commentary would be unwelcome but unable to help her thoughts. _It is nice that you are not so stubborn as to deny it. Nolofinwë almost certainly will deny being in pain when I go and tend to him, that stubborn mule._

A quick trip to the kitchen and she returned to find Lindalórë still sitting in the same spot, her feet dangling over the edge of the bed and her eyes staring down at her hands, which were curled in the silky softness of her borrowed gown. For a moment she looked so impossibly like a young Írissë that Anairë felt her throat grow tight with longing. It was almost tempting to stand at the doorway and stare, to just take in that moment and pretend that it _was_ Írissë there on the bed and that she was not nursing another woman’s daughter back to health but had her own safe and warm at home, to let her longing and worry fade for just a few moments…

But then Lindalórë looked up, and the vibrantly green eyes broke the spell. Írissë’s eyes were the palest shade of blue, like her father’s. Pretending that she had not been staring from the doorway, Anairë went to kneel before the girl, pressing the poultice against the swollen joint and wrapping it gently in place.

As she worked, the girl shivered, blinking down at her as though she had never seen a woman do such a thing before. With three boys and a very active girl, Anairë had been mending basic injuries as soon as her children learned how to walk—she might have been raised as an upper-class lady, and some might have said basic healing skills were beneath her notice and station, but there had always been something satisfying in being able to treat and kiss her children’s injuries better, to bring smiles and giggles to their chubby and tear-streaked faces—but she was, sadly, not surprised that Lindalórë seemed to find it so odd. It made her sorrowful to think that Eressëa, who so very obviously loved her daughter beneath all the pampering and finery and jewels, may never have taken the time to even kiss her daughter’s injuries better as a child, let alone tend and heal them with her own two hands.

When she finished, she helped Lindalórë under the covers. “There we go,” she soothed, stroking the girl’s hair back. “Does that feel better?”

As the girl curled up beneath the sheets and blankets, she looked up at Anairë with such a strange expression, caught somewhere between horror and desperation. “I… I feel warm,” she whispered, turning her face to tuck it against the softness of the guest bedroom pillows.

Offering a smile, Anairë tucked the girl in. “Nolofinwë and I are just down the hallway,” she explained. “If you need _anything,_ please, do not hesitate to wake us.”

Lindalórë’s breath caught on a sob. “Okay.”

Though her first instinct was to stay, to ask what was wrong, to try and soothe the other woman’s distress, Anairë sensed that she had outstayed her welcome. Something had gone very wrong with the rescue effort this night, and the last thing that Lindalórë needed while so fragile and so exhausted was for her hostess to poke and prod into open, bleeding wounds with clumsy and inconsiderate fingers. There would be time yet for earning trust, for encouraging speaking, for offering comfort.

“Sleep,” she urged instead. “You have had such a long night. You deserve to rest.”

And the younger woman did not resist, going limp beneath her hand, at the sound of her breathy voice. Those shoulders hitched with little sobs as Lindalórë turned away to look at the wall, wanting to hide her tears where she could not hide the sounds of her distress. And Anairë let her be, retreating from the room and closing the door to offer what little privacy she might.

Now, she thought, was the time to go and deal with her stubborn husband. From him, she could learn what exactly had happened to put both of them into such an overwhelmed and shocked state when they should be relieved and even celebrating after the successful rescue. Nerves settled and tingled in her skin as she pressed the guestroom door shut and looked down towards the door to the bedchambers she shared with Nolofinwë, still cracked open with a soft white light seeping out of the small space between door and frame, glowing from the lantern lights in the bathroom.

Quietly, she approached, slipping inside. Just as she had instructed, Nolofinwë had stayed right where she had left him, huddled under the quilt but still shivering. His eyes were blank and staring and wider than she had seen them in a long while.

“Melmë,” she whispered, sitting next to him on the floor, “Lindalórë is resting now. Other than some bumps and scrapes, she only had a twisted ankle. She will be just fine with a little bit of rest and relaxation.” Slowly, his pale eyes swiveled to stare at her, acknowledging that he was listening. “Will you let me look at your hands now?”

His lips twitched downwards. “They do not even hurt.”

Every time this happened, he said the same things. Anairë knew he was lying—if they had not hurt, he would not have stopped abusing them in the first place—but she did not try to contradict. Instead, she reached for the ointment and bandages she kept stored in the bathroom, that she had hoped she would never need to use again. “I would feel better if you let me tend to them anyway. I do not like to see you hurt, vennonya.”

His frown became more pronounced as he struggled. From speaking to him when he was not in this strange state of mind, she knew that, when he was trapped in this state, he wanted to please her and to punish himself both and was torn between the two options. She also knew, as she reached out to stroke over his hands, to turn the shaking appendages gently and cradle them between the softness of her palms, that the former always won so long as she was willing to wait out the circling indecisiveness of his mind.

After a few long minutes, he nodded. “All right. If you like.”

And he did not struggle as she applied the ointment in lenitive strokes, making sure to be tender going over each blister and leave them intact if they had not yet been pulled open. The cream, she knew, would help with the burning and itching sensation that would come as he began to shed the strange state of shock—she could already see it slowly fading from his eyes as they returned to their normal hue, brightening with awareness whilst he watched her work—and keep the skin cool and moisturized. Over that, she applied the bandages, careful to leave no blisters uncovered, if only because she knew he would tear at them later until they burst and became infected if there was not a barrier between their temptation and his fingernails.

When she was finished, she just cradled his wrapped hands in her own. “Nolofinwë,” she said gently, recognizing that he was now less shocked and more so lazy at her attentions. “Will you tell me what happened?”

“Eressëa was right to be worried,” he told her, voice low and flat, as though he could not quite decide what he should be feeling in that moment. “They planned to use psychological torture to break Lindalórë, to make her obey and surrender to the marriage willingly.”

Anairë had long since stopped being squeamish at every mention of unpleasantness. Some of her husband’s nightmares were vivid, gory and disturbing enough that, in the early days, she had wondered how he ever managed to sleep at all when just hearing those stories from his lips had her sleepless for weeks at a time. But, as he had adapted, so, too, had she. For him. Until she could stomach most of the horrors that he described to her in the dead of night when he was too awake and too aware of his own body, racing with adrenaline and the urge to fight or flee rather than drop into the ocean of calm and rest, to stay quiet and still in her embrace.

“You need to tell me more than that if you want me to help her,” Anairë urged. She did not say _“If you want me to help you,”_ because she knew that he did not believe that he should need her help and would resist, not wanting to burden her mind with his struggles and troubles, believing it his place as husband to be the pillar of strength upon which _she_ could rest but that she should not have to perform the same duties in return. But, as often she could use their children or even herself to leverage him into speaking, she now used Lindalórë.

“She locked herself into her bathroom,” he admitted after a few long moments of thought. “They attempted to flush her out by torturing the help and telling her that they would stop if she would submit to their will and agree to the marriage.”

“Torturing?” Anairë did not often hear of torture from Nolofinwë, whose nightmares were forged primarily of battlefield mire and dead, frozen bodies huddled close in the snow. He had encountered a handful of people who had been tortured during his time in Exile but had never mentioned directly hearing or experiencing it for himself.

“I climbed to her balcony when throwing rocks at the window did not get her attention,” he explained then. “Her bedchambers were empty, but the door was closed and locked, so I knew she had not gone out or been taken against her will. I found her hiding in her private bathroom. When I told her who I was and why I had come, she interrogated me through the door to be certain it was me and not a pretender.” He let out a soft snort of laughter, its timbre strangely distorted. “Smart girl. Curufinwë did not choose half-bad. She would not let me in until I answered her questions correctly.”

So far, it did not sound so bad. Anairë nibbled at her lower lip. “And then?”

“I waited for her to find something to wear that would not get her killed on the climb down from the balcony. We were interrupted by someone at the door before she could finish. Not her father, so, I assume, he might have been her fiancé.” Nolofinwë’s brows furrowed. “If a man ever talked as such to my daughter as that man did to Lindalórë, I would have strung him up by his intestines in the public gardens, damn the law.”

A shiver ran down Anairë’s spine. She continued to stroke over the white gauze on her husband’s knuckles, waiting for him to calm again enough to speak rather than rant and threaten. It was not that she was frightened _of_ him, for he would never have harmed her with intent. But the intensity of his eyes spoke of the truth of his words, and the stories he had whispered from his lips in the dead of night were all the proof she needed that, if driven to that length, he was capable of carrying out that threat.

“He brought one of the maids with him and began to beat her in the hallway. Lindalórë went berserk, trying to open the door and go out there to stop him, and I had to stop her.” He looked away in that way that Anairë hated, filled with loathing and shame, teeth slicing harshly into his lower lip between words. “I hid us in the bathroom to keep her from doing something rash and waited for her to calm, and we were there together when that… that thing that is not a man… broke into her bedchambers. He had no idea that I was there, and I would have killed him if he had tried to break into the bathroom as well. But he decided against it and instead beat and raped the maid in the other room while we listened, and then told Lindalórë that he would continue to harm others in her place until she came out.”

Slowly, Anairë moved her hands up her husband’s arms, one slipping up to stroke over the hot skin at the nape of his neck, the other tracing the lines of his face, brushing the pad across his lower lip, swollen but not yet bleeding. The biting stopped. “There was nothing you could have done without revealing yourself and putting both of you in danger.”

“I know,” he admitted. “But it does not _feel_ like that is the case. And I know Lindalórë feels it, too. We left that woman behind—she was gone from the room when we emerged and fled—and, for all we know, she could still be under torture. And we just left her behind.”

They curled up together on the bathroom floor. And, though Nolofinwë was larger, he somehow managed to squeeze himself into her lap. The weight of him, his cool, damp clothes and hair seeping into her gown as he rested up against her chest and curled his face into her neck, was more intimate than any sexual embrace. Trusting and bittersweet, because it was only when he was hurting that she got to hold him thusly so close, but nevertheless filling her with affection and pride. This, she knew, was something that no one would ever get to see but her, something he trusted to no other eyes or ears but those of his wife. And she stroked her fingers through his dark hair, pulling it loose from its ties and braids all the while, until his breaths had calmed against her skin.

He did not cry. He almost never did. She almost wished that he would.

“It is not the first time I have had to leave someone behind to die or suffer,” he told her, “It is one of the hardest things to realize about leading a people, or even about leading an army to battle, that you are responsible for all of them and will inevitably fail to keep all of them safe and alive. But I do not think that Lindalórë will understand it the way I have.”

“Neither of you should even have to understand it at all,” Anairë complained, wishing the world were not such an awful place. That her husband did not have to _adapt_ to the guilt associated with leading men out onto the battlefield knowing they would not all return home, with leaving behind the dying and dead in the mud to bleed out and rot because they could not be carried or healed, with abandoning frozen bodies in the wastes because no one had the energy to hoist them from the ice or give them a proper burial. And, now, with prioritizing one person over another, with leaving the second to suffer so that the first could survive intact.

It was horrible. It made her want to break everything in the bathroom. And she might have done it, too, if she thought it would make her truly feel better, if she thought it would do anything to fix the problem.

But it would not, so she did not.

Instead, she urged her arms around her husband’s torso and tugged. “I think you ought to get some rest as well, melmë. It has been a long night, and it is now late. Besides that, you are going to leave a puddle on the floor in here if you do not remove those wet clothes.”

The sound he made against her shoulder might have been a laugh. “We would not want that,” he snarked.

And did not resist as she pulled him to his feet and helped him out of his clothes. Having fully emerged from his state of shock, the pain in his hands hit him with merciless force, and he hissed through his teeth as he fumbled with the ties to his leggings, clumsy wrapped fingers too large and too stiff to free the knot. Pushing his hands aside, she did it in his stead.

“If I were not certain you meant it to be a statement of frustration and not to look lovely, I would find your forceful removal of my clothing endearing,” he admitted as she yanked his tunic and undershirt off with perhaps more gusto than necessary, and then stripped his leggings off, almost tripping him as she pulled them from his feet one at a time, leaving him in the nude while she remained fully-dressed. And it was a bit of a relief that he was joking, even tiredly, because at least he was not morosely brooding in the silent wake of trauma. Feeling a tiny smile cross her features, she tugged the quilt back around his shoulders.

“To bed with you,” she ordered, nudging him out into the bedchambers, “Before you get any ridiculous ideas. The night is already halfway gone, and we will need to go and speak with Arafinwë again in the morning.”

His arms tangled around her and reeled her in close, wrapped hands limp against her back as he embraced her. Leaning down, he kissed her lips. But it was not the all-consuming sort of kiss that they shared before copulating. Instead, it was long and chaste, and she felt his breath on her face. “You are too good for me,” he told her softly.

Pushing him down onto the bed, she scoffed. “Be grateful, vennonya. Your mistress is patient and tender, but she has limits. Sleep, before she hits you over the head.”

Too sleepy and tired to fight her, he did as he was bade, allowing her to put him into bed and kiss over his eyes one at a time. “I will be along shortly,” she said, watching his eyes flutter and droop. “We can speak more in the morning.”

An unintelligible mumble emerged from beneath the sheets. And it made her heart warm even through the shadow cast heavily upon her spirit.

It would not be easy. None of it.

Only when she moved away did she acknowledge that fact. As she stripped down and forwent a nightgown, as she clambered into bed facing her husband’s back. He did not so much as stir despite the dipping of the mattress, nor when her hands brushed across his broad shoulders, or when she rested her forehead between his shoulder blades and breathed of his scent. Rainwater and sweat and something cold and biting upon her tongue. He was still a bit chilly to the touch against her warm, soft skin.

Snuggling close, she pushed the rest away. Tomorrow, she would be watchful. To make sure Nolofinwë was not going to relapse and hurt himself as punishment for something he had not done and was not responsible for. To make sure that Lindalórë knew she was welcome within the house and not alone should she need to talk or to cry or to just sit in silence with someone else at her side. To make sure that this ugly incident was going to be let go and washed away like all the ugly nightmares that had come before.

For now, she needed sleep. It was only with a well-rested mind and body that she could lend her own strength and support, and she was not about to let fatigue get the best of her. With a sigh, she let herself sink into the reverie, tucked close to her mate.

Everything else could wait until the morning.

\---

_Elenya, 55 Lairë (7 July)_

\---

This was going to be unpleasant.

Arafinwë knew that before he had called forth the small gathering of family for a formal inquiry and council. Last night, he had not slept, twisting and turning in bed with Eärwen too silent and too still at his back, and he was in a horrible mood this morning as well, caught somewhere between bitter lamentation and a raging inferno of fury.

He took his tea black and without sweetener, and the help must have read from his features that he was not in the mood for pleasantries, for the usually talkative folk stayed silent and out of his way. At his side, Eärwen was more disconsolate than he had seen her since the years before their children had been reborn, eyes downcast and fingers picking at the fine silver embroidery of the summer robe she wore as a sheer veil over her light morning dress.

Two of their sons were already present. Ambaráto was wary, the fire in his eyes shuddering like a star struggling to restart after going cold and black, for he knew not yet what had happened to put his parents in such a somber mood. The suspicion in his gaze was damning. Beside him sat Angaráto, steel-faced and dark-eyed, mouth a thin and forbidding line across his face, and Arafinwë wondered how well he was handling the news of such evil perpetrations in the unstained land of Valinórë underneath that impenetrable outer mask. As company to the two Arafinwioni was the blacksmith, who had been kept as a guest in the palace overnight for his troubles, looking as though he was not quite certain how he had come to be the singular commoner in the midst of a meeting of the royal family.

No summons had he sent forth to either Findaráto or Restaráto, for the fewer who knew of Lindalórë’s situation and her current location the better. And Arafinwë did not feel the need to further trouble more minds with this horrid mess besides.

A soft tap at the door announced the arrival of the last two people of importance.

Anairë was looking her usual poised self, dressed in bold, deep olive, moving with that same graceful floating motion that had been mystifying the male sex for generations. However, where the woman looked well-rested if stern in her unspoken displeasure, her husband looked rather a wreck. Nolofinwë was physically put together, certainly, but his eyes were darkened and deep trenches ran beneath his eyes, which were wilder than Arafinwë had seen them since the long dark stretch of day-less hell on the black-sanded beaches of Araman, and his hands were both bandaged in white.

The King felt primal discomfort slide down his spine at the sight. Nolofinwë looked as though he would have very much liked to slit the throat of the first person to cross him, not at all like his normally-collected if snobbish expression of distaste. It was too much like a face Fëanáro might have worn for comfort.

Arafinwë did not like it.

“Now that we are all here,” he said as his brother and sister-in-law settled into their seats and the servants were promptly banished, “There is a matter of importance that needs to be discussed.”

Nolofinwë’s upper lip curled and Anairë’s frown tightened. Everyone in the room grew tense with discomfort, unsettled by the aura of _murderous rage._ No one quite knew who or what it was directed towards, but they could all feel it like a garrote pulled threateningly tight about the throat. Not yet cutting off air but lingering as a threat.

And Arafinwë sipped his bitter tea and wondered if there was not going to be blood shed in his sitting room this day. Because he was in hardly better a mood than his older brother. What a sight the two of them must make! It was no wonder the blacksmith, for all that he was built for power and strength in body, seemed quelled and coiled in tight before the two greater predators staring one another down.

“If, by matter of importance, you mean Lindalórë Fëanáriel,” Nolofinwë said, voice rough and grating on the nerves, “Then yes, there is.”

 _This is going to be a long and uncomfortable talk,_ the King thought with a sigh.

And then he settled in and picked up a biscuit, nibbling the edge of the sweet whilst refusing to break eye contact with his older sibling. If he was going to sit through this whole painful ordeal, he might as well enjoy it to its fullest.

“Yes,” he agreed. “There is.” He set down his snack and his teacup and sighed. “I will not scold you for rashness—what is done is done—but I will ask that you tell us, háno, of what has happened regarding Lady Lindalórë and her plight.”

And, when Nolofinwë’s face went pale and his eyes burned white like the stars, Arafinwë already knew he was not going to like what he heard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:
> 
> melda (Q) = dear (one)  
> vennonya (Q) = my husband  
> melmë (Q) = love  
> Arafinwioni (Q, p) = sons of Arafinwë  
> Fëanáriel (Q) = daughter of Fëanáro


	64. Tiptoeing Through the Light of Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We see more of the aftermath, and planning abounds...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: fear of assault, previous violence/rape mentioned, politics/scheming, espionage, threats of violence, mention of castration
> 
> No big triggers here, but rape is mentioned in several places. Please read responsibly <3
> 
> Maedhros = Maitimo = Nelyafinwë = Nelyo = Russandol  
> Maglor = Makalaurë = Kanafinwë = Káno  
> Celegorm = Tyelkormo = Tyelko = Turkafinwë = Turko  
> Caranthir = Carnistir = Morifinwë = Moryo  
> Curufin = Atarinkë = Curufinwë = Curvo  
> Amrod = Ambarussa = Pityafinwë = Pityo = Minyarussa  
> Amras = Umbarto = Telufinwë = Telvo = Atyarussa  
> Finrod = Findaráto  
> Aredhel = Írissë  
> Turgon = Turukáno  
> Finarfin = Arafinwë  
> Fingolfin = Nolofinwë  
> Angrod = Angaráto  
> Aegnor = Ambaráto

_Elenya, 55 Lairë (7 July)_

\---

All was quiet in the house bathed in morning light.

Looking outside, Eressëa could see the glisten of the silvery cobblestones blindingly glowing up to her window, reflecting the brilliance of the peaceful sunlight after last night’s violent storm. The scene was idyllic, the soft and cool breeze drifting in, leaving the translucent lace curtains fluttering demurely, and carrying the sounds of happy voices from below as the early morning risers wandered up the way in their loose summer dresses and tunics. Any other day, she might have sat here with her eyes closed and enjoyed the feel of the cool air upon her bare skin and the quiet chatter and birdsong in her ear.

Today was not any other day, however.

Silently, she stared down at them passing by, wondering how it was that anyone in the whole world could be happy on a day like today.

But, of course, they were oblivious to the plight of her household. Oblivious to the horrors going on around them just out of sight and just out of mind. While she knew that she could not truly lay blame upon their shoulders for their ignorance, that they had no way of knowing of the bloodstained secrets half-hidden in plain sight, she still…

She still hated it. All of it.

Waiting in the night had been agonizing, and she had not gotten so much as a blink of sleep, sitting up with candles lit and robe cast upon her naked shoulders as she waited for news—any news, be it from the lips of a servant or from her husband coming up to bed—to let her know whether her desperate bid to secure Lindalórë freedom was a success.

 _It must have been,_ she thought with a touch of flighty desperation flitting through her mind that did not show on her pale face, blank as it always was when she glanced at its reflection in her silver mirror. Slowly, she unwove the long braid from her hair—the very one she had woven into place just moments ago with restless fingers—until the long waves of dark softness were draped over her shoulder. And then, parting the tail into three, she began thoughtlessly braiding it again.

Unravel. Braid. Unravel. Braid.

Her husband had never come up. She did not know if that was good or bad. Just that it meant something important.

Again. Unravel. Braid.

And she had heard things last night. The storm had covered up much of the noise, loud in its ferocity as it whipped across the land, but she could have sworn she heard screaming. Or maybe crying. Or perhaps both. Or perhaps she was imagining it, her willful and pessimistic mind conjuring all the worst possible scenarios again and again, fitting the shrieking of the wind to their repeating dreadful image as a dilapidated symphony with misshapen parts all fused and crammed together into something monstrous.

_I must have been imagining things. I must have._

Again. Unravel. Braid.

And then a quiet knock at the door. Her fingers froze halfway through unbraiding the long tail, and her eyes darted towards the gateway into her small prison.

It could not be Hendumaika. If he had wanted to speak with her, he would have barged right into her private sanctuary without a second thought, an entitled invader who had rights to visit his wife whenever and wherever he chose. Such was his way and always had been. Such was the way of her life and always had been. Eressëa had learned to never be unclothed or unkempt somewhere that he could access at will without so much as a by-your-leave long ago.

Part of her—the part that had been floating on a heavy bed of lightheaded anxiety for hours on end, that felt dizzy and starving but too sick to eat or drink—calmed after her adrenaline had spiked sharply in a long, heart-stopping moment of anticipation and dread, calmed after she discerned that it was not Hendumaika on the other side of that door wanting to come inside. And Eressëa wondered that she was suddenly so frightened of her own spouse that she prayed he would leave her alone for days.

If not her husband. It was probably a servant. She swallowed sharply. “Come in.”

The door opened, and Víressë appeared in the open frame looking wretched. Never had Eressëa seen her maid look more terrified and disheveled than she did in that moment, eyes so wide that they glistened garishly white about the pupils, hair and clothes wrinkled and uneven, for the gown had not been changed from yesterday’s excursion or the hair unbound and brushed. The body language, sucked in tight with visibly hunched shoulders and eyes staring straight down at the ground, made her shift uncomfortably in her seat. Instinctively, she recognized the submission and the paralyzing fear, and she disliked them both, for they made poor accessories resting invisibly upon Víressë’s slender shoulders.

“What happened?” she asked, trying not to sound frantic. Or interested. Or caring. Or like she was invested in the answer at all.

Because she was not supposed to care. She was _not._

It took too long for the younger woman to dare look up and meet her eyes. Blue orbs were shuttered and glassy. Physically, there was no harm to be seen, but Víressë—even in private behind a closed door, with no one there but her mistress of centuries—looked as though her legs would barely hold her up for how hard they shook. Wordlessly, Eressëa stood, grabbing the surprised woman by the arm and steering her to the bed, setting her upon the mattress.

“M-my Lady!” the maid exclaimed, immediately trying to rise back up, “I could not— It would not be appropriate for me to sit whilst you stand, and certainly not on the bed!”

“You do not look fit to stand at all,” Eressëa commented.

“I…” The younger woman looked on the verge of tears. “What if… What if your husband comes in and sees me here?” she whimpered out. “M-My Lady, I do not want to garner attention. After what they did to Y-Yavannië and— and Míriel…”

It was the most unhinged Eressëa had ever seen any of the help, who were trained to maintain their composure at all times in any situation, no matter if they were faced with the most docile young lady or the angriest mistress of the house. Before she could think better of it, Eressëa sat beside the younger woman, yanking the last of her hair loose of its braiding and then handing the tail over into the blubbering woman’s keeping.

“M-my Lady?” poor Víressë asked, wiping at her eyes, which had begun streaming.

“Braid my hair,” Eressëa ordered. “If Hendumaika comes inside and questions, I will simply tell him that I felt not like moving from the bed.”

“B-but you never h-have before had me tend to your hair without being u-up and d-dressed,” the maid stuttered out, the puffy and swollen red rims about her eyes making them appear preternaturally blue, bluer than the midday sky but empty and flat with the remnants of her terror slowly dripping away.

“Yes, well, I have ample reason to be upset this day,” Eressëa replied, turning her back to face the other woman. Not only such that Víressë could weave her hands into the dark locks—which she did, weighing the heavy silk in her palm and then slowly, movements streamlined and reverent, began to braid—but also such that the younger woman could have at least the illusion of privacy in which to compose herself after bursting into tears before the eyes of her long-time employer. “I have been here, in these rooms, since you left me last night, Víressë. Tell me what has happened. Is Lindalórë… is she well?”

There came a soft sniffle and the tiniest jerk of the hair in Víressë’s soft hands. “S-she vanished last night, m-my Lady,” the maid stammered out, voice wet and weak, raw in the back of her throat. “No one knows when or to where. But, this morning, Lord Hendumaika ordered the door to her bathing chambers o-opened. And she was n-not there.”

Eressëa did not look up at the ceiling and silently thank Varda Elentári. Certainly not. She stared straight ahead, unmoved, and there were no witnesses to the contrary.

“That does not explain why you are so terrified, why you are still wearing yesterday’s gown and have not rested,” Eressëa then said quietly, eyes falling to rest upon her collection of sparkling gems flashing in the early morning light as if their shine might somehow protect her—her mind and her spirit—from what she was almost certain was coming next. “What is it that my husband and Calmacil did last night?”

“When Lady Lindalórë refused to come out and surrender herself to Calmacil, they…” Víressë let out a choked noise, her hands stilling in their rhythm and shaking hard. And Eressëa stared harder at her jewelry and did not turn around to see the tears that she knew the other woman was shedding. “Calmacil attacked Yavannië. Beat her bloody and… and…”

The older woman pursed her lips tightly. Tried not to think that _at least it was not my daughter,_ felt the horror of it but muted by her utter relief.

Felt prickles of guilt under her skin afterwards.

“And Míriel as well when Yavannië was too _ugly_ and _broken_ to be useful for such a task anymore,” the maid bit out as well, voice a heady mixture of hatred and terror, like blood turning the water slowly red with the mark of sin. “And he is still in the _house…”_

Primal was the fear, speaking that Víressë worried she might be next. That they might come for her even now. That she was not safe in this house where she—and dozens of other servants—made their home.

“You are here with me,” Eressëa said quietly, her voice flat as she thought about _that man_ still being _in her home,_ lingering like a particularly disgusting and virulent cockroach that needed desperately to be exterminated. “And you shall stay by my side the entire day. I am distraught, after all, that my daughter has fled her childhood home and abandoned her duties to this family so recklessly and ungratefully after all we have done for her, so I surely should be incredibly distraught and in need of the comfort of female companionship. Certainly, my husband would not begrudge me that much.”

And the maid gave in and blubbered, leaning forward against her mistress’s back. “Thank you,” she wept.

And Eressëa still did not look.

“What about the others?” The relief that had glowed golden under her skin (that was snagged and torn by the guilt that was dragging across its softness with each long moment of feeling too warm and too exhausted and too pleased that her daughter was free when she should feel icy-cold at the plight of the young maids attacked instead) was swift to be overtaken by a strange sort of disquieting fury that Eressëa was not quite certain she understood. One that reminded her of sunlight through burning orange carnelian stone and firelight echoing in ruby facets with a deadly and beautiful flicker. Blindingly bright and harshly beautiful and whispering of something dangerous just out of reach. “Have they been tended?”

Long moments ticked by. And Eressëa let out a mournful sigh. “No,” Víressë finally admitted, sniffling quietly as she finally began to regain her composure. Or, at the very least, the thin veneer of its poise. “Your husband has ordered that they stay here and are tended as best the staff might manage. Such that no one asks any uncomfortable questions.”

It did not surprise Eressëa in the least. What kind of questions would be asked should two female servants—long-time employees of the Helyanwë Family—suddenly appear in a Healing House with very visible evidence of violent and sexual assault? There would be an expectation that Hendumaika would pursue justice on their behalf, that he would be hunting the perpetrator, and he did not want that kind of attention from the general public or from the rest of the Court. Too likely, it would be, that someone amongst the help would blab and make it known that he not only knew of the assaults and their perpetrator, but that he had encouraged the violence and rape in the first place.

No, he would not want to have to explain why nor build himself a tenuous tower of excuses and lies to cover up his darker motives. He would not want to have to explain that Lindalórë was resistant to her arranged marriage. He would not want to have to explain how he had waited until her older brother and lawful husband were both afar and abroad to try and force her to wed against her will.

It was easier to avoid all the drama and potential for scandal. Probably, he could talk his way out of the mess, but it would be preferable for there not to be a spill of darkly suggestive rumors to mop up with sly political maneuverings in the first place.

Rather, he would prefer the silence, enforced by his authoritarian grip over the household. The threat that, should anyone else act out, they would end up the same way.

“Is there no one in the house who might assist?” she asked quietly then. In this arena, she was helpless. Even the basics of healing were far beyond her ken, for they were below her attention as a lady of the Court. Which, in truth, meant she was to be airheaded and think of nothing but household tasks and vibrant courtly parties and concern herself with nothing else, that she had not the brainpower to understand nor the willpower to learn greater skills.

That singular truth governed the lives of many women—young and ancient alike—in the upper classes. That they were decorations to be made lovely and remain quiet, to be looked at by men who would like their hand in marriage—and, eventually, by their husband—and their only duties were to provide the agreed-upon number of heirs and otherwise remain a pretty bauble hanging quietly upon the vast wall of accomplishments of their husband’s family and line. Long ago had Eressëa accepted this role in her life, and that had not changed in all the long years that she had been married. Always, it had been easy to stagnantly rest there.

Easy. Less painful. Less heartbreaking.

She wondered, though, that there was that newfound anger where it had never been before. Fury at her own uselessness and incompetence and at the unfairness of it all.

_Is this how Lindalórë feels all the time?_

“Some of the gardeners know basic herbalism,” Víressë answered hesitantly, “But nothing substantial. It has been ordered that such things should not interfere with anyone’s daily duties. Even… Yavannië cannot get out of bed, and Míriel has not stopped crying, and it was suggested that they would be terminated as employees for being unable to fulfill their duties.”

 _Calm,_ she reminded herself. _Stay calm. Think. What might be done?_

“I suppose I had best prepare for the day then,” she commented lightly. “Perhaps I can lure my husband into a slightly more amiable mood.”

“My Lady…” Víressë sounded hesitant and torn. “I would not ask for you to put yourself in undue peril for our sake, my Lady.”

“I would not be in danger.” Even as Eressëa said it, she suspected it might be a lie. Thousands of years at Hendumaika’s side, and she knew he held no true affection for her beyond a beautiful doll or trophy in his collection of things, one that had long since fulfilled her primary duty of giving him children. Still with potential—though, for the most part only the potential to fall pregnant again should there be a need for more offspring—but perhaps not enough to protect her should he discover her scheming with Lindalórë behind his back.

And Víressë knew that as well as she did. The maid said nothing, sniffling quietly. “I should fetch you your clothes then, my Lady,” she said quietly. “What would you like to wear this day for the breaking of fast?”

“Something dark,” Eressëa answered, “And perhaps with red.”

That was how she felt this day. Shadow and fire. The grim feeling that, though Lindalórë was out of the house, something had fundamentally been changed within its walls and she could no longer pretend it would all disappear back into the abyss from whence it had come. And the cold fury that the peace of before lay in ruin, smoldering and sizzling at her feet in a blackened pile of broken blinders and unforged bonds and ravaged blackout curtains, and she was left behind with no pieces to pick up and put haphazardly back together.

It was a feeling of irrevocable change. All around her. And within her. And she could not go back to the apathy she had had before. Could not pretend. Could not remain static. That old her was down there, in that pile of carbonized rubble, torn to pieces and scattered.

And someone else was knocking at the doors to her mind.

“Very well, my Lady,” her maid agreed, standing and going to her wardrobe to choose clothing for the day. And Eressëa looked on silently with bright eyes, her thoughts lingering in the future, knowing that, rather than the end of a war, today was only the beginning.

And she would need to choose a side.

Or, perhaps, she had already chosen. And burned her bridges behind her.

\---

Something strange was afoot.

This whole morning had left him feeling slightly dizzy, turned around and unable to reorient himself in the reality that had been foisted upon him so suddenly. He was standing here, in the florist’s shop once again, pink lily still braided into his long, dark hair, scowling as he eyed up the available heliotropes (trying to decide if they were worthy of the message he wanted to breathe into their petals like a prayer) with Elenwë humming and hawing on one side and Amarië giggling through her playful commentary on the other.

 _Is this what it is like to have sisters?_ He could not help but wonder.

(And silently wish that, perhaps, his parents could have had girls instead of Turkafinwë and Curufinwë. That would have made life so much _better.)_

“I think it has a little bit of a risqué bite to it,” Amarië commented, looking over the small purple blooms. “She will certainly know that you have been _thinking_ of her.”

Helplessly, Morifinwë wondered if he had not thought too soon. His cheeks bloomed their normal deep red (and not for the first time today), leaving him standing about in public, a twittering woman on each arm, looking at flowers (with one braided into his hair) with a contemplative, almost angry scowl, trying to decide if he was overstepping his bounds in choosing something with such strong undertones so early in courtship. And trying not to think about how much _thinking_ he had done about Eruanna these past few days in the dark privacy of his room at the inn.

 _My mind is drawn to you as these blooms are drawn to Anar._ His flush somehow managed to deepen at the thought, at picturing Eruanna’s golden locks spilling over her shoulders and down her back ( _her clothed back,_ he corrected himself hastily) and of the way her face glowed when she gushed about her gardening (and absolutely not of how its shade of pink might look on other parts of her slender form) and how he wanted to touch the rosy softness of her cheek (and not anywhere else, absolutely not) with his fingertips and know the heat of her skin against his own. _It is really not so overblown a comparison, to compare her beauty and resplendence to that of Arien, of Anar._

And, by extension, he, himself, was the heliotrope he would gift her. It made some part of his spirit squirm and writhe just a bit with both mortified excitement and just a hint of arousal, creeping just beneath his skin like a newfound itch. He might as well be announcing to anyone who saw him carrying these about that he was mooning over a woman. Even if the symbol displayed proudly and boldly on his chest—vibrantly silver and gold in the morning light upon his otherwise dark clothing—was not enough to indicate the seriousness with which he pursued this courtship, carrying around flowers such as these would certainly do the rest of the job.

But, was that really so terrible a thing? After all, he did not want Eruanna’s father to think that he was skimping on his duties as suitor. He wanted to make his intentions—and the strength of his stubborn insistence and rather frightening affection—very clear. Undeniably crystal clear.

“Yes, I think they will do well,” he said, blinking and turning to look at the florist, who had been staring at the trio slightly wide-eyed with a very consternated look upon his features for the entire duration of their shopping experience.

Now that he looked at the man… Morifinwë tilted his head to the side, eyes narrowing slightly as he took in those features and found them, perhaps, vaguely familiar. At the incisiveness of his gaze, the poor florist quailed and fidgeted, looking on nervously, waiting for the Fëanárion to say something first, to either speak out at the recognition or sweep it away and pretend it did not exist. The other’s mouth opened as if to say something but closed again as his eyes lingered on the two hovering females now cooing over Morifinwë’s decision, both rosy-cheeked and filled to overflowing with their happiness on this bright morning.

Doing as he had always done when accidently encountering a former follower of the House of Fëanáro, Morifinwë pretended that he had never recognized the man in the first place. “A bouquet of heliotrope,” he said shortly, scowl firmly in place, “Small enough to be practical for travel but otherwise as large as can be managed.”

Slowly, the man nodded, eyes taking on a strange sort of almost dazed glassiness. “Anything else, my l— good sir?”

If Amarië or Elenwë realized that there was sudden strange tension between the two men, each knowing that the other knew that the other knew about the truth of their distant connection through the past trials and tribulations of Exile, they did nothing to acknowledge it or indicate their observations. “It is going to be absolutely gorgeous,” Amarië was saying, almost bouncing with excitement. “You will have to tell us all about what she says when she sees it the next time you are in Tirion!”

Already had he regaled all the women with hours of recounting and repeating his former meetings with Eruanna, especially those in the greenhouse and the gardens. They were almost slathering at the bit, hungering for new material to fawn and swoon over.

Pretending to be annoyed—he really found that he enjoyed being able to speak frankly about Eruanna to them, about how lovely he found her, about the softness of their tentative courting, and about the saccharinely romantic things he wanted to do with her or gift to her—he crossed his arms and huffed.

“I also need a single white chrysanthemum,” he added. _Because,_ he found himself thinking when his two companions (and the poor, confused and disturbed florist) all gave him curious looks, _it feels right._

He had promises to keep. And he did not intend to let Eruanna down.

“O-of course, sir,” the florist said, cautiously moving around his own stop, gathering the necessary supplies for the bouquet.

With his razor-sharp green gaze, Morifinwë watched the entire uncomfortable ordeal. Watched how the man moved stiffly under observation, how he very clearly wished to say something to Morifinwë—which was strange in of itself, because the followers usually preferred to be anonymous and unannounced for their own safety and continued prosperity—but did not want to say it in front of two witnesses.

Respecting that, though he would have said if asked that he did not mind Amarië and Elenwë hearing whatever it was that need be shared, for they were more or less claimed as family now, he bit his tongue and waited.

Until, finally, he had his flowers. Paying, he left the silent florist behind.

Only to find that the streets were hardly better.

For the past few days, he had not been out and about during the typical daytime hours in which shops were open and people about, preferring the grayish dark of predawn light and the silent, empty walkways to the bustle of unnervingly staring, gawking, whispering commoners terrified at sighting a Fëanárion in their midst. Arriving just as dawn broke over the horizon each day for the beginning of his lessons and leaving as night was falling each night, he kept his hours full and busy and out of the public eye.

He forgot how much he hated the staring. Every time, the feeling of all those eyes on his back, on his body, on his face, felt like the crawling of insects beneath his skin. Now, it felt even worse than usual. A toweringly tall man, freckle-faced and red-cheeked with a bundle of flowers in one arm and two ladies at his side, walking casually straight down the middle of the street was a sight to see indeed, and he stared back with a silent snarl that turned eyes away as quickly as they dared to glance.

Except for a choice few who met his stare and held it firm.

That was… new.

Blinking his jadeite eyes, he took in the few men who did not turn away at his gaze. They were staring more than they had ever dared before, not avoiding his eyes as they usually would if they passed by him on the street. It made a small frown come to his face for the strangeness of it, made him want to slip out of the grasp of his two female companions and go over to them, to demand that they would speak to him of the words that glowed in their eyes and were left unsaid.

Except, even if Elenwë and Amarië were not beside him, he would not have gone up and talked to anyone. Would not have imposed his familiarity upon them. Would not have made them look suspicious. Association with the Fëanárioni was never to be taken lightly.

If they wanted to speak, they must approach first.

Putting it out of his mind, he turned away and walked past.

And he still felt their eyes upon his back, burning harshly between his shoulder blades as he turned onto the street with the inn.

“Here is where I leave you,” he said to the pair of vanyar, offering them as much of a smile as he could manage through the sharp sting of his own rising anxiety at lingering too long in the public eye. Remembering his manners, he reached for Amarië’s hand to press a kiss to her knuckles in a proper farewell.

Only for her to use his grip to tug him closer. “Cousins, remember,” she said, smiling up in his face and leaving him feeling lost.

 _Family,_ he thought a little hazily.

Carefully, uncertain of Amarië and of Elenwë watching and of the strangers milling through the street pausing to stare at how close he stood to a woman that many of them would have recognized as the wife of their Crown Prince, he leaned down and brushed a kiss against her cheek. And then almost startled as her hand coiled around in the hair at his nape and held his head bowed as she turned her face to press her lips against his cheek in return.

“Have a safe journey, cousin Carnistir,” she said quietly.

Rising back up to his towering height above her, he stared at those sapphire blue eyes, still not quite knowing how to feel about her proclamation of him as family, about his welcome into her home with Findaráto, about any of the past few days or weeks. About having his hair braided with flowers or about exchanging kisses on the cheek instead of on the knuckles. He had never been so affectionate with a female family member before except, when he was young, perhaps occasionally with his own mother. Certainly, Írissë was not the sort to exchange such pleasantries. “Thank you, cousin Amarië.”

“She gets a goodbye and I do not?” Elenwë said then, budging in and holding her arms out and open. And who was he to deny her the same privilege. Leaning down, he exchanged kisses with her as well, hand resting lightly upon her shoulder and hers upon his. “Safe journeys, cousin Carnistir.”

“If cousin Turukáno were here, he would gut me,” Carnistir commented dryly.

Wryly did Elenwë smile, patting at his rosy red cheek. “Oh, I do not know about that,” she said quietly. “If he knew you were such a softie, I think he would perhaps see things in a different way. Maybe he would be willing to look past your father.”

“Maybe,” Carnistir allowed. Doubtfully.

“Best be off then. I am certain your girl is anxious to see you again,” she said. “Just be prepared to share all the details as soon as you come back for a visit. I want to know how bright her face glows when you give her these flowers.”

“It will be like Anar,” he answered, his smile relaxing into something gentler, his voice growing wistful and distant. “Or maybe it will be like Laurelin reborn. All golden flowers. Lighting up the whole sky.”

“Careful,” she said, stepping back after giving him an extra kiss on the cheek, “We will have you writing love poetry yet, cousin. But save your best seducing for your girl, hm? Say something like that to her and she will melt at your feet.”

“I am more likely to melt at hers,” he answered instinctively, and then flushed at the truth of those words and the brutal honesty of speaking them aloud.

It had the women giggling at the very least.

“Now, it really is time I go,” he added then, “Or I will never reach my destination.”

“Eruanna would be so very disappointed,” Amarië said then as the two women pulled away, linking arms.

Quietly, Morifinwë watched them go, the smile slowly melting from his mouth. Over their shoulders, he spotted more men—more followers with familiar faces—lingering quietly in the background. He raised an eyebrow. Slowly, he lifted his hand to his chest, brushing across his throbbing heart beating heavy and firm, and then held it out towards the backs of the two women walking away and the men lingering beyond.

The lingering crowd would see him saluting his cousins—his sisters in all but name—but the men returned the gesture hesitantly.

And Morifinwë retreated into the inn, still carrying his heliotropes in the crook of his arm, ignoring all the sideways glances and flinches and stares as he pushed his way through the bustling center of activity at the bar. Heavy did his footsteps fall as he trudged up to his room to empty it of his meager possessions.

He had places to be. And here was not one of them.

\---

Hendumaika was pacing his study when Eressëa found him.

Hearing his heavy steps within, treading his heels into the expensive rugs without mercy, she hesitantly reached out and knocked at the door. Three short raps, quiet and dainty as appropriate for a lady, and she knew he would know whom was calling.

His pacing paused. “Come in, vessë.”

Leaving Víressë standing just outside the door, she entered. And quietly closed the door behind her, sealing her inside with her angry mate.

And he _was_ angry. It was a rare expression for the man who could snap his fingers and get almost anything he desired without question. Clearly, having his daughter slip through his fingers last night was agitating his already fragile ego further, because he looked at Eressëa as though she had crawled out of a sewage pit for daring to interrupt his brooding. “What is it?”

“I heard from the servants,” she announced calmly, not daring to so much as fidget in the face of his frustration. “Is it true? That Lindalórë is gone?”

The crinkle of his eyebrow was unfamiliar. “She is. Sometime in the night. We presume that she left through the window.”

 _Where else would she have gone?_ Had she her daughter’s bravery (and foolishness) she might have spoken those words aloud. Alas, she had neither of those things, and she remained still and quiet, standing in front of the door in her dark gown, eyes following her husband as he moved in jerks and twitches, spinning on his heel each time he reached the end of the room. Again, and again.

“And what of the rest?” she asked solemnly.

“The rest?” He paused in his pacing again, turning to look at her.

“I was told some of the servants were injured,” she prodded, keeping her eyes lowered but feeling her own mouth pull and tug, trying to firm into a scowl. Steadfastly, she refused. “Naturally, that was of some concern.”

“It is nothing to be concerned about. Everyone will be perfectly well in a day or two. Just a minor mishap on the stairs that resulted in a twisted ankle or two,” he lied. Lied so easily that, rolling off his tongue, it sounded like an undeniable truth. Like she was silly for thinking anything untoward had happened. And, once, she would have heard his words, seen the stretched smile that overcame his familiar lips, and would have believed it wholeheartedly without a second thought. But those days were long gone.

“And Lindalórë…?” she asked, playing at concern, allowing just the tiniest hint of worry into her voice, into her eyes as they looked up to meet his own. The same color as her daughter’s and her son’s, a lush and deep green.

But his were reptilian and cold. She shivered.

“She has nowhere to go,” he answered, approaching her in swift steps. Hard did she have to resist the urge to flinch away when he raised a hand to brush back her hair, to lift up her chin. “I have already sent someone to check the cottage, and I have made certain to set a loyal guard at every gate to the city. Worry not, vessë, she will be found swiftly. If not by the end of this day, then I will spread the word through the entirety of Tirion that her family seeks her safe return. Someone will come forward.”

Of course, she knew he had his fingers in many pies, as the phrase went. But to have infiltrated the King’s guard so thoroughly, to have so many men willing to report directly to him through the temptation of riches and monetary wealth, was a bold statement indeed. Were it not for how secure a hiding place she had procured for her only daughter, she might have been genuinely nervous. Nevertheless, she felt confident that his efforts would yield nothing, for Nolofinwë and Anairë would know to keep Lindalórë within the confines of their house, secret to all but those with the utmost priority.

“You seem perturbed,” she said, instead of pushing the subject. Taking a step forward, she made to approach closer. “Is there anything you need, venno?”

Once again, she saw that strange spark. The one that made her uncertain. That might have been the tiniest droplet of lust or might have been the smallest glimmer of suspicion. But it died quickly, and the narrow almond of his eye widened. It gave the illusion, exceptional down to the smallest detail of his body language, of his fury calming, drifting off his form like mist vanishes in the sunlight, burned away.

She took another step closer, feeling as though she approached a rabid dog.

“You are kind to ask,” he said soothingly, “But you should not stress yourself so with worrying about such things. Soon, Lindalórë will be married, moved into a house with her new husband, and things will return to normality once more. And all of this will go away. Does that not sound lovely, vessë?”

 _Ah, so that is his game._ He believed that she was too stupid still to have participated in Lindalórë’s escape, but he was worried that the unrest of the situation had stirred her into some sort of feminine hysteria and that she needed to be calmed and soothed like some sort of wild animal, reassured that the balance would return to her existence. And it was her job now to pretend at obliviousness, to accept that that had been the case.

He did not want her to know that he had allowed two women of his household to be raped for the sake of his own lust for power and wealth? Fine, she would play at being the dumb and blind wife whose concerns were little more than for the quiet of her household and the continued presence of her fine jewelry and her exquisite dresses.

Plastering a faint smile on her features, she nodded. “If you say so, then I am certain it will be so, venno.”

There it was. The return of his sharp, smug smirk.

“Now,” he said then, “I believe it is about time for the breaking of fast, do you not agree? We have a guest to feed besides that, and I find myself rather hungry all of a sudden.”

“Of course,” she allowed, stepping aside and letting him pass through the doorway first and then following in his wake, her footsteps a quiet echo of the heavy steps of his boots upon the rugs and hardwood floors.

For now, it seemed, she was still safe.

For now, but how long would that last, she wondered.

Still, she had accomplished her mission. His mood was improved slightly—evidenced by his sudden increase in appetite—and he neither suspected her of involvement nor had any idea to whence Lindalórë might have fled. Furthermore, in blasé fashion, he had told her that the servants were all well and would recover swiftly. Be that truth or lie mattered little; he knew that she would take note if any of her female staff were suddenly to disappear for reasons unknown without so much as a by-your-leave. And he did not want her suspicious.

He wanted her oblivious.

As she passed through the doorway, Víressë attached herself to her lady’s shoulder, head down and eyes averted. But not before a soft sound of her relief—so quiet as to disappear beneath the heavy trod of her spouse—escaped her lips.

Eressëa did not turn and look. Staring straight forward at the middle of her husband’s back, she pretended everything was fine.

And he never glanced back.

\---

The story, as expected, was not a pleasant one.

Looking around the room, Arafinwë could see that the others looked just as unbalanced and horrified as he felt beneath his sharp mask of displeasure. In the wake of Nolofinwë’s harsh voice ceasing to speak, they all sat in silence. Angaráto’s face was forged from the iron of his namesake, eyes darkened with unspeakable rage to match the sneer on his lips. Ambaráto beside him was staring unblinkingly, eyes having gradually grown hotter and fiercer the longer the tale of rescue dragged on until it reached its terrible climax and successful conclusion.

“No word of Lindalórë’s whereabouts leaves this room,” the King said, looking sternly from face to face, “Not even a whisper. Even when Lindalórë is safely returned to her husband and his family, this rescue and her subsequent sanctuary in Nolofinwë’s household is not to be spoken of outside these walls.”

His sons were undaunted, but he trusted that they understood his words and would obey knowing the potential severity of the consequences should word spread. The blacksmith, whiter in the face than ever, gave a short, obedient nod. “Of course, your Majesty.”

Then he looked into Nolofinwë’s eyes, and he saw the burn of the icy winds of the Helcaraxë reborn in their depths. “She will be safe in your keeping, háno.”

“She will,” Nolofinwë agreed.

“You will need to control yourself,” Arafinwë added. “I can see in your eyes that you contemplate something foolish. You must attend Court and play as though nothing is wrong, though I am certain that there will be rumors, and I am certain you will see both Hendumaika and this man, Calmacil, there.”

The gritting of his brother’s teeth was nearly audible.

“Perhaps,” Anairë murmured, “It would be best to stay away from Court. Just for a few days. Just until _things_ calm down.”

But Arafinwë was already shaking his head. As much as he would like to gift his sister-in-law with such time—and he knew why she asked, that his brother desperately needed to be distanced from the situation—he could offer no such consolation. “While the chance of suspicion falling upon you is low, it increases significantly if you hide yourselves away during the crucial time immediately following Lindalórë’s _disappearance.”_ He glanced between her and Nolofinwë, taking in the way Anairë’s hand clenched around her husband’s wrist, and the way Nolofinwë’s fingers curled almost to the point of tearing in his wife’s skirts. “It need not be often, or even every day. Just a few appearances as usual, just so nothing looks out of place.”

“I am not so certain that I could contain myself if I were standing in a room with either of them,” Nolofinwë gritted out, white-blue eyes averted just to the right of Arafinwë’s face. The King wondered, if he turned around, whether he would find that the wall had a hole drilled straight through where the intensity of his brother’s furious gaze was focused.

“You will have to,” he countered. “You ran a kingdom for hundreds of years. You dealt with Fëanáro for thousands. This is not asking so much.”

“You did not have to listen to one of them rape a helpless woman.” That gaze shifted, and Arafinwë felt it upon his body as the drip of cold water down his spine, instinctively screaming through his nervous system that the man before him was deadly if provoked and dangerously close to the edge of his temper.

But Nolofinwë was also his brother. And, in all honesty, Arafinwë remembered Fëanáro in those days _after_ the eldest son of Finwë had fallen over that edge and into the spiral of insanity below, and that was far more frightening a thing.

“No,” he answered, “I did not. But your running off and doing something _else_ reckless will not rectify the situation. So, _contain yourself_ for _a few days,_ and then you can make some excuse to retreat to the countryside or some such nonsense as you need once Lindalórë is safely out of your household and within Nelyafinwë’s where she belongs.”

No compromising was there to be had here. Let it never be said that Nolofinwë was a consummate actor—he was, rather, brutally honest in his open disdain, pride and arrogance, and came across as bitterly cold because, for the most part, he _was_ —but Arafinwë was certain his brother was capable of this much. If only because he would feel beholden to support their cause to his utmost best and protect Lindalórë.

Arafinwë knew what those bandaged hands meant, after all. They represented not his brother’s fury but reeked instead of his brother’s guilt.

“Lindalórë is depending on you now,” he added, driving the knife in and twisting it for good measure. “It would not do to let her down as we have been doing for such a long time, not when we are the only protection standing between her and that man you would so desperately want to stick through with your sword.”

As if the rest of them did not desire the same! Arafinwë was not a violent man—he never had been and never would be—but he could imagine making exceptions. He could imagine, at the very least, unmanning his foe.

 _We would see that his raping would not be a problem then,_ the King thought grimly.

But, while his temper was aroused and malicious thoughts awake and vivid in his inner eye, Arafinwë was still the King and still bound to his precarious position of power at the pinnacle of a society that abhorred the violent harming and slaying of kin—even vile kin—above all else. Never would he act upon that instinctual predatory urge to obliterate any threat to those whom he considered to be under his protection.

Nolofinwë was not so beholden.

And so, as often he learned to do in these long centuries of sitting upon the throne of the Noldor, he smiled and manipulated.

Even if Nolofinwë saw what he did—and he suspected, by the slight furrow of his brother’s brow that he did—he knew his sibling well enough to see the surrender in the slump of Nolofinwë’s shoulders and the downcast of his chilly gaze to rest upon his bandaged hands, one upon his leg and the other tangled in his wife’s skirts.

Arafinwë was sorry to need to use such leverage.

“Very well,” Nolofinwë breathed. “I can… I can contain myself. I cannot guarantee that I would be in a pleasant mood, but I can guarantee that no blood will be spilt by my hands. Even if the recipient of the edge of my blade deserves to suffer that and worse.”

“Good,” the King said, reaching out to lift his teacup to his lips and take a sip. He very strictly regulated his expression to prevent his nose from wrinkling in distaste, finding that it was now barely lukewarm and bitter with a hint of grime upon his tongue. But he drank it anyway and let that awful taste sit in the back of his throat, coating it with the resentment he felt for those who had slithered out of the depths to disturb the peace of his paradise hard-won and -built.

 _They were always there,_ he had to remind himself, ignoring the infuriated look his brother gave his cup as it clattered against the saucer. _You were simply too blind to see that your paradise was never a paradise at all. Fool._

His lips pursed.

“Hendumaika will be a difficult dragon to slay, as one might put it,” he then said, moving on to other business. “He is far too influential to confront without the utmost evidence of wrongdoing. Even then, it would be difficult to capture him fully in a net, for he is undoubtedly slippery with his words and willing to sacrifice his pawns in his place.”

That much, he had demonstrated and more. If his mere servants were but pawns in his game of business and politics, his daughter must be a far more substantial piece, and he had been willing to throw her aside without hesitation for his own gain.

The worst part was that, technically, he had not even yet broken any laws that anyone could prove substantially and undeniably. Certainly, if his reputation were questioned, there would be hearsay and speculation abounding in all directions, drawing attention like shooting stars while petering out just as fleetingly, but who could prove without question that he had given Calmacil permission to assault his daughter (or anyone else) except the slimy bastard himself? It could be argued that he was aiding and abetting a crime so long as it could be proved that he had known a crime—a violent rape—had taken place in his household and had tried to hide it or failed to report it, but it would, at the end of the day, be Hendumaika’s word against someone else’s, and his current reputation would have the majority of Court looking favorably upon anything that left his serpentine tongue. 

And, while Arafinwë was just as personally offended by the idea of _forcing_ one’s daughter to marry against her will as many others, no matter the circumstances of the arrangement, it was neither uncommon nor technically illegal to browbeat or coerce a woman into _agreeing_ to a marriage, either through subliminal threat to her future wellbeing or through pressure from family or peers to accept a suit. Even then, Hendumaika had not succeeded in actually marrying Lindalórë to Calmacil, and it would be difficult to argue _intent_ and expect that the silver-tongued businessman would not have some excuse or explanation—such as concern over his daughter’s wellbeing in the keeping of her potentially violent kinslayer husband—in the wings, waiting to make his accusers look the fool in front of a public audience.

To be frank, they needed to proceed with extreme caution. They needed to ostracize a very powerful man if they ever hoped to see him wrecked for his crimes without inciting fear of unfair and biased treatment in the minds and hearts of the rest of the courtiers. Those sorts of maneuvers were always delicate and required _time._

Arafinwë was good at time, at patience and persistence. His brothers—the both of them—were used to the life of action. A King at war had different priorities than a King at peace, and Arafinwë was more suited to one and Nolofinwë to the other.

“I need to think on the matter,” he concluded, knowing that he needed to investigate all avenues of action before proceeding down any one of them in haste, no matter that he would have liked to see justice done with an immediate and swift hand. “Calmacil should not be as difficult to corner. That is the reason I have invited Ambaráto here.”

His son, looking more _here in the now_ than he had ever seen since the younger man’s rebirth, did not seem surprised.

“Ambaráto here has been tasked with investigating other matters of a similar delicate nature, including getting close to certain individuals suspected of lawbreaking and ill intent,” Arafinwë explained. “Now that we have a name, we can certainly conduct further observation into this Calmacil’s behaviors and extracurricular activities and discern if he might be a danger not only to Lindalórë but to women or the public in general and if he has committed ill acts in the past.”

At this Nolofinwë scoffed. “I _heard_ him rape a woman. I listened to her _beg him to stop._ What more evidence is required?”

Out of the corner of his eye, the King saw Angaráto flinch. And it made his gut boil and churn with his upset.

But all Arafinwë did was give a long-winded sigh. It was the soothing balm of Eärwen’s hand upon his arm that allowed him to breathe deeply through his nose, eyes fluttering closed for a long moment, before confronting his elder sibling’s anger at the injustice of it all. “You know exactly why more evidence is required.”

Because Nolofinwë would have to admit to _being there_ to disclose that information. To being there and in the act of committing what many would consider to be another crime just as substantial. It could have severe repercussions on a married man and his family, already in rather overall poor standing with the Court, already constantly suspect as were all those come out of Exile. The true evil of espionage was the necessity of secrecy.

Ambaráto, on the other hand, could infiltrate deeply without fear of a family at his back waiting to take the downfall for his actions. The fourth son of Arafinwë had no wife and children, no intention of marrying, no great reputation to protect. And he had agreed knowingly to the risks involved in exposing himself to such situations, knew that he might be seen in a dark light should his infiltrating and spying come to light and considered it a worthy sacrifice for the cause in which he believed.

Much as Arafinwë hated the idea of any of his children suffering, he was not about to take purpose away from a purposeless man. He was not that dim.

“Let Ambaráto look into the matter and see if more evidence cannot be found,” Arafinwë then convinced when Nolofinwë looked skeptical. “Let him gather the name of this maid who was assaulted, and others fallen prey to the same man. Let him bear witness with his own eyes and bring it forward when we are certain we have enough evidence to topple our foe. Rushing here will yield nothing but damage to ourselves and our reputations.”

At that, the older brother let out his own long-suffering sigh. “I hate it when you are wise,” he commented dryly. “But your words hold some measure of truth. I am simply used to acting immediately. In war, hesitation can mean the difference between losing or saving hundreds or thousands of lives.”

Arafinwë mulled on that, on the truth and the lie of it. “This is still a war,” he finally said, “But a war of a different sort. Be my ally in this, not my enemy, háno.”

Nolofinwë looked away, muttering under his breath. But he relented.

And the King looked to his son. “Consider that to be my word on the matter, Ambaráto. I want you to keep your eyes and ears open and listen for word of this Calmacil. And I want to know of his doings outside the public eye.”

Blazing eyes met his own. “Consider it done, Atar.”

The King pursed his lips. Slowly, he took in the faces around the room. Some still infuriated. Some morose. Some blank and wide-eyed.

“There are others,” Nolofinwë then said, breaking the long silence, voice still dropped half an octave, still filled with outrage half-stifled beneath his fragile veil of control, but now just a hair quieter than his raging of before. “Lindalórë and the maid, they are not an isolated incident. This has happened to others.”

Arafinwe blinked in his older brother’s direction, resisting again the urge to sigh. He had rather hoped Nolofinwë might ignore the brief mention of others, that his brother would focus on his current mission to care for and protect Lindalórë within the confines of his household until she could be safely smuggled out of the city. But, of course, his brother caught on quickly—he might be a touch reckless, but he was far from unintelligent or unobservant—and saw fit to butt his nose in where it was not quite wanted.

 _That,_ Eärwen would have said with snark into his ear had he shared his inner commentary, _is a trait the two of you share._

 _Yes, well…_ “I have Findaráto working on learning more about the other incidents, interviewing potential victims and those sorts of things when names are brought forward. When he and Ambaráto have yielded results from their joint project, perhaps we shall have more information with which to combat this unfortunate situation.”

“Unfortunate situation,” Nolofinwë mocked under his breath, scoffing.

The younger brother did not take the sarcasm or the judgment in those words to heart. It was rather clear to him that his older brother meant well despite the rising of his temper in the harshness of his words and the blatant impatience in the twitching of his hands and the shuffling of his feet. If Nolofinwë could have taken up a sword and driven all those guilty of such crimes out of Tirion singlehandedly, embodied in all the fire and ash of a rageful Valarauko at the feet of such examples of refuse, he was certain his brother would not have hesitated.

Alas, such was not the way of things.

“For now, concentrate on Lindalórë. One problem at a time,” he instructed, knowing it grated on his brother’s nerves to be ordered about. “I will contact Nelyafinwë, and we shall discuss a plan for getting Lindalórë into the keeping of her husband’s family without inciting suspicion.”

“Very well,” Nolofinwë grumbled, standing abruptly, almost bursting with nervous energy. “Anairë, ammelda, come along. We want not to leave our guest alone in the house for too long unattended.”

Her eyes narrowed in response, but she deigned allow his rule on this occasion. “That seems wise,” she acquiesced, allowing her husband to help her stand. “Please do let us know if there is any news, Arafinwë. We are most anxious to be of assistance.”

And then she was near-dragging her husband from the room, preventing him from speaking whatever it was that had risen upon his tongue and left his lips parting

As such, there were but five of them left.

“Now,” Arafinwë said, “That we have my poor nosy brother out of the way. There is much more yet to discuss.”

Matters of rumor-mongering and spreading of word of mouth. Matters of healing of the mind and body. Matters of investigations into subversive social groups. Things that he felt needed not be allowed to trouble Nolofinwë’s mind whilst the man was already trembling upon the knife’s edge of a dangerous or even deadly mental breakdown.

Long had the years been since it was this bad. Given a few days, though, perhaps Nolofinwë would calm.

In the meantime, there was work to be done.

And the others around the room looked on, solemn-faced with determination to see it through to the end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:
> 
> Anar (Q) = the Sun  
> Arien (Q) = maia who guides the vessel of the Sun  
> Fëanárioni (Q, p) = sons of Fëanáro  
> vanyar (Q, p) = people of the Vanyar  
> vessë (Q) = wife  
> venno (Q) = husband  
> háno (Q) = brother  
> Atar (Q) = Father  
> Valarauko (Q) = Balrog  
> ammelda (Q) = dearest (one)
> 
> \---
> 
> Flower symbolism:
> 
> Heliotrope = I am devoted to you, I am intoxicated by pleasure, devotion, faithfulness, eternal love  
> White Chrysanthemum = I promise, tell me the truth, honesty, purity, devotion, loyalty


	65. Around and Around In Circles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mostly literal circles. But some mental circles, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: swearing, arguments, blaming, talking about death/disfigurement, some insensitivity, tussling, someone has a panic attack, mentions of rape, fantasies of violence inflicted on another person
> 
> Briefly a character has a flashback/panic attack, and another character utilizes a method of using stimulation of the senses to bring the person back to reality that is in its infancy, kind of similar to the five things you can see, four you can touch, etc. Just letting y'all know that that's in there.
> 
> Maedhros = Maitimo = Nelyafinwë = Nelyo = Russandol  
> Maglor = Makalaurë = Kanafinwë = Káno  
> Celegorm = Tyelkormo = Tyelko = Turkafinwë = Turko  
> Caranthir = Carnistir = Morifinwë = Moryo  
> Curufin = Atarinkë = Curufinwë = Curvo  
> Amrod = Ambarussa = Pityafinwë = Pityo = Minyarussa  
> Amras = Umbarto = Telufinwë = Telvo = Atyarussa  
> Aredhel = Írissë  
> Turgon = Turukáno  
> Fingon = Findekáno  
> Argon = Arakáno  
> Ecthelion = Ehtelion  
> Glorfindel = Laurefindil = Laurë  
> Egalmoth = Aikambalotsë  
> Fingolfin = Nolofinwë  
> Celebrimbor = Telperinquar  
> Idril = Itarillë

_Elenya, 55 Lairë (7 July)_

\---

_Well, this is a wonderful surprise first thing in the damn morning._

Back to his routine of sleeplessness the previous night, Curufinwë now felt his feet dragging slightly with the first vestiges of that cursed fatigue as he and his company trotted through the grass at a steady pace, following the ghostly trail of their prey through the thickets and the woods, clinging to the path through sheer tenacity and no small amount of pure luck. Always had it been difficult to follow Turkafinwë, and it was only easier because now Írissë was sloppier in covering her passage than her hunter cousin. Small blessing though that was.

But now this. They came to a halt as Curufinwë looked about himself, scowling at the picturesque view of towering peridot-leaved deciduous trees waving in the breeze like smarmy, mocking and unhelpful foes. He blinked once and then again, taking in the sight and feeling the constriction of his lungs trying to force curses up and out through his throat in a wave of unpleasant smog and ash.

“What is it?” Turukáno walked up to stand at his shoulder, staring with blank eyes at what, to the uninitiated, must appear to be a whole lot of _nothing._ Just a handful of trees and bushes and little else besides. But, to Curufinwë, there were signs everywhere he looked that their day was about to take a rather dismal turn.

“There are two distinct trails that branch here.” He turned to look off to the left and then the right, first east and then west. The two trails were differing in the skill of the hunter leaving them in their wake, but both were too blatant for comfort, and he suspected immediately that they were left that way with purpose to attract attention and distract from a true trail. For long moments, Curufinwë’s eyes flitted across the clearing, searching for any sign of a third branch, more well-hidden than the first, only to find nothing. A dead end.

If Turkafinwë really wanted to slow them down, he would have hidden the true trail along one of the false ones. And Curufinwë suspected that was exactly what had happened. It left him gritting his teeth with irritation, eyes narrowing.

That eventuality meant scouring every inch of two trails that were who knew how long in order to discern where the pair had gone exactly. On the one hand, Curufinwë was almost tempted at this point to forgo any attempts at tracking, to share with Turukáno that he believed the couple might be headed to the Woods of Oromë and that they should consider abandoning the pretense of following through Curufinwë’s tracking skills alone, instead heading straight for the destination in question. But, if he was wrong, they would lose the trail entirely with little chance of recovering it the longer that the elements were allowed to slowly cover and erase any signs of the passing of the pair of hunters. No idea had he if Turkafinwë knew who was following, if he suspected Curufinwë’s involvement, if he thought anyone might guess at his destination and he might turn at the last minute and go elsewhere just to sow extra confusion and discord amongst those daring enough to try and hunt the ultimate hunter.

And, in the back of his mind, Curufinwë wondered whether the extra time would lend their hunting party any respite when Turkafinwë and Írissë were undoubtedly traveling much faster and lighter, when they were likely already so far ahead that they could not be caught. Even if their merry band of seven shaved off a day or two of travel, they were still unlikely to catch up to their prey before the couple found a way to disappear into the wilderness without a trace or otherwise find unbreachable sanctuary.

 _Lovely,_ he thought dryly, nose wrinkling.

He also wondered (half-heartedly in the very back corner of his mind) whether he wanted to catch the lovers and force them back to Tirion. What did Turukáno think they would accomplish upon capturing the pair except driving a wedge between their potential budding relationship—and was that not a bizarre thought, Turkafinwë having a true romantic relationship rather than a purely sexual one—and was that really to the greatest benefit of Írissë? Perhaps, it might be better to just give them the extra time. To let them come to a decision about what they desired to do with one another or not do with one another, uninhibited by the designs and interference of either the House of Nolofinwë or the House of Fëanáro.

Curufinwë almost did not want to catch up to them at all, thinking about it in that manner. Harsh in his tongue and sharp in his spirit he might be, but he desired most—above all but the continued wellbeing and happiness of his wife and son—that his family was as safe, healthy and happy as they could manage in this disconsolate existence. And he desired not to do anything to ruin the potential for happiness for Turkafinwë, his oldest friend and companion.

He owed his brother that much consideration at least. And, even if he did not, he still would have believed it his duty as a loyal brother to give Turkafinwë his chance at happiness. Even if that meant, perhaps, sabotaging this expedition slightly through white lies and withholding information.

 _This is foolish,_ he could not help but think blandly, _but I am going to do it anyway. And here, I was hoping to be home quickly. Turkafinwë had best thank me generously for this sacrifice when next we meet._

As such, Curufinwë decided against gambling with information and said nothing of his suspicions for the time being. Perhaps, once they were closer to their potential destination—once Turkafinwë had had more time with Írissë to build a relationship or leave the existing one to fall apart—he would speak his mind about where he believed their chase through the wilderness was going to lead in the end. What harm could that truly do except extend his own agony at waiting to, once more, hold his wife in his arms and feel her spirit twine with his own until they came together as One being instead of two?

And, of course, he would be spending more time out in the woods with his _lovely_ cousins. He was already suffering, so why not suffer longer? Even thinking it had Curufinwë sighing in disgust at his own deeply-hidden sentimentality.

Obviously, he was going to say nothing of such thoughts to Turukáno, though. The man would have kittens.

“That one was left by Írissë,” he said, nodding sharply towards the east, the trail the wilder and more recklessly uncovered of the pair, “And the other by Turkafinwë,” he motioned to the west, to the neater but still painfully obvious disturbances in the dirt and the undergrowth that left his suspicions rising. “They split up to make two different trails to confuse us and cost us time figuring out which direction they truly went. And then they followed one of the two, careful to make a much quieter trail, and branched off at some point.”

His cousin gave him a suspicious look. “How can you even know such things?”

Looking over at the pale blue eyes of his least-favorite cousin, Curufinwë motioned Turukáno forward, ignoring how the bookends lingered watchfully just yonder like devoted puppy-dogs. Kneeling in the grass he pointed out the imprints of interest. “Here is one trail. One can see that it is loud and blatant heading to the east, the few foot-imprints smaller than the other trail, and only a single set, indicating that they would like us to believe that only one person came this way rather than two. It is the same with the other…”

He shifted a little deeper into the woods, just upon the edge of the sunlit clearing. “There is a return trail, however. Here… and here…” His fingers traced the earth. “The same person who made the trail returned by the same route, likely traveling in a circle. Once again, it is the same for the other.”

“And there is no third trail?” Turukáno asked, unsettled, his annoyance there but, likely, forcibly stifled to keep the peace, tenuous though it might be.

“Of course, there is,” Curufinwë said sharply, “It is just a matter of from whence it originates. No third trail see I from standing here in this clearing, but there will be one. They obviously set this up to confuse us and slow us down. Not that we _needed_ more slowing down,” the Fëanárion added sarcastically, glancing back at Findekáno, who was panting and resting on the ground out of range of his sharp whispers.

“Are you suggesting that we actually must follow these trails and find the real one?” At that, Turukáno made a face of abject disgust, not enjoying the idea of being led about by the nose any more than Curufinwë did.

“That is exactly what I am suggesting,” Curufinwë answered blandly as he stood to his full height and brushed dust from his ratty travel-clothes. “We had best get started if we want to get out of here in a timely fashion. I suspect that this will not be a pleasant day. I can only imagine that they would have found this terribly funny, so watch for extra surprises. Booby traps or other unpleasantness.”

Turukáno let out a disdainful snort. “Fine. Let us get moving then. Aikambalotsë can go with you, and Ehtelion and Laurefindil shall come alongside me. Findekáno and Arakáno shall wait here for our return once we know to where we are going.”

If he were in his right mind, Curufinwë would have agreed to that on the spot. He might not be overtly fond of his brother-in-law, but he certainly had grown less hostile towards the older brother of Lindalórë in these past few days. If for no other reason than that the other man was stricken with the same dark, suffocating collar of guilt that held him back, and, perhaps, because Aikambalotsë seemed of the mind to respect Lindalórë’s decisions no matter his personal opinion about the rights and wrongs of her choices.

No greater gift could his brother-in-law have offered but to allow Lindalórë the chance to decide for herself what future she desired. It was a rare quality in a man, especially one of the upper classes. Curufinwë was not about to forget that.

But that changed not the fact that he was sick of looking at Aikambalotsë’s features. The man, on the surface, little resembled his sister in face and form, all sharp angles and hard lines to combat her softness and rounded edges. But the longer Curufinwë stared, the more often he saw those stern features soften with genuine guilt or sadness or even happiness, the more he saw his wife and his child in the eyes and face and voice of his brother-in-law. Quite frankly, it was making him want to throw something sharp or otherwise blunt and potentially life threatening at the other man’s head, which was not a recommended course of action by any stretch of the imagination if he wanted to remain in his wife’s good graces (or, of course, not be banished or otherwise exiled for murder). Furthermore, the man seemed to believe that, now that they were on decent terms, he should engage Curufinwë in conversation at almost every opportunity to “build camaraderie” or some such sentimental rot that they both left unspoken but which lingered cloyingly in the space between their stilted attempts at words.

Yes, he truly was sick of seeing his brother-in-law’s face and thinking about all the things that, right now, he could not have (Lindalórë tucked safe and warm into his side, her scent deep in his lungs and her softness soothing upon the sharper edges of his spirit) and all the things he did not know (Telperinquar was out there somewhere, an adult man but separated from all his nearest kin, and what if he needed something desperately and was without allies? What if he needed his parents and they were not there to give aid to their only child?) and it was grating on his patience rapidly.

Time to make himself sick of Turukáno’s bookends for a change. At least Ehtelion, of the pair, was tolerable on a good day.

“How about we exchange companions for the day,” he purred out, feeling his lips quiver into a tiny smirk at the way his cousin’s face rapidly paled. “You have been wanting to speak to Aikambalotsë frankly since we set out on this ridiculous quest. Should you not take advantage of the opportunity presented?”

“He will not agree, nor does he wish to speak with me,” Turukáno gritted out, “And I would not force the issue.”

“You are not forcing the issue,” Curufinwë argued. “I am.”

This seemed to give his cousin pause, those pale eyes slithering away to linger upon the unsuspecting Aikambalotsë a ways away, crouching next to Findekáno and Arakáno in the grass, exchanging quiet words whilst they all partook in a much needed water break. “This is an absolutely terrible idea, Curufinwë.”

“Most of my ideas are,” the Fëanárion agreed. “Let us begin!”

Stretching his arms briefly above his head, the fifth son felt a satisfying crack echo through his spine. “Well then, you are in charge here, Turukáno. Give the orders, for we have not all day to wait upon your indecision.”

That, naturally, earned him an icy glare. “You are utterly infuriating.”

Curufinwë just offered a smirk sharper than the blade of any knife. The sort that usually had men flinching back, sensing danger tingle in the most primal fashion down their spines. Of course, the cold bastard son of Nolofinwë was unaffected, returning an unamused look.

Still, he did not argue further. Turning on his heel, he addressed the others. “Aikambalotsë with me, Ehtelion and Laurefindil with Curufinwë. Each of us will take one of the trails and follow them back to here, where Findekáno and Arakáno will wait for our return. Somewhere, hidden along these trails, is the real third way, so we shall find it.”

The other three did not argue against their unofficial leader’s call, though both Aikambalotsë and Laurefindil openly showed the sourness of their faces without quarter. Neither looked like they wanted to be caught dead with their chosen companion—Aikambalotsë with Turukáno, who he had openly professed to hating, and Laurefindil with Curufinwë, two people with very different ideals who held no love for one another either—but it would be as it would be. Curufinwë had no quarrel with Ehtelion at the very least.

“We are wasting time,” Curufinwë interrupted then, putting an end to the silent staring matches burning through the air. “Come on, bookends. Let us be on our way.”

Without looking back at them, he set off towards Turkafinwë’s dummy trail.

There was work to be done.

And two sets of footsteps followed him quietly through the grass.

\---

Breakfast was an agonizing affair.

Where Aikambalotsë should be sitting, instead there was a stain upon the face of Eä eating at their table, breaking bread with them as one of their own family, and Eressëa kept her eyes firmly downcast upon the table, playing at upset and submissiveness to redirect any suspicion. Because she knew that, if she dared look up, the two men—no matter how dim they were when it came to the intellectualism and cunning of women—would see how much she wanted to use her fork to unman the guest.

Nowhere near her family, her house or her servants did she want a man willing, even eager, to rape and pillage without mercy. It took every ounce of strength that her stomach possessed to down even the smallest bit of toast, unbuttered and bland, and it tasted like ash upon her tongue as she chewed and swallowed.

The servants, too, worked in abject silence, their feet treading but gently upon the hardwood floor. Thankfully, serving food was primarily the duty of the male servants, so none of the women would need to be in the same room as that monster.

When it was over, Eressëa set her silverware down with a quiet clink, hardly any of her food touched. “I think I shall retreat to my rooms,” she said, folding her hands into her lap. “I do not feel well this day. I would like to rest in the afternoon.”

Clearly, Hendumaika found this not odd at all. Risking a glance up, she saw her husband leaning with his chin resting in the cup of his palm, jaw working in silent thought. Slowly, her gaze rotated around to look at Calmacil, who was staring at her from across the table. Not with suspicion, but with just the tiniest hint of malice. Restricted, held back only because her husband was in the room. But she did not doubt that, where her husband trusted her (if only to be too stupid to rebel), his new pet did not trust her at all.

 _Well,_ she thought hatefully as she looked down at her plate, _he can go rot._

“If you feel you need rest, what kind of husband would I be to keep you?” Hendumaika asked, voice genial. “It has been a difficult morning for us already, vessë. Go, rest. I have work yet to be done, but I will get it all figured out.”

He was trying to reassure her. She did not know whether or not she should find that disturbing. Hesitantly, she nodded and stood, head still demurely downcast, and excused herself from the room. No one stopped her as she left, feet quiet upon the floor, and Víressë was waiting for her just outside the door, almost clinging the very moment she was within sight.

Keeping her strides even and measured, slow and floating with grace, she ascended the stairs, the railing cold beneath her fingertips as she trailed them across the polished and burnished surface, and she was momentarily tempted to bite her nails into it and leaves scratches in the perfect finish behind. Just out of annoyance and spite.

 _Do not make more work for the servants to do,_ she scolded herself. _It is not as if Hendumaika would buff out the scratches himself._

Reaching the top of the stairwell, she turned towards the living quarters. Her eyes took in the lavishness of her own home, the bejeweled furniture set with expensive semiprecious stone sculptures twisting and turning in graceful lines, marked with vases and glass baubles forged by the finest craftsmen and craftswomen to grace this side of Alatairë, and she brushed her fingertips across each one and felt the cold lifelessness in each point of intimate contact.

It all felt empty. Turning her gaze away, she entered her rooms, her maid following close on her heels. Only when the door was firmly closed in her wake did she look to her most trusted servant with narrowed eyes.

“I have an errand for you,” she said quietly.

“An errand, my Lady?” Víressë asked with hesitance.

“Yes. You will go out shopping for me this day. I have want of some new jewelry, and you know what I like. And, of course, I would like for you to make an extra stop along the way,” she instructed quietly, turning around to offer her back. “Undo my ties, please.”

Dexterous fingers unlaced her from her gown with ease, and then set about preparing a new gown for resting. Only once Eressëa had been changed into a flowing bit of softness, a pale ivory that almost blended in to her porcelain skin, did her maid set about undoing the elaborate braiding of her hair, pieces falling one by one to lie curled against her throat, spilling down her back and about her shoulders.

“I want you to stop at the Healing House as well,” Eressëa said then. “You may say nothing of what has taken place within this house—that would bring too much suspicion down upon you—but you will try your best to ask how one might treat such injuries as your fellow maids have sustained. Be careful and quiet about it.”

Víressë was pale in her face, but, nevertheless, she nodded. “Of course, my Lady. I shall do my best to learn what we need.”

“Be careful,” Eressëa ordered, allowing her servant to tuck her into her bed. “When you have done as I have ordered, return to my side. And bring those two girls with you if they are well enough to be out of bed. When you are back, I will desire a bath and require attending constantly in my state of grief.”

Stepping back, Víressë offered a brief curtsy, eyes still downcast. “Of course, my Lady. I shall follow your orders to the letter.”

Slowly, the maid backed out of the room, leaving Eressëa on her own.

Not wishing to look at her room, she rolled over and pulled the sheet up to her face, blocking out the unwanted sunlight and the unwanted glitter of jewels and the unwanted sight of everything beautiful and damning about her home. It was no lie that she felt the need to lay abed and absorb both her grief and her fury, to rest them both away until she could open her eyes and be once more the quiet and dutiful wife looking on with dead eyes and no protests. No lie that she was distraught and needed the time and the quiet to bring back into balance her own sense of inner serenity and mental fortitude which was cracking at the corners and bending beneath the weight of the sudden onslaught of shock and sorrow.

Shock and sorrow in the sudden realization that her daughter was gone. Lindalórë was gone and she would not be coming back.

It should not have been so upsetting, so gut-wrenchingly horrible. Known, Eressëa had, that it was peaking upon the horizon, that there was no other safe option, that it was the best course of action for all. Agreed to it, she had.

Yet, somehow, that did nothing to quell the swell of grief beneath her solar plexus, pulled tight against the contours of her belly and chest, wrapping around her heart and squeezing until her heartbeat drummed loudly in her ears and panged sharply against her ribs. It was so strong suddenly that it _hurt,_ and she clenched her eyes tightly shut to hold it all back.

In the sheets, her fingers coiled tightly, clinging, wishing there was someone else beside her to lend comfort. But there was nothing.

So, if Eressëa cried, there was no one there to see.

\---

A good few hours of marching through the most disgustingly thick thicket he had ever encountered, followed closely by a long and winding path through some rather muddy and slightly stagnant ponds filled to the brim with reeds (and probably ticks), and Curufinwë had not spoken a single word to either one of Turukáno’s lackeys, who were apparently silently eager to wade through all manner of reeking muck and undergrowth and waist-high cattails without so much as a say in the direction.

Some conversation, even sharp and unpleasant, would have made the experience at least slightly more tolerable, Curufinwë could not help but think a bit petulantly.

Or, perhaps, the sharper and more unpleasant the better.

“So,” he began, voice teasing slyly, “What is it that you find so unlikeable about me that you scowl like a little thundercloud over in your corner there, Laurefindil?”

The look the Laurefindil gave him was disgusted. “What do you think, Fëanárion?”

With a snort, Curufinwë turned back around, pleased to have gotten a rise out of the other man. “No need to be a bastard about it, Laurelótion. It was just a question to break the silence. I grow bored of nothing but the sound of buzzing and birdsong in my ear.”

“And, so, you thought it would be appropriate to bring up the death of my sister so casually, as though it were a topic to amuse you in your boredom, is that it, Fëanárion?” A sneer rolled up the vanya’s upper lip, leaving his pale teeth bare and threatening.

 _Oh, so that is his complaint._ Curufinwë bit his lip against a snide comment and made a valiant effort _not_ to roll his eyes. So often had he heard the same well-used and worn-out excuses from Turukáno—Elenwë died this and Elenwë died that—that he almost wanted to turn around and bloody Laurefindil’s nose in retaliation for bring up such “traumatizing” memories of his insane cousin screaming out words of blame in his face and the faces of his brothers like a madman, blubbering and fixating over a dead woman. A dead woman who was now brought back to the land of the living and was living happily and well at her bastard husband’s side.

“Your sister is alive and well now. Yet, here you are, using her death as an excuse.” Well, he had not meant to say that aloud. Too late to take it back now.

“Yes, I suppose she is. Just like Telufinwë is alive and well now. I suppose you have forgiven your dear father for all his sins as well, including the murder of his youngest child while you all sat around like brainless louts and watched the flames nip at the sky, listening to him scream as he died.”

“Laurefindil!” Ehtelion burst out, scandalized.

Curufinwë stopped in his tracks, turned his head to stare at the golden-haired man who still scowled and snarled defiantly in his direction, knowing he had gotten the rise from the Fëanárion that he desired. But the fifth brother did not have the current clarity of mind to care that he had taken the bait almost instantly, that he had let himself be manipulated without trying for even a moment to resist, that he knew this was just a bid to get back at him for being snarky. Through the sudden cotton in his ears, he could hear Ehtelion’s scolding words echo until they blurred, and they did not register at all, did not do anything to make go away the sudden desire to not just blacken Laurefindil’s eye, but to slit open his throat and tear open his belly. Or, perhaps, to set him on fire. And then they would see who was willing to mock whose death!

Because _how dare he!_ How _dare_ he mock Telvo, who had tried to _help!_ Who had been murdered in the cold blood for being a righteous and decent person!

“Not so nice, is it, when it is _your_ sibling whose death is downplayed and mocked,” Laurefindil said snidely.

“My brother was _murdered,”_ Curufinwë thundered out, finding his fingers tangled in the vanya’s tunic without really remembering how they came to be there, when he had gotten so close to the other man, within strangling or knifing or bludgeoning range. With half an ear, he heard Ehtelion protest, but he brushed it aside, for it was a quiet and unnoticeable thing compared to the raging pound of the fifth brother’s heartbeat. “He was murdered by our father for trying to help _you,_ you ungrateful swine! And Elenwë died in an _accident!_ A tragic _accident_ involving chunks of ice covered in snow thousands of leagues from the nearest one of my brethren!”

Looking into Laurefindil’s blue eyes, he could see his reflection staring back. The white star-eyes that made his stomach do backflips. The sharp features twisted into fury that kicked him in the gut. The face that, assembled and pasted upon his body, made him look every inch his father’s son in that moment. And it would have sent weaker men to their knees.

But not this one. This one had fallen killing a Valarauko. He was not easily quailed.

“Your family was responsible for us even being there to begin with!” A shove displaced Curufinwë’s grip upon green fabric, and he almost tumbled backwards into the still pondwater. “If you had just _controlled your damn father_ then _none of that_ would have happened at all!”

“If we had just _controlled_ him,” Curufinwë griped, brushing at the wrinkles in his tunic, mouth working against the bitter venom rising on his tongue. “As if it were so simple!”

“Seven of you,” Laurefindil countered. “There were _seven of you,_ and _one man cowed you all!_ Of _course,_ you could have controlled him!”

“You have no idea what you are talking about,” Curufinwë hissed out. “You have no idea what he was like, or what he had done or was willing to do. With a loyal army at his back, with an army of men who loved him for his charisma and would die for his cause, what could seven men do against him? Start a coup? Do not make me laugh!”

Curufinwë remembered nothing more of that time spent under the rule of his father’s madness than _fear._ Fear of dying. Fear of war. Fear of his father’s rage. Fear of his father’s disappointment. After marriage, Curufinwë had turned from Fëanáro, accepting that he would never be enough for the man’s desperate hunger to mold his children into his perfect clones, had set aside the dark shadow of his childhood with a barely-there mother and an overcritical, wily fiend of a father, raised to be a political pawn and a second (lesser) coming of his sire. And then, returning to the man’s side, hopeful (stupid, naïve) thinking things could be mended, he had revisited that feeling of self-hatred, of self-deprecation, of loss of confidence and of loss of individuality every single day he stood by his father’s side wishing to be back in his wife’s arms. And he had looked into his father’s eyes, seen nothing of pity or remorse there, and he had been _afraid for his life._ For his _son’s_ life and his _brothers’_ lives. And he had done as he was told.

They all had. Tricked into crossing Alatairë without realizing that they would be leaving their brethren stranded to starve, the seven brothers had all reached the other side, stared into their father’s diabolical face as he laughed at the misfortune of his half-brother left to die, and they had known deep in their bones that they would face the same fate should their father see any one of them as a threat to his power and his plans for vengeance.

Only Telufinwë had been brave enough to stand up to their father’s insanity and fury.

“You know not of what you speak,” he snarled out, hating that his voice wavered ever so slightly at the memory. That it showed his _weakness._

“I know that you could have done more,” Laurefindil countered harshly. “I know that you could have fought and died to do the right thing. And I know that my sister fell through the ice and died a horrific and painful death because you had not the courage to do it. Even the one of you who _did_ attempt to do the right thing _failed miserably._ And he _deserves his suffering,_ and it is nothing at all in comparison to the pain that Elenwë experienced, to the pain her family experienced for centuries when she was taken—”

And, hearing such dismissal, the fifth son could not hold his tongue, could not believe what he was hearing, could not let it stand. He would rather rip out his own eyes and tongue than stand here and allow this _bloody vanya_ to spout such _nonsense!_

“Elenwë is recovered,” the Fëanárion hissed out, feeling the sting and the burn in his spirit as acid poured on bare flesh, the jealousy at her good fortune, and the injustice of Laurefindil trying to even in the slightest compare her supposed “suffering” to that of his baby brother. “She is alive and well, with her husband and family. Telufinwë is _ruined._ Scarred from head to toe by burns, unable to speak, unable to _live,_ and you would compare the two? A woman who died accidentally and carries not the mental scar of someone she loved despising her enough to kill her, who was reborn into a society that accepted her with open arms as the _poor Exile’s wife who needed comfort,_ who was returned to her loving husband’s arms to receive that coddling and support she needed, who is not physically disabled or otherwise tormented with pain every second of every single Eru-be-damned day, and you would suggest that she suffers equally to my brother, who has none of her vices and has many disadvantages she carries not?” He let out a snark laugh, high and cold. “You are ridiculous!”

An ugly flush spread across Laurefindil’s face. “You know nothing of her suffering, Fëanárion. And nothing of ours.”

“No, I do not,” Curufinwë snapped in return. “But I know enough to know that she is blessed in comparison. And how would she feel, knowing you use her even now as an excuse to belittle the suffering of others?”

“Say that again!” the vanya dared, “And I will happily take your head off!”

“I would like to see you try!” And familiar territory was once again achieved, washing away the vulnerability hovering just out of sight. The rush of the fight, the need to draw blood, the fire in his veins, and the target set in his eyes, golden-haired with rage-filled eyes. “But so weak were you that you could not even protect your own sister. I doubt you could ever hope to even begin to avenge her. Coward!”

Somewhere, deep in the back of his mind, Curufinwë used this tactic, this baiting and mockery, and knew viscerally that it would work well against his foe. Smiled toothily as Laurefindil loosed a cry and launched them together in a flurry of limbs whilst Ehtelion shouted in protest at their twined forms fallen into he long grass. Murky water splashed about them, and half of Curufinwë’s mind screamed to grasp that golden hair and hold Laurefindil’s head beneath the surface until he squirmed and bucked wildly beneath the Fëanárion’s weight, until bubbles disrupted the water about his head as he struggled to breathe, until he went limp as water and mud was sucked into his lungs.

The rest shivered in distress. Because he knew that, had Laurefindil used that very tactic first, he would have been the one to break, to show weakness.

They were the same.

And _Eru,_ but he hated the man for that.

“Stop it!” Hands grappled with them both, trying to pry them apart as they scrambled to their feet, half-covered in muck and broken cattail and probably each their fair share of unwanted insect companions clinging to their clothes. Blurrily he could see Ehtelion there, reaching for them both, trying to pry them apart while they attempted to claw one another’s faces off. “This will solve nothing!”

_It will solve everything! As soon as I have his tongue in my hands, he will never be able to speak ill of my brother again, and that will solve all!_

“Let go of me!” Laurefindil was shouting as he was pulled back by his tunic. “Bloody— Ehtelion, let go!”

Not caring that he was dragging his bastard cousin into the mess, Curufinwë took the opportunity to launch himself into the pair like a battering ram. All three spilled over into the pond, Curufinwë finding himself with water covering his head, stinging at his eyes as they opened and saw green light, searching instinctively for the surface.

Coming up for air, he let out a gasp and looked around blearily. Just in time to receive a face-full of mud courtesy of a livid Ehtelion.

“Shame on you, the both of you!” the normally-calm man almost shouted, sounding short of breath. “Look at this mess! And now we are soaked! And, _fuck…”_

It took Curufinwë’s brain a few moments to understand the sound of hyperventilation. But, when he did, he felt his teeth dig sharply into his lower lip, and he ignored the taste of blood mixed with algae and dirt on his tongue. Worse had he tasted on the field of battle falling down into the mire.

Instead, he raised his head and stared as Laurefindil crawled towards the now-panicking slayer of three Valaraukar who had _drown in a bloody fountain_ and was _kneeling in two feet of water_ with his head and shoulders above the surface while he stared down at the depths like they might rise up and clamp their jaws shut around him and drag him down into the murky abyss. “Shit, shit…” the vanya was cursing under his breath as he went, splashing slightly and leaving Ehtelion wincing back.

 _How long as he been unsettled and neither of us noticed?_ Curufinwë could not help but think about it with some guilt. Because, of the pair, he had been focused entirely upon the malice near-emanating from Laurefindil and not on Ehtelion, who may very well have been quiet and morose since entering this almost-marshland full to the brim with ponds too dark to see the bottom, to judge their depth. Neither bellicose man had noticed, each too focused on infuriating and hating upon the other to even think of their third companion.

With a soft groan, Curufinwë slicked back his soaked dark hair and tried not to wince at the feeling of grit and dirt between the strands.

Meanwhile, Laurefindil was struggling to get Ehtelion to his feet. “Help me get him up,” the vanya ordered. Except, it came out more as a plea than anything else. And, feeling for the pathetic sight before him, knowing he really was no better than either of these men when it came to the things _he_ feared, Curufinwë rose and trudged through the water to help hoist Ehtelion’s shivering form up from the pond and drag him back to stable, somewhat dry ground.

Once they had the man up on the bank and well away from the water, Curufinwë pulled back to watch, fidgeting because he knew that comfort was not his forte, watching from a distance as Laurefindil huddled near Ehtelion and murmured quietly in his ear.

“All is well… All is well… I need you to focus on my face…” Large hands grasped Ehtelion about his cheeks and forced his head up, forced distant and hazy silver eyes to look straight through Laurefindil’s forehead. “I need you to tell me what you see.”

“Sunlight through water,” Ehtelion choked out.

Laurefindil muttered another curse. Reaching into his pack, he pulled out an object which, skeptically, Curufinwë registered as a rather damp ball of yarn, pressing it into Ehtelion’s hand and forcing fingers closed around it. “What do you feel in your hand.”

Fingers kneaded. “Softness?”

“Did you feel this then, in the water?”

Those eyes blinked. Slowly, Ehtelion shook his head, still gasping. The fingers clutched tightly at the soft yarn, squeezing it hard. “No…”

In the other hand, Laurefindil placed torn up grass and cattail strands bundled together. “And how about this? What is this?”

Fingers twitched around their burden. “Grass?”

“And was that there, when you were in the water?”

Again, Ehtelion shook his head. Eyes squeezed shut as he sucked in a breath sharply through his nose. They were, at least, beginning to slow.

Fascinated, Curufinwë watched as Laurefindil pulled out something else, waving it beneath Ehtelion’s nose. “And how about this. What do you smell?”

Silvery eyes cleared up just a little bit more. “Lavender.”

“Now look at my face,” Laurefindil ordered. “Look at my face. Do you see it?”

Slowly, Ehtelion’s eyes fluttered, blinking lazily as if to drive away the lingering haze and grit of rest. And then he nodded. And his breathing was finally even, chest rising and falling slowly and deeply rather than swiftly and shallowly beneath the hand that Laurefindil pressed there.

“I forgot about the water,” the vanya said, voice low and eyes downcast. “Forgive me.”

“I did not say anything,” Ehtelion whispered in return, glancing hesitantly between the golden-haired man and Curufinwë, who lingered a few feet away, shifting from foot to foot not knowing what to do with himself as he watched it all unfold and felt distinctly like he _should not be there to see this._

“Last one,” Laurefindil said, taking back his other trinkets and holding out something else for Ehtelion to smell. And the dark-haired man gave him an amused look, falling back into his usual state of enigmatic wisdom as he breathed over the newest offering.

“Cinnamon. You may cease now. I know where I am, Laurë.”

A flush came to the man’s cheeks. “Yes, well.” Laurefindil cleared his throat. “Let us take a little bit of a rest here, away from the water, before we set out to pick up the trail again. Hopefully our tussling”—at this, he shot Curufinwë a dirty look—“has not destroyed it entirely and left us stranded.”

From a distance, the Fëanárion scoffed and crossed his arms.

“I think I should sit for a while, yes,” Ehtelion agreed. “And I am feeling a bit chilled now. Perhaps it would be for the best to make a small fire and take luncheon here while our clothes dry. You two can go and collect wood.”

 _Us two?_ The pair exchanged a rather repulsed glance.

But neither had the heart to argue.

“Fine,” Curufinwë snapped out. “Try not to fall into any more ponds while we are away, bastard cousin. Pulling you out once was enough.”

Though Laurefindil’s face was thunderous at the comment, Ehtelion only laughed quietly, patting his constant golden companion on the shoulder. “It is just his sense of humor, Laurë, no offense meant. Now go! The sooner you accomplish your mission, the sooner we can continue on our way.”

 _At this rate, we will not return to camp until nightfall,_ Curufinwë could not help but think with no small amount of irritation.

But he still wandered off with the stupid golden-haired lout. Hopefully, Ehtelion knew what he was doing, because the very moment that Laurefindil made a threatening move in his direction, he would without hesitation pull out his knife and defend himself blow for blow. That stinking coward was probably thinking about attacking him right this very second while his back was turned. And Curufinwë, bending down to reach for some dry tinder, clenched his jaw against the feeling paranoia, trying to remind himself that this was bloody _Valinórë,_ and murdering people (even people who deserved it) was greatly frowned upon, and—

“It was not my intention to belittle your brother.”

The words came suddenly enough that Curufinwë nearly lost his balance and planted himself face-first into a bush. Eyeing it with a narrowed gaze, he spotted thorns in the branches and wondered if Laurefindil had bid his time saying such lies in an attempt to startle the Fëanárion into an unpleasant love affair between his face and the shrubbery.

“What are you on about?” he asked instead, reaching for more wood. The sooner this was over with, the better.

“You said nothing of Elenwë at all, and I assumed you meant to mock her even though you said nothing of her originally, so I mocked your brother in return,” Laurefindil explained, sounding so annoyingly, infuriatingly _sincere_ Why is he still trying to speak with me?

“The Valar, they fix many injuries that result in death. Like your neck-wound. Like Turukáno’s entire body. He was crushed to bits in the Fall. If you ever share this with anyone, I will gut you, but… but they only fixed the important bits of Elenwë that were crushed. It took her years before she could walk.”

Curufinwë sighed. “I understand. You may quit sharing family secrets already. Your sister is suffering.” Maybe, if he acquiesced, Laurefindil would shut up and let them remain in the awkward limbo of silence.

“I just… want you to understand,” the vanya said, and his voice lingered.

The fifth son sighed again. “There was nothing we could do to change Atar’s mind. There never has been and there never will be. By that point, we were as meaningless to him as Nolofinwë and Arafinwë and all their friends and kin. Before we were commanders, before we fought in battles and waged wars, we were nothing but the King’s spoiled sons who knew little but a _cushy_ life of luxury, and we had not the respect or reputation we carry amongst warriors now. And we were beholden to our King besides. Fëanáro had the support of the entirety of the followers at his back, and he would have wielded that against us had we become a threat, had we pushed too hard to go back.”

“You did not even try,” Laurefindil muttered stubbornly. But he sounded less angry about it now, and more resentful.

“We did not. Not after Telufinwë,” Curufinwë agreed. “Nelyafinwë did not want us to. Káno, Moryo and Pityo would never have acted out on their own anyway, and Nelyo reined in Turko handily. And I had my son. So, no, we did nothing.”

Another tense silence fell.

But something had piqued the Fëanárion’s curiosity.

“Why do you not despise Turukáno as does Aikambalotsë?” he asked then, looking over his shoulder. “I would have thought that the Lords of Ondolindë would all feel spite for their leader who failed to follow the signs of the Valar and sacrificed their people as the price of his pride.”

Laurefindil chewed on that for a while. And then said, “I did not agree with what he did any more than any other Lord of Ondolindë, but I understood why he did it. I felt fear, too. Fear of losing more. Fear of losing my home. Fear of losing my niece and my remaining brothers-in-arms. Fear of the outside. All we had was the word of a Vala, and that was meant to be enough, spoken from the lips of a stranger we did not even know but for his birthright. At the time, it seemed like foolishness to trust blindly.”

Now they were both, it seemed, in an equally contemplative and morose mood. The sort of mood that inspired one to sit and stare at their plate instead of eating, to pick at their food because their stomach felt as one giant knot heaving in their belly.

“And, maybe just a bit, I blame you and your kin,” Laurefindil admitted. “Maybe, if we had never been stranded in Araman, the march across Helcaraxë would never have happened, maybe, then, Elenwë would have lived. And she would have talked sense into the both of us when we needed her. She would have been there to calm Turukáno’s temper when Írissë died, and he might never have thrown Eöl from the city walls. She would have been there to mother Maeglin the way he needed when he was orphaned, and he might never have fixated upon his female cousin. She would have been there to whisper into Turukáno’s ear and sooth his terror at the idea of leaving the safety of Ondolindë, to convince him to do the right thing in the name of protecting his people, to heal him in a way Itarillë could never hope to match. And all the terrible things that happened would have been undone.”

It was a sad way of thinking. Curufinwë never let himself fall into such a trap if he could help it, for he could list a hundred thousand things that could have been avoided—little things and great things, merely unpleasant things and unspeakably horrific things—that could have been undone if his father had just been a normal man and not a paranoid, terrifying, self-absorbed genius. If Finwë had just raised his son properly. If Fëanáro had just learned self-restraint. If Nerdanel had just tried harder to be there when she was needed. If Míriel had never rolled over and died. If and if and if in circles until Curufinwë wanted to be sick. And it all spun down to the same conclusion: that there was nothing to be done to change any of those things, and it was not worth his time and his sorrow to think of them more than fleetingly.

Even if it would have been nice to imagine a world where the last four children of Finwë were grown in the belly of Míriel instead, and their bonds of brotherhood and family were true instead of cracked, and there was friendship and camaraderie between their Houses instead of distrust and hatred. And, maybe, that would have saved them all from the suffering and the heartache and the fury and the terrible things they had done and wanted to forget.

But that was not how life worked.

“This is ridiculous,” Curufinwë commented. “We are ridiculous. Everything about this… Why are we even here and doing this?”

He could see from the corner of his eye that Laurefindil glanced his way. “I do believe this was your idea, Fëanárion.”

To which the fifth brother definitely _did_ roll his eyes.

“I should have stuck with Aikambalotsë and abandoned the rest of you.”

Chortling, Laurefindil picked up yet another hunk of wood. “Too late for that now. You are stuck with us. Though, if it is any consolation, I doubt that Aikambalotsë and Turukáno are doing any better than we are at getting along. And they have no Ehtelion to intervene in the case that a fistfight breaks out.”

Snorting in half-hearted amusement, Curufinwë gathered another branch. “I will bet you five rubies that Turukáno comes back to camp with a bloody nose.”

“Why would I take a bet that I am almost certain to lose?” the vanya asked. “He is going to be unbearable tonight.”

Curufinwë hummed in agreement.

And he absolutely did not feel anything even remotely resembling camaraderie with this golden-haired wretch. Absolutely not in the slightest. Tonight, he would go back to sneering and snarling at Laurefindil’s back, and he expected the damn vanya to do the same.

But, for now, they were quietly together and peaceful in their understanding. And that was enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:
> 
> Laurelótion (Q) = (son) of the Golden Flower  
> vanya (Q) = person of the Vanyar  
> Valarauko (Q) = Balrog  
> Valaraukar (Q, p) = Balrogs  
> Alatairë (Q) = Belegaer  
> Atar (Q) = Father  
> Ondolindë (Q) = Gondolin


	66. On Forgiveness of Self and Others

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone is on edge and falling apart... And reconciliations elsewhere are not going at all as planned. Unsurprisingly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: survivor's guilt, crying/mental breakdown, mental health issues, unhealthy coping mechanisms, anger management issues, failed reconciliation, talking about death/war, Valarin weirdness approaches, oral sex
> 
> Lucky you guys, I had this chapter edited and ready to go last night, or you'd have had to wait until after work (4 PM) to get your hands on it! Most of it is a little angsty, but there's some smutty goodness at the end for y'all, and the next chapter should be focused on Tyelko/Írissë, maybe the next few on the hunting party and the couple in question. We'll see. :) Also, the identity of Ecthelion's older brother is revealed in flashbacks here. Another headcanon from the Silm Prompts, which should surprise no one.
> 
> Maedhros = Maitimo = Nelyafinwë = Nelyo = Russandol  
> Maglor = Makalaurë = Kanafinwë = Káno  
> Celegorm = Tyelkormo = Tyelko = Turkafinwë = Turko  
> Caranthir = Carnistir = Morifinwë = Moryo  
> Curufin = Atarinkë = Curufinwë = Curvo  
> Amrod = Ambarussa = Pityafinwë = Pityo = Minyarussa  
> Amras = Umbarto = Telufinwë = Telvo = Atyarussa  
> Fingolfin = Nolofinwë  
> Finarfin = Arafinwë  
> Egalmoth = Aikambalotsë  
> Turgon = Turukáno  
> Glorfindel = Laurefindil  
> Ecthelion = Ehtelion  
> Penlod = Pendelot  
> Idril = Itarillë  
> Aredhel = Írissë

_Elenya, 55 Lairë (7 July)_

\---

A knock came at the door late in the morning, when the sunlight had already crept halfway across the floor. Lindalórë had been watching it from the corner of her eyes for hours, counting the seconds, feeling them drag across her spirit as rough as sand and gravel. 

“I have breakfast for you, melda,” a sweet voice called through the strange reverie.

Lying in bed, back turned to the entrance to her newest accommodations, she wondered if she had the strength to even raise her head and answer, let alone consume the food that had apparently been prepared in her honor. No sleep had she gotten but for fleeting glimpses of rest curdled by the nightmarish echoes of shrieks and the sounds of flesh against flesh in time with loud sobbing cries, and she laid abed the whole night squirming and too warm and struggling against the burning in her eyes and the urge to cover her hears.

 _What right have you to cry?_ Even now, she rolled her face to press it into her pillows, hating their undeserved softness. _What right have you to wish you could deafen those memories and pretend they did not happen? You are not the one who was assaulted. You are not the one still trapped in that house. You are the one who left that poor woman to her fate, and you deserve to hear her screaming in your sleep until you can hear nothing else._

She did not deserve the comfort of staying abed, lounging like a queen whilst Anairë ran about like a personal servant making her breakfast and seeing to her needs. As it was, she felt the deep-seated heaviness of exhaustion woven into the very fabric of her bones. And she also felt the itch of discomfort, the unbearable feeling that she should not make herself a burden upon her rescuers and protectors, who were already risking so much to keep her safe, the sinking despair that she did not deserve the luxury, because her freedom was bought at a steep price in the currency of another’s wellbeing in her place.

Even now, it made her feel sick. She doubted she could eat even a bite.

But she pushed herself upwards on shaky arms anyway.

“Lindalórë?” Anairë called again, voice loud enough to be heard by the waking world but quiet enough that it would not have disturbed rest. “Are you awake?”

“Yes,” she called in response, and her voice came out hoarse and broken.

The door swung open to the sight of Anairë—who, some might say, was a Princess in truth, married to a man of the royal family as she was, and was above such menial labor as preparing food—carrying a full dish-laden breakfast tray in her arms. The smell of it hit Lindalórë’s nose hard, and she gagged a little.

But she did not turn away Anairë’s thoughtfulness. What right had she to put the woman’s hard work to waste?

Setting the tray aside, the older woman assisted her in scooching up the bed to lean upright against the mountain of pillows. Half-heartedly did Lindalórë allow it, for she felt too exhausted to do so herself and could not bring herself to issue protest besides. She felt as though her body, wrecked by her lack of rest, her spine-tingling nightmares and the sheer stress of her seemingly endless days trapped within the prison of her parents’ household, might just shudder and start coming apart at the first sign of true exertion like a rotting bit of fabric housing all her important bits of self then bursting and spilling her out onto the floor. Even merely shifting about left her trembling faintly as she leaned back into the cloud of comfort.

 _You do not deserve this,_ her mind repeated cruelly.

“There we go,” Anairë said, offering her an incongruously bright smile as the older woman st the tray down on the bed straddling Lindalórë’s outstretched legs. “I know it is not much, but I thought you would appreciate something light and warm.”

She recognized the round cakes, browned on each side, decorated with dollops of sweet cream and coupled with strawberries. Staring down at them, she felt her vision wobble in and out of focus, blurring to burnished brown with swirls of red and white. Wondering if she was about to make a fool of herself and smear cream and food all down her front like a child just learning how to eat on their own, she lifted her fork and took a little slice, raising it to her lips and pressing it inside her mouth against the instinctual rebellion of her body.

Chewing, sweetness upon her tongue, she swallowed. It went down her throat in a great, hard lump. She had to sip her water to force it the rest of the way.

_Well, you did not throw up, at least._

“It is wonderful, Anairë,” she said, cutting off another tiny piece for consumption, hoping the woman was not about to stand over her the whole time and watch to be sure she ate her full and then some. Because Lindalórë already felt a little queasy and doubted she could manage another bite, let alone the entirety of the plate. “Thank you for your generosity.”

“You had a difficult night, melda,” the older woman crooned, sitting on the edge of the bed near her shins rather than leaving as Lindalórë almost wished she would. “Making something sweet and tasty to entice your stomach was the least I could do and bringing it up to you seemed appropriate. I imagine that sleep was hard to come by, and you must still be very tired, so I did not want to force you out of bed early enough to eat with Nolofinwë and I before we went out in the morning.”

Almost did Lindalórë set down her fork with an ungraceful clatter. She was staring down at her food again. At the golden-brown shade, perfect and crisp. At the tasteful arrangement, the swirls of white around the strawberries.

_She made this for you. Are you not going to eat it, ungrateful bitch?_

Biting her lip, she caught a strawberry upon the prongs of her fork and lifted it to her mouth nibbling at the end. The sweet flavor burst over her tongue, heady and reminding her of the long-past days when wild strawberries grew at the tree-line on the edge of the yard behind the cottage and how their little white flowers beckoned the oncoming of sweet delight. How she and Curufinwë would find themselves there, lounging in the grass with a basket between them, and they would feed more strawberries to each other than they ever managed to gather and take back to the cottage for later, so careless and so free of burden were they.

Her stomach heaved again.

“Nolofinwë and I spoke to Arafinwë this morning,” the older woman added, recapturing Lindalórë’s attention from her unwanted nostalgia, from the sharp stab of icy wistfulness that arched through her chest and the harsh and cruel words her mind whispered, that she had no right to feel so awful.

_Nothing terrible even happened to you last night. If anyone should be feeling so downtrodden and sick, it should be her and not you, coward._

“King Arafinwë knows?” she asked quietly over the sound of that voice.

“Yes, melda, he does,” Anairë answered. Her tone was soothing and cool against the burn and sting of raw emotions, and she reached out to lift one of Lindalórë’s hands and squeeze it reassuringly. “Apparently, he found out but shortly before we brought your situation to his attention having received a missive brought to the palace through other means.”

 _My letter reached him,_ she thought dazedly.

“Of course, he has promised to send word to Nelyafinwë as soon as can be done, and he has promised you safe passage from the city into the caretaking of Curufinwë’s family.”

The tears were back. This time, Lindalórë _did_ set aside her fork, for the sudden and inexplicable want to be in her mate’s arms near-overwhelmed her in a rising tide, tightness pulling around her lungs more cruelly than any corset could manage. Her voice hiccupped in a dry sob as she lowered her free hand to twist into the sheets, to cling as her form rippled and started to fall apart around the flexing and writhing of her spirit, as it seemed to crinkle and crack, as delicate as a dried-out, fallen leaf in the autumn chill.

“Oh, melda,” Anairë crooned.

“I am sorry,” Lindalórë gasped. “I should not cry. This is happy news. I should not be upset. I am so sorry.”

“Anyone would be upset in the aftermath of what happened last night.” Swiftly, the older woman set aside the tray and moved to take its place at the edge of the bed, reaching out to lift Lindalórë’s other hands back into her own, twining their fingers together. And, trying to stay the onslaught of weeping, Lindalórë stared at them, at their every detail and unfamiliarity. They were unalike to Curufinwë’s, the only hands she had ever known that had been soothing upon her body, welcomed for the way they touched her as though she were precious and for how they teased her hair back behind her ear and for how they traced the edge of her cheekbone with a callused thumb. But these were different, all dainty and soft and delicate with perfect white crescent nails brushing against her skin where Curufinwë’s had always been shortly-kept and a little cracked or sometimes chipped from his work. Still, they touched the same, with gentle consideration and care, thumbs massaging into her palms, tapping her skin with those little nails and their perfect edges.

Over the past few days, Lindalórë had given no thought to nails. No thought to her own or anyone else’s. They were overgrown, and two were broken, and she had had not the heart to even think of tending them. In Anairë’s hands, hers looked terribly unkempt.

_What frivolous concerns you have! When someone else lies bloody and broken in bed somewhere in the city, you lie abed like a Princess and worry about your fingernails!_

“Lindalórë?” Anairë said softly. “It is all right to be upset, melda.”

_No, it is not! I was not even hurt!_

And, yet, the tears now came, overcoming the dam forged by her stubborn will, burning as the salted water trailed from the corner of her exhausted eyes and curved down across her cheeks as they turned ruddy. It was a mixture of everything roiling inside her, boiling over uncontrollably. The empty void left now uninhabited by the constant tension of terror and lightheadedness, the collapsed caldera in which now her guilt tumbled down to fill in that space and leave her raw and aching in her heart, the wistfulness that panged again and again through her bones only making it worse. And the desire to just curl up and bawl like a child, even though she knew she did not deserve such comfort, was suddenly wrapped around her throat as a noose, choking back her words.

She shook her head, lower lip trembling.

“I promise you,” Anairë said quietly, “It is all right to be upset. It is all right to cry, melda. I promise, I will not be angry, nor will anyone else.”

And she broke. Shattered.

Bawled all over Anairë’s chest like a babe, forehead pressed to the hard line of the older woman’s collarbone, her crying ugly and loud and hoarse. And every time she thought about how she _should not be crying_ and _did not deserve comfort_ and _had left another woman to suffer,_ she only felt the hiccupping cries come harder, forcing their way out of her throat.

One of those soft hands reached around to cradle the back of her head, and the other wrapped around her shoulders. “Hush… It is all going to be fine.”

“We left her,” Lindalórë sobbed out, her fingers clutching, almost tearing, at Anairë’s skirts. “We left her! We _left her behind!”_

The arms around her tightened. “I know, melmë. I know. Hush, I know…”

“We left her…” All she could think about was the other woman, about the blood on the floor and the wall and the sheets, about how it had smelled in that room of rust and musk and filth, about how her mind had gone blank and she had selfishly thought of nothing and no one but herself, how she had been so grateful that it had not been her and how she had felt guilt searing in her gut even as the thought passed through her mind and left her wrecked and shaking. Closing her eyes tight, she tried to banish the images, but they would not leave, would not fade, could not be driven out no matter how much she babbled and then sobbed and then shrieked, rocking back and forth like a wild thing with her hair unbound and her face streaked in tears and snot.

 _Selfish, selfish, selfish._ It echoed again and again.

“It is all my fault!” she sobbed out.

“No, melda…” Sighing, Anairë hugged her close, pressed a cheek against her hair, did not pull away from the wetness or the mewling or the mumbled derision directed towards herself. “No, melda, it is not your fault. Not at all, meldenda. Not at all.”

But she could not believe that. How could she believe that? When Nolofinwë had held her in place and hissed in her ear that she should hide and let the horror outside happen, she had not resisted or argued once her fury had passed. Overcome by fear, she had huddled into his heat and covered her ears.

If she had just… If she had only…

“It is not your fault, Lindalórë. None of this is your fault.”

 _But it is,_ her mind snarled with hostility. _You were a fool, and this is your repayment._

And all she wanted in those moments, even then—even through all the guilt pulsing like a living thing in her breast, even through being held as her own mother had never held her and comforted as her own mother had never comforted her—was to pathetically curl up in the circle of Curufinwë’s arms and disappear into his strength.

For once, she just wanted to be _weak._ She just wanted to be _held._

She just wanted everything to be okay.

And it could not be. Not now. Not ever, surely. Not ever.

Because here was nothing Lindalórë could do to fix this, nothing she could do to take it back, nothing she could do to undo what had happened. And she felt like that reality was going to choke her to death, that it was going to suck the air out of her lungs, that it was going to pull her apart at the joints, that it was going to boil her organs under her skin.

If she had just acted sooner. If she had not left herself vulnerable at all. If she had not sent Aikambalotsë away. If she had just taken her husband back from the start.

If she had done _any of those things,_ this _would never have happened._

But she was arrogant and selfish, and she had done none of those. And someone else had paid for her procrastination and her spite and her safety.

_And it was all her fault. All her fault._

And nothing Anairë murmured gently into her ear could make that right.

\---

Her two charges expressed it in different ways, but Anairë was not so foolish that she could not see guilt in both sets of bright eyes, the same darkened shade and glassy luster looking back from two different colors. Pale blue or emerald green, no difference did it make. It was the same familiar monster with which she had been doing battle for centuries as her husband crawled his way out of the ruin of his mind. The same monster she had hoped was defeated as the Nolofinwë of before had emerged but was now against being overshadowed.

Now, she almost felt as though they were back at the start. Not knowing what to do. Not knowing how to proceed. With either of them. Lindalórë or Nolofinwë.

Lindalórë had cried herself sick, poor thing, thinking about the other girl who had been attacked in her place, used to try to draw her out of hiding and into a dangerous situation. For hours, Anairë had held and shushed and murmured to the younger woman, plastering them together and bundling up the quilt over their shoulders, wrapping it firmly around her sobbing, shaking charge. Inconsolable, though, Lindalórë saw and heard nothing, would accept no comfort for her suffering, and had hidden her eyes from sight even after she had exhausted her ability to wail and moan and cry down to mere hiccupping sounds of agony.

Though her patient was finally calm in the wake of her breakdown, Anairë still felt oddly useless and unsettled as she tucked her guest into the soft sheets, rubbing the tears and fluids from her face and then softening her skin with balm and massaging about her swollen eyes. They blinked blearily open, looking up at her face with such stark hurt, and Anairë wondered that her touch, her voice, her softness, lent no comfort to her charge.

She did not know what to do. Sitting at Lindalórë’s bedside until the young woman was asleep, and then staying longer, playing with the loops of dark hair spread across the pillow, untangling them gently with her fingertips as she thought about what she might have missed, about what she might still do to help.

“You are still here.”

Quiet was her husband’s voice, albeit deep. Slightly did Anairë startle, for she had not seen him appear in the doorway in her peripheral vision as she began to issue tiny braids into Lindalórë’s hair, lost in her own ocean of thoughts. Yet, there he was, pale eyes glistening, mouth curved into a bladed frown, staring at the sight before him and finding it somehow unlikeable or strange. Slowly, Anairë set the heavy strands of Lindalórë’s hair aside with care and stood, circling about the bed on quick feet.

“I did not mean to keep you waiting,” she said briskly but softly. “Let us leave Lindalórë to her rest now.”

With her flighty hands, she shooed him from the doorway and closed it behind her.

“How is she?” Nolofinwë asked then, as they lingered out in the hallway, standing close enough that she could feel the heat of his body through her clothes. With a sigh, she thought back to the state of the younger woman, to the way she had wept as though her very heart had been broken.

“She feels that she could have done something to prevent what happened,” Anairë answered, eyeing her mate closely as she did.

And there it was. The self-deprecating look in his eyes, like a pale sheen across blue. His snort of derision seemed aimed at Lindalórë’s naivety—and he said, “That is foolishness! What could she have done to stop it? Sacrifice herself? Run out and throw herself upon that man and attack? She has not the physical strength to have stopped him or harmed him or killed him”—but Anairë knew better than to believe his act. She knew that, when he said “she had not the physical strength”, what he really meant was “but I did and chose to do nothing”, and it made her heart ache in her chest to know how he felt and that he tried to hide it from her and from himself. That, if asked, he would have steadfastly said he had made the right choice, but the cant of his voice would be all wrong, too fast or too hesitant, too sweet or two low in pitch, and she would hear the lie of it like the toll of a bell, would feel the untruth resonate in her bones.

“You both did what you had to,” she soothed, already knowing that he would not accept comfort but offering it anyway. Because she knew not what else to do. “I am gladdened that you both arrived home safely. If something had happened to you, I know not what I would do with myself, Nolofinwë.”

His eyes averted. “You have lived without me for hundreds of years. Certainly, you need me not to function.”

To which she frowned. That was an argument she had not heard leave his lips in a very long time. Not for two hundred years at least.

Little did she want to speak of those hundreds of years he mentioned so casually, speaking as if she had gone about her daily existence without him as though nothing had changed. Yet, those hundreds of years were the worst she could recall—worse, even, than the centuries dedicated to helping her husband fight his way through nightmares and guilt and the blistered hands and breakdown after breakdown after breakdown behind closed doors—because she had been alone. No husband. No children. Nothing to fill her day but tedium and the worries of a wife and mother who knew not if her mate and her children were safe.

She did not think that those hundreds of years of staring at her face in the mirror and seeing her family staring back, of turning to find the empty space at her back lacking and cold, of lying abed and stroking Nolofinwë’s pillow and breathing deeply only to find that his scent had faded from it, of crying because the last bits of her family were slipping right through her grasping and clawing fingers, could be classified as anything even remotely close to _functioning._ It was only because Eärwen and Arafinwë had stayed behind, only because—in those dark nights when she could not sleep for the pain slicing through her spirit, in those desolate nights when she wanted nothing more than to tear through the house in search of _something_ imbued with her husband’s scent—she had been able to go to them and curl up on the sofa with Eärwen’s arms around her shoulders as she wept.

“I need you more than you know,” she told her husband even as though half-forgotten (unwanted) images passed fleetingly through her mind. “I need you in one piece, happy and by my side. You know not how much.”

His cheeks darkened with fluster. “That is completely ridiculous.”

“No, it is not,” she countered, standing on tiptoe to kiss his pretty pink cheek. “How are _you_ feeling, Nolofinwë? I know that this morning’s meeting was hard for you.”

His expression, a little bit loving and a little be soppy, soured with the purse of his lips. “Arafinwë is hiding information from the both of us. I can sense it with ease. He seeks to prevent us from being involved deeper in the matters at hand.”

“He just wants to give you some time to come to terms with what happened,” Anairë soothed. “He is worried about you.”

“Well, he should not be,” Nolofinwë snapped, and with no small amount of petulance. “There is nothing at all wrong with me! I do not need to be coddled and tiptoed around like some sort of oversensitive child!”

 _Oh, if only you knew,_ Anairë thought, half-exasperated and half with affection. _Sometimes, ammelda, you are such a baby._

“There is nothing wrong with taking a few days to reclaim a bit of inner tranquility,” she insisted, reaching out to grasp his bandaged hands. Slightly did he wince at her soft grip. “You are injured and tired, and Lindalórë’s rescue was stressful and unpleasant. He just wants you to take a few days to recover your strength. That is not a weakness, vennonya. It is just taking care of yourself first and others a little later.”

“I am a member of the royal family. I am meant to be cared for last, vessenya.”

Always the same excuse. Always the same words. It made her heart sink just a bit, because she had, for so long, not heard such things pass his lips. “We talked about this, Nolofinwë. That is not true. I _need_ you to be at your best, and that means taking care of yourself and resting when you need to rest and letting someone else take the lead when you are tired.”

“I am not tired enough for that to be necessary!” he insisted.

Except, she had been there all night. She had been there through the newest patch of nightmares, through the sounds of his gasping breaths in the darkness, through the long hours of his restless shifting. And she was here now. Here to see how his face was pinched in that way that spoke of a headache he hoped she had not yet noticed was pounding in his temples, here to see how the vessels in his eyes were redder than usual and the circles beneath them darker than bruises against his pallor, which was whiter and pastier than usual.

“I can see very clearly that you _are_ tired,” she argued, patience running thin as her own fatigue dragged at her limbs and her thoughts. “Nolofinwë, please, just a few days. Come to the sitting room and rest while I read for the afternoon—just for a few hours until it is time for another meal—and then we can go out and about for a little while tonight and make good on our promise to appear at Court as if nothing unusual is going on.”

“I do not need—”

“Please?” she interrupted, wrapping her hands around his wrists to squeeze because she did not want to cause him pain by gripping his hands harshly, by holding him in place as he tried to retreat with backwards steps to match his verbal disagreement. “It would make _me_ feel better to have you there with me.”

Always, that was his weakness. No matter what she said or did, caring for _himself_ was never enough motivation for her husband to partake in healthy habits. Always, always, always, it had to be about taking care of _someone else._

Long ago, it had not been as such, she acknowledged bitterly. In those long-passed days, when he was brighter and harsher and wilder, when he was still a self-centered princeling who had never sat upon the seat of the throne, she had wished he had more consideration. And now she regretted wishing too well.

But those days were passed by and lost to the annals of time. And wishing would not bring them back from their death throes.

“Please?” she repeated, hands gentling. “Just for a little while?”

“Fine,” he breathed out, the tension falling from his shoulders and back.

“Come along then,” she insisted, leading him away from Lindalórë’s door and to their own private chambers. It took little effort from there to lure her husband into lying abed with her in the early afternoon light, to entice him into resting his head against her belly and lap when she said she wanted to feel him close. His breathing was slow and even, eyes already drooping as she pulled out a book and began to murmur sweet, familiar words into the golden haze of the room. He shifted against her, burrowing nearer as she slipped her fingers into his dark hair and massaged at the aching points of his temples.

Almost purring, he went entirely limp on the mattress like a spoiled feline.

And, within minutes, her stubborn lout of a husband was asleep, the whisper of his snores pressed into the folds of her gown.

Anairë set her poetry aside then and closed her eyes, leaning her head back until she felt the headboard upon the back of her skull. All around her was the quiet. No servants hustling about doing their chores. No Nolofinwë or his associates making a ruckus down the hall. No twittering of voices that passed like tiny buzzing bees through the back of her mind as white noise. Just the birdsong outside and the feeling of warmth all about her body.

If only that were enough.

Lying there, still stroking her fingers through Nolofinwë’s dark, soft hair, she wondered if she could really do this all alone. If there was something she was missing or something she was not doing right. If there was a way to reach Lindalórë while she grieved for the horrors that had happened. If there was a way to reach Nolofinwë, to reteach him his own worth as a person and not as a ruler or a king. If there was a way she could _help._

All she wanted to do was help. And yet, she ran in the same circular arguments with her husband again and again. And yet, Lindalórë heard nothing she said.

_Am I doing it wrong? Am I making it worse?_

“I shall have to speak to someone,” she announced to the room, her voice not so loud that it disturbed her husband, who merely snuffled against her belly at the sound of her words. “Someone who can help.”

Just who that someone was, she was not quite certain.

But she would figure it out.

\---

It was well into the afternoon, and the pair had exchanged exactly no words between them as they traveled. Not, to be truthful, that Turukáno had expected anything besides. He had well known that going off on a miniature expedition with only Aikambalotsë for company was rather idiotic and could not end well, but he had gone along with Curufinwë’s ridiculous insistence, nevertheless, and was now paying the price.

 _I hope he and Laurefindil bite off each the other’s head. Or, at the very least, bloody each the other’s nose,_ the former king thought sourly.

So, here he was. Two rather deep streams later, and he was wet almost up to his crotch, and then a trudge through mud and dense undergrowth on top of that, and he was going to be filthy and reek something terrible when this was all over. With a huff, he swiped the sweaty strands of hair from his cheek, the little loose ends that had escaped his braid.

His already-present irritation was exacerbated by Aikambalotsë playing cold shoulder. Being blatantly ignored was something that happened not often to one of Turukáno’s status, and it grated on his nerves, on that residual part of his being—prideful and haughty—from young adulthood that whispered that he deserved attention, respect and acknowledgment from anyone and everyone he encountered. He was a Prince of the Noldor, for the Valar’s sake, a former _King,_ and he was being _ignored!_

He hated little else more. And he suspected, bitterly, that Aikambalotsë knew his weakness all too well and sought to take advantage.

“Why is it,” he finally snapped, “That you will not even look at my face?”

Green eyes stared straight ahead, focusing on the trail. For long moments (in which he feared the blood vessels in his temples might pop for the sudden rush of apoplectic rage swirling through his veins), he thought the former Lord of Ondolindë would simply pretend that he had not spoken and fail to answer.

“You know exactly why,” Aikambalotsë muttered eventually, still not turning around.

Turukáno ignored the harsh pang that spread through his chest, crushed it beneath the anger. And it felt a little less tight, a little less suffocating. “Is this not getting a bit childish? I know you will never enjoy my company, but your game is tiresome.”

“My _game,”_ the other man hissed out, still not looking. “That is absolutely hilarious coming from a prideful ass like you!”

Frustration. Fury. Shame. His cheeks heated with fire. “We all made mistakes in Beleriand. Is it not time that you got over that hurdle? All I want is to settle things between us, clear the air, and then we never need speak again.”

“No, what _you_ want is to be forgiven for your massive mistake that resulted in thousands being burned alive and slaughtered on the doorsteps of their homes,” the other man countered, footsteps harsh upon the ground, leaving deep grooves and imprints in the soggy turf. “And I am here to help you remember that you deserve not forgiveness for what you did, and you seek it in places you shan’t find it. So, if you would cease to bother me, this would all be over sooner and with less pain and annoyance for the both of us.”

“I do not ask forgiveness.” That was not a lie. “I do not want forgiveness for what I have done.” But that was. Such a blatant lie that it made Turukáno’s tongue feel grimy to utter.

He wanted forgiveness. Desperately.

Because, if none of his followers could forgive him for his foolishness—for being imperfect, for falling to his own vices, for being swayed by pride and terror into folly—how could he ever be expected to _live with himself?_ How could he be expected to _move on_ if every man, woman and child who had once been part of his domain could not bear to look into his face? Even thinking about it—

_A sneer in the street from a woman who pulled her son close. He recognized her as a handmaiden of his daughter’s, one of a small handful of privileged women. All had been part of the House of the White Wing, and all had been slaughtered mercilessly as their Princess fled._

_A dark look from a noble who swiftly cut through the crowd to avoid Turukáno’s vicinity. Not one of the Lords of Ondolindë, but a right-hand man, one who had served under Pendelot, who was slaughtered outside the walls fighting in desperation to buy more time for the civilians inside who were panicked and disorganized and fleeing in all directions without a leader to guide them to safety, who were little rats in a maze waiting to be caught by the cats coming inside to sate their thirst for blood._

_A sigh from Aranwë, from his illegitimate cousin. “My son has dedicated his life to you, has brought you this message upon the tongue of Tuor of the White Wing, and he trusts that man implicitly! Yet, you will not see reason even from family? Even from kin? How you have changed, O King of Gondolin!”_

_And, later, the look of shadow in those blue eyes. “I cannot stay. Voronwë will not be torn away from Itarillë and Tuor, but I cannot stay. I cannot even look you in the eye.” For he had burned in defense of his wife, and he was marked with the scars of his struggle and with the deep-set lines of his almost malicious fury._

—left Turukáno chilly down to the marrow of his bones, shuddering and raising his arms to rub at the bumps that spread over his skin beneath the sweat-damp and odorous layers of his undershirt, tunic and cloak.

Biting his lip against something undignified, like a plea, he forced the warmth of his rage to reform and reshape beneath his skin, to drive away the chill.

“I simply do not want there to be something rotten between us,” he gritted out. “We used to be friends. Comrades.”

Aikambalotsë paused. “Comrades? Is that what you would call it?”

Warily, Turukáno paused as well, a few steps back and to the side, able to see nothing but the very edge of the other man’s profile. “Is that not what we were? I trusted you at my back. I trusted you with my sister’s life. I trusted you with the keeping of my daughter and her child.”

“I trusted you with the keeping of my city and my home and my people,” Aikambalotsë returned, voice serrated and bitter as he was finally enticed to _look_ at Turukáno’s face with green eyes that glowed with venom and malice. “Clearly, I misjudged you, for you put your own pride above all three. Above your duties as a King. Above the safety of your daughter and grandson. Your desire, your pride in the pearl of Ondolindë, above _everything that mattered!”_

“That is not so!” And, to his mind, it was not.

Pride. Prideful, Turukáno was, but it was not pride that birthed the desire to cling to the safety of the encircling mountains about Ondolindë. It was not pride that had him doubting the message brought to him upon the tongue of a mysterious and unfamiliar mortal man. It was not _pride_ which had him thinking about all the family members who had died outside the safety of the steadfast walls of his home, who had perished beneath their foe’s deadly armies and merciless dragonfire.

It was not pride at all. Nor conceitedness. Nor a belief in his own infallibility.

“I was afraid,” he bit out, “All right? Are you happy? I was afraid.”

“What shit are you spouting now?” Aikambalotsë asked, and his words may as well have been a knife, cleaving straight through Turukáno’s flesh. “Afraid? If you were afraid for the lives of your people, you would have taken them and fled to the Havens long before Tuor brought that message to our gates!”

“There was no guarantee that it was safe!” Surely, Aikambalotsë _knew_ that? Surely, he understood that? “Every other kingdom in Beleriand lay in ruins, we had no allies to rely on for food or supplies or shelter but for the _bloody Fëanárioni,_ and we had no guarantee of a welcome in the Sindarin Havens, either of Sirion or Balar!”

“Then you should have _trusted_ in the warning given to you from the lips of Ulmo,” the other argued in turn. “You should have _trusted in your people.”_

Something about the sentence rang out… wrong.

“This is a pointless argument. You will not listen nor hear reason!” It was like arguing at a brick wall, for fuck’s sake! It was worse than arguing with Curufinwë!

“ _I_ will not hear reason?” Aikambalotsë bit out a bark of laughter that sounded more like an unspoken curse-word. “ _I_ will not hear reason, he says! That is absolutely hilarious coming from _your lips,_ Turukáno Nolofinwion! Absolutely _fucking_ hilarious!”

“Aikambalotsë—”

“No, shut your mouth and _you_ listen, former King of Ondolindë!” the green-eyed man snarled out, poking his index finger into Turukáno’s chest in a motion that made it clear Aikambalotsë was fantasizing of silencing him with a stab through his lung with a spear, straight through, front to back. “You seek forgiveness from outside, from me and from your daughter and from all the other Lords you have betrayed with your arrogant disregard. And you will _never_ find that forgiveness with any one of us! There are some bonds broken that cannot be re-forged, some trust shattered that cannot be mended! Whatever ill plagues you—be it guilt or simple ignorance of the severity of your deeds—find _someone else_ to ease the burden from your chest, for it is not the responsibility of those you betrayed, and none of us will willingly fall over at your feet any longer like dogs.”

“That is not what I want.” It was not—not at all!

“Do not lie to yourself,” his former friend, his now-enemy, the epitome of the shattered friendship that had once rested between him and this Lord, of the shattered bond he had once shared with his people, snapped back cruelly and without quarter. “You want things to go back to the way they were, to pretend it never happened. And they _never will.”_

Turukáno swallowed. He tried to be angry instead of wide-eyed. He tried to sneer down his nose instead of quivering in horror. He tried to feel as much hatred and malice for this man as he was receiving in return, and he simply…

He simply…

He could not do it.

“It was never my intention to harm anyone,” he said instead, feeling wrung-out, his anger fizzling and dying, drowning as viscerally as his feet were in his soggy boots. “I made the decision I thought was the right one.”

“It does not matter what you intended.” And that hurt to hear, because it was sometimes the only thing that got Turukáno through the long and painful day and the even longer and haunted night, knowing that it had never been his intent for so many lives to be destroyed and snuffed out beneath his watch. “You failed us. You failed _me._ And you will never do anything—any good deed or any great redemption—that will make me forgive you. So just… stop. Just stop trying.”

That voice faded until it sounded just as tired and worn. “Just stop trying, Turukáno. Things cannot go back to the way they were before.”

He wanted to argue. He wanted to insist. He wanted to stampede right over their limitation, bury it in the bowels of the earth, crush it beneath his heel. He was a Nolofinwion, a son of the House of Finwë, a former King, and there was nothing that he could not make happen if he set his mind to it. Nothing!

But that logic only went so far, for he could not forcibly change the minds of men and women no matter how stubbornly he persisted in seeking to find understanding and, yes, perhaps forgiveness. Without the burn of fury to fuel the heart of the dispute, he just felt cold and lacking. Like he was back on the plains of Helcaraxë, standing with his face to the wind and his cloak open, icy fingers tearing at his skin and his hair while he shivered and huddled away from its cruelty. “I cannot believe that,” he finally said. “I cannot believe that there is nothing to be done. I cannot live with that reality.”

“You will have to,” Aikambalotsë snarled, “As the rest of us do.”

Turning on his heel, the former Lord of Ondolindë trudged on. And Turukáno, feeling shame creep and crawl like a parasite in his gut, followed meekly in the other man’s wake, wondering if those words were the truth. If there was really nothing to be done.

What was he supposed to do with himself if there was nothing to be done? If there was no way of bartering or earning forgiveness?

_What am I supposed to do to fix my mistakes?_

Looking down at his mud-splattered legs, he wondered what he would do if the answer truly _was_ nothing. He wondered what he would do if there was no salvation to be had, no redemption to be forged, no way of healing the shattered bonds between himself and his former Lords (his closest and most trusted friends) and his cousins and his daughter and her line.

Forlornly, he wondered how he was supposed to stay sane knowing there was nothing he could do to make this right.

He bit his lip against more words. Aikambalotsë would not answer anyway.

Through the rest of the afternoon, he spoke not another word. And he wondered if he would ever dare part his lips and address the man directly again.

Probably not. He doubted he could bear to hear it all a second time.

\---

They were close.

Turkafinwë could feel it in his very bones. Something about the earth, about the way it felt beneath his feet, about the way the plants whispered and the birds gossiped and the trees spoke, it all warped and changed and became strangely otherworldly and out of synchronization with time, slipping in and out of this plane and into another. Words of Valarin drifted upon the air, through the rustle of leaves in the trees, through the babbling of the river they followed south, through the vibrant color of the flowers that began to appear sporadically, blooming in the shade where normally flowers would not sprout and flourish.

As the sun was setting, casting once more all the world into a golden glow, he paused in his trek, looking down at a flowering orchid hidden in the shade, pale white and yellow, glowing in the dim. At his back, Írissë silently lingered, and he turned to find her gaze questioning. “Tyelkormo?” she asked hesitantly.

“If we go any further, we will be entering the Woods of Oromë,” he told her, “The domain of the Valar.”

Her eyes widened slightly as she looked over his shoulder and into the line of the trees, growing denser and denser seemingly the longer one looked as if by enchantment they closed in and tightened the spaces between each trunk. To her, it would appear daunting and unfriendly, as though the trees closed ranks against unwanted visitors to drive them away from the sanctuary hinted at within by the speckling of pale blooms scattered about, twining up trees and peeking through the underbrush. Turkafinwë knew that this strangeness was an enchantment in truth, a warping of the world that lay as a blanket over the forest to protect those within.

“We should wait until morning to continue,” he announced. “The trees like to play tricks on travelers, and their joking and scheming is easier to avoid when under daylight.”

“Play tricks?” she asked. “Like what?”

“Like catching at ankles for a start,” he said wryly, hefting off his bow and pack and setting both in the grass. Thinking back to his first time venturing into those depths, he felt a helpless smile curling across his face. They had certainly teased and taunted his young, impulsive self something fierce, left him cursing and stumbling drunkenly about to be found by their Master like a lost lamb. “As long as one intends no harm towards them, they do not mean it in a malicious sense. But they are wild and silly and fickle things, and they like to be amused, especially by those they deem unfamiliar.”

“So,” she said, settling down beside him, “I would have trees pulling at my skirts as well as you, is that your meaning?”

“Pulling at your skirts?” he asked with a low laugh, “Is that what you call it?”

They had been mating almost nonstop anytime they ceased moving towards their destination. That much had certainly not changed. Not at all had Turkafinwë’s appetite for either his cousin’s soft white skin, the taste of her sex, or the sound of her moans and squeals abated in the least, and he was rather hoping it would stay that way. It had been such a very long time since he had had enjoyable companionship (of either the sexual or the friendly sort, let alone both) and certainly it had never lasted so long with a single woman.

It had him hopeful that he had found something lasting. Something worth the effort. Something he could trust not to fade into oblivion the moment he turned his back.

In truth, he had been concerned that he might reach the Woods of Oromë—and, by extension, the Gardens of Vána—and might be bored of his cousin’s lovemaking, enough to be drawn into companionship with some of the beautiful (if mildly terrifying) “feminine” maiar who called the Gardens and Woods their home. As it was, however, he felt no particular desire to stray, which was an anomaly in of itself when it came to his sexual appetites and tendencies.

In fact, he thought with no small amount of interest, he would not have minded having another tussle right here in the grass. Even knowing that, most likely, they were already being watched by the maiar who guarded the edges of the Woods. And, even if they were not being spied upon, the flora and fauna would certainly be spreading the news of two strangers appearing suddenly, knocking at the figurative gates of Oromë’s hunting grounds without so much as a warning message and certainly without invitation, and then copulating like wild creatures right there in the middle of a grassy clearing for anyone to stumble upon and see.

 _Let them watch and be envious,_ he thought with a smirk forming deviously upon his lips. Slowly, he inched nearer to his prey. _Let them see her snowy beauty as she writhes and cries beneath me and know it is mine._

“Are you nervous?” she was asking as he approached, as he settled himself beside her in the grass and wrapped a possessive arm around her waist, letting his hand rest just above the vee between her thighs, hovering over her womb. For reasons he could not quite explain, the fact that she allowed it left him squirming with the pang of heat between his legs. She turned to look up at his face, and he could see the widening of her pupils. “Tyelkormo?”

“Maybe a little,” he murmured, leaning down to nuzzle against her cheek and breathe deeply of her scent. “I can think of several ways to combat such nervousness, however.”

“Perhaps I can be of assistance,” she said coyly, her smile stretching wide across her lovely, deep red lips. “What do you have in mind, dear cousin?”

“Hm…” Playfully, he nipped at the lobe of her ear, and then at the tip, knowing how sensitive it was, how it would make her squirm in his lap as her nipples pebbled against the confines of her gown and a pink flush would spread down from her cheeks to the rest of her body. “Remove your clothes for me, Írissë. And then kneel in the grass.”

Quiet laughter, not mocking but excited, burst from her lips. Standing, she began to peel away the layers of her clothing one by one, revealing her nakedness beneath whilst he remained clothed. “Are you going to play roughly with me, Tyelko?”

“As roughly as you would like,” he answered immediately. Licking his dry lips, he stared at hers. Thought about how much darker they would become when swollen after they had been wrapped around his cock while he thrust deep and slow down her throat, holding her in place by her messy dark hair. In his mind’s eye, he imagined her swallowing him all the way down and moaning as he speared her and held her in place.

Falling to her knees, she looked up through her eyelashes, raising her chest to display her breasts to his eyes when he moved to stand over her, when he grasped her unbound hair and looked down at her resting there like a worshipper in the grass. One hand was between her legs, and the other cupping her breast. “I would stop you if you were too rough, worry not.”

That certainly had him almost choking on his own saliva.

Her hands worked deftly at his pants then, glistening with the blatant sign of her arousal, freeing his sex. Almost immediately, her mouth was upon him, sending a wave of white-hot heat up his spine to burst as blinding stars behind his eyes. Groaning, he was torn between throwing his head back in bliss and staring down at her as she enclosed his tip in her heat and took him down almost to the root. The broadness of his hands looked stark white coiled in her inky-black hair, and he knotted them at her scalp, pushing her further down to the sound of her visceral groan.

And _Eru,_ but it vibrated all around him and left his knees watery and shaky. “Fuck, Írissë… How are you so good at this?”

Around him, her lips twitched, unable to fully form a smile but curling at the corners in catlike glee. Damn her, but, while she might be the one naked and on her knees in the grass, he was clearly the one at her mercy. As usual.

And then she swallowed, and he was fairly certain he was going to die a second time.

Then again, he had been fairly certain of that many times over the course of their journey, and he had yet to perish when she sucked all the life out of him through his cock every single time, so he was probably just being melodramatic. Not that that made the feeling of tingling warmth rising and bunching and tightening in his gut, preparing to burst into flames at the tiniest spark, any less overwhelming.

Nails bit into his thighs as she withdrew, breathing wet and cool over his sensitive head, and then teased just underneath with the flat of her tongue. “I have had plenty of practice,” she purred out, lips trailing soft and teasing against the side of his shaft. “Come on, cousin. Use me. I enjoy it when you are a little rougher… a little harsher…”

The husk on her voice made her sound halfway gone. Hissing between his clenched teeth, he grasped her hair. “Open your mouth then, írima. Nice and wide like you want it.”

Her glistening lips parted for him, and he shoved himself deep, perhaps just a bit harder and faster than necessary or recommended. But she did not try to pull away or tear her hair from his grasp, instead shuddering as he hit the back of her throat and then pushed deeper. Teary eyes looked up between her dark lashes, pale blue almost turned dark as she let out a quiet choke, throat spasming about his length.

And then she relaxed into the hold, nose buried in his pubic hair while she writhed at his feet, hands coiled into the fabric of his trousers at his hips. The feeling of her swallowing around him, throat rippling in waves, almost had him falling right then and there.

But he clung. He wanted it to last.

He clung for another five minutes, eyes rolling up towards the sky as she pushed him higher and higher with the little twirls of her tongue on each retreat and the fluttering of her throat as she took him deep. It buzzed through his skin, little jolts of lightning rippling through his muscle, and his groans grew deeper as his breaths grew quicker.

Pulling away, she breathed hot over his shaft, and he shuddered at the drip of saliva over her lips, clinging to the tip of his cock. “Come for me, Tyelko,” she murmured, leaning down to kiss his tip, holding his hips in place as they jerked. “Come in my mouth…”

“Fuck, fuck, fuck…” He pushed himself back into her, felt her lips seal around him and suck, tongue flicking around his sex. And that was it.

The white burst behind his eyes and left him dizzy and weak in the knees, gripping her hair for dear life as he came onto her tongue, waves of warm pleasure rippling up through his stomach as it flexed and jolted. In his boots, his toes curled from the bright feeling that suffused his skin. Around him, Írissë moaned and lapped and licked and sucked, not letting up until he let out a grunt of discomfort at the oversensitivity.

Pulling away, she looked up, and his mouth went dry. Because her eyes were still dark with arousal, and her pretty pink tongue circled on her bottom lip, catching the slight drip of white that had escaped in the chaotic messiness of it all.

His cock gave a half-hearted twitch.

Panting, he made to kneel. “Your turn, hm?”

But she caught and held him in place through the wobbliness of his legs. “Do not be so hasty, Tyelko. I like the way your face looks, all red and glistening, after you come. Maybe I want to see it again before you get to have me in return.”

 _I am definitely going to die again tonight._ “Írissë…?”

“Let me see how many times I can make you come with my mouth until you can no longer stand,” she said with a wicked little grin, her fingers encircling his sex, slowly working him back into full arousal with just the perfect amount of pressure and slickness. “And then I want to kneel over your face.”

Any other man would probably have been terrified of her enthusiasm. But Turkafinwë was not so easily daunted. “Sounds like a decent plan, cousin.”

“Good. Do not move.”

And she lowered her mouth upon him again.

And there was nothing he could do but bite his lip against a broken cry as bright stars burst into a kaleidoscope behind his eyes, burning through his senses. Nothing he could do but give himself over to her entirely and let everything spin apart into color and light and the sound of quiet song filling his senses.

For once, that did not feel dangerous. For once, that did not feel like surrender. For once, that did not feel like a cage being built around him bar by bar, boxing him in and holding him hostage to the whims and desires of another being.

For once, it felt _right._

And, in that moment, the realization sparked. The realization that had nothing to do with the intercourse and everything to do with the fact that he was letting go.

And he did not think that it would ever go away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:
> 
> melda (Q) = dear (one)  
> melmë (Q) = love  
> meldenda (Q) = sweetheart  
> ammelda (Q) = dearest (one)  
> vennonya (Q) = my husband  
> vessenya (Q) = my wife  
> Ondolindë (Q) = Gondolin  
> Fëanárioni (Q, p) = sons of Fëanáro  
> maiar (Q, p) = lesser Ainur  
> írima (Q) = desirable (one)
> 
> \---
> 
> Flower symbolism:
> 
> Moon Orchid = I desire you, attraction, sexuality, charisma, elegance, beauty


	67. A Little Pinch of Hidden Jealousy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our lovers finally find their way to the Woods of Oromë...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: mentions of sex, pining, jealousy, Valarin weirdness, some slight body horror
> 
> Meh. Real life snuck up on me today, but I still got the chapter edited and out.
> 
> Here begins the first appearance of one of the Valar and some of the maiar in the story. Just so you all know, I'm a bit weird with my interpretations of the Valar in general, basing them off angels rather than gods and giving them shape-shifting powers and sometimes very flawed personalities. Don't expect them to be perfect beacons of wisdom and godliness, because they aren't going to be. In any case, the Ainur are going to be a little strange, and I'm going to have fun with them. Think of it as a more classical interpretation of angels being legitimately terrifying and unnerving beings in their "real" forms.
> 
> Maedhros = Maitimo = Nelyafinwë = Nelyo = Russandol  
> Maglor = Makalaurë = Kanafinwë = Káno  
> Celegorm = Tyelkormo = Tyelko = Turkafinwë = Turko  
> Caranthir = Carnistir = Morifinwë = Moryo  
> Curufin = Atarinkë = Curufinwë = Curvo  
> Amrod = Ambarussa = Pityafinwë = Pityo = Minyarussa  
> Amras = Umbarto = Telufinwë = Telvo = Atyarussa  
> Aredhel = Írissë

_Anarya, 56 Lairë (8 July)_

\---

There was sunlight in his eyes.

Blinking against the garish brightness, he turned his head off to the side and felt the tickle of grass against his cheek, little blades licking at his skin. With a huff, he sat up and shook his head slightly, silvery hair tumbling down in a messy wave around his shoulders, and watched as the world slowly wriggled and warped back into the familiar tangibility he remembered. There was the sound of birds overhead and the trees groaning and rustling beneath the wind, and the white orchid waved gently out of the corner of his eye as if to say good morning, glimmering and pale.

He turned his head then and looked down.

And Írissë. There was Írissë.

She was still naked and still asleep, curled up such that her back had been tucked up against his side, one of his arms cushioning her head. Now, she merely snuffled and wriggled, rearranging her face to press her cheek into the cushion of her own arm now that he was no longer serving as her pillow, eyelashes fluttering briefly as she rose up towards consciousness and then sank back down into rest when no further disturbance troubled her sleep. With a pang of something sickeningly sweet in his chest, he felt his lips twitching upwards against his internal directives, curling at the corners.

It was strange, he could not help but think. His whole body was languid and relaxed, muscles loose of tension due to last night’s exploits, belly feeling full as if he had drunk an entire bottle of fine, heated wine in a single draught and left it to buzz and tingle under his skin. But, for once, his mind, also, was as at ease as his body.

Commonplace, it was, for him to awaken beside a woman (if he even stayed in bed with her once their love-play was finished) and wrinkle his nose at the feeling of stickiness and the smell of their sex in the sheets. Often, his skin would crawl with discomfort at the thought that she might wake up, that she might roll over and cling to his arm or chest, that she might try to press their mouths together and sleepily address him with affection. He would look down at them, still curled up and asleep just as Írissë was now, and draw back as if repulsed, sneaking away in the early morning light and silently passing out of their chambers and out of their lives as quickly as he had entered.

So, it was novel, to want to lie back down and coil himself around Írissë. To _want_ to draw closer and brush their bare skin together, to want to bury his nose in her hair and breathe in her natural scent as he kissed the nape of her neck until her eyes fluttered open.

_Am I in love with her?_

The thought had crossed his mind—harsher and swifter and more shocking than any bolt of lightning could hope to be—in the midst of their playing and lovemaking the previous evening. It had burned its way through his nerve-endings, left him feeling detached from his feet and floundering, wondering both how it had happened without his notice and how he had not noticed it immediately when it was so _easy_ to pinpoint the onset of romantic affection or infatuation when observing such things other people.

But, the more he thought about it… the more sense it made. That he might be _in love._

And was that not a disconcerting thought? Turkafinwë Fëanárion was capable of falling in love. For a long while, he had believed himself no more capable of such love than his father had been, too harsh and too sharp and too emotionally empty, burning with inner fire everyone who drew too near. Now it appeared that he had been wrong. And that left him feeling odd.

It was bizarre to think of Fëanáro as equally capable of being smitten and lovesick, impossible and unthinkable. And yet it was, apparently, painfully possible. The idea was disconcerting, that, when he had seen his father stroking and braiding his mother’s russet curls as a child (thinking it strange to see the normally irate male playful and then thinking it gross as they kissed on their mouths afterwards), it might actually have been genuine affection in the eyes of the Spirit of Fire. Before everything went wrong.

It was then that he noticed his fidgeting digits playing with the ends of her hair, rubbing the satiny strands between his fingertips, lost and tangled with the vibrant spring green of the grass beneath her head. Feeling something that might have been sharp embarrassment hurl itself up towards his throat, he pulled away.

Reaching out, he brushed his callused hand against her back instead, wanting to drive those thoughts aside with any distraction he might invent. “Írissë. Írissë, wake up!”

The sound she made was unfair, a little mewl as her limbs stretched, long and white against the grass. Her head turned up towards his face, lips parting and tongue wetting them so that they glistened. “Tyelko?”

“It is morning,” he announced, as if that were not already obvious. “We should continue and reach our destination.”

“Hm…” She grumbled a bit, rolling upwards without shame for her nakedness, rubbing the sleep from her hazy blue eyes. They finally came into focus, stark and icy clear, but not at all cold as they beheld his face. She seemed to remember slowly where they were and where they were going, nibbling at her lower lip. “First thing in the morning? Should we not have breakfast? Hunt before we enter the forest…” She glanced over at the line of trees beyond which rested the domain of the Huntsman of the Valar, and it seemed to somehow to stare back, ominous and eyeless, at the unannounced visitors lingering just at the fringe of the enchantment.

“As long as we are respectful and not wasteful, hunting is permitted within the Woods of Oromë.” Standing, he made to stretch, equally unabashed by his own nakedness.

Unperturbed at the sight, though he felt her eyes travel up and down his form and resisted the urge to preen at the way they lingered on his rear end, Írissë began to gather her clothes, heaving them on over the layer of sweat and dirt and other things left behind from last night’s play. It was almost a shame, he could not help but think, to see her breasts covered once more. But, then, they were about to enter a forest full of maiar, many of whom donned the male form regularly, and Turkafinwë found the idea of any male eyes laying upon Írissë’s naked form to be undesirable, even reproachable. It curdled in his belly and made him feel hot under his skin.

When that thought fully passed through his mind, he paused with his shirt wrapped about his arms, half-raised up to his head. It struck him suddenly.

 _This is jealousy over a romantic partner,_ he could not help but think, reining the feeling in and keeping it tightly leashed. Never had he experienced that strange sort of possessiveness coupled with an almost instinctively violent reaction to a female that was _his partner_ being looked upon as a potential mate by other men. Normally, he cared little if his partners strayed, for he had strayed often and without shame or hesitation in his previous relationships, which often led to said relationships ending with a weeping female and an exasperated Turkafinwë wondering why it was he was even bothering when it always ended with such unnecessary drama and upset. Before, he had never understood what all the fuss was about.

 _This,_ he thought quietly as he pulled his shirt and tunic over his head in quick succession, trying to ignore the sickening, twisted feeling in his gut and the rage-filled pound of it behind his eyes. _This is the reason. This is what all the fuss is about._

Biting his lip, he felt his brow furrow. From the corner of his eye, he watched Írissë finish dressing, swiftly braiding and then binding her hair up in a tight bun at the back of her skull to keep it out of the way as they went. There was the urgent need to go to her, to wrap himself about her and rub his scent into every inch of her. Just to make certain that anyone who happened upon them knew exactly what she was to him, and he to her.

Except, he knew better.

Many times, others had tried to claim him and own him, to take away his right to choose other partners or seek other lovers, and he had always despised them for that, had always scorned them and walked away without a backwards glance. He had not wanted someone else to control his whims and fancies the way his father had once tried, the way his mother had once tried.

And he did not want to be the one doing the claiming and stifling and suffocating either.

 _If Írissë does happen upon a maia she finds desirable and wishes to stray, that is her business._ Turning his head away, he finished pulling on his leggings and lacing them shut and pretended it did not make his skin itch to think of her moaning and writhing beneath the touch of another. _I do not want her to…_

He paused.

He did not want her to despise him the way he despised those women who tried to tell him what he could and could not do, who he could and could not bed down with, whence he could or could not go and when. He wanted her to want him in return without it being necessary to force her attention to be upon him, to force her to give herself only to him, as though she were a belonging rather than a person.

No, he did not want that.

And, so, even though he knew it would make him feel sick to his stomach—queasy and nauseous and enraged and _hurt_ —he would not stop her from doing as she pleased.

And he would not tell her… would not pressure her…

“Tyelko? Is everything fine over there?”

His back had been turned to her, and he had been frozen in place, staring with distant eyes into the darkness of the forest beyond. Blinking himself back into the here and now, he turned his head to look upon her over his shoulder. “I am perfectly well.”

Her hand touched him, just a brush across his arm, but it tingled. “It is fine to be nervous,” she said quietly.

Were it anyone else—even Curufinwë, or, perhaps, especially Curufinwë—he would have scoffed at such an accusation, that he might be _nervous_ about venturing anywhere and getting into any danger or peril. Turkafinwë Fëanárion was a dauntless, reckless creature, and he did not get _nervous_ at the idea of traipsing through a mere forest, no matter how enchanted it might be and no matter who it might name its Lord and Master.

But he allowed it just this once. And he could not help but think it odd that there was no instinctive rebuttal of that decision. Or, perhaps, not so odd was it at all. “Perhaps, I am. But there is no point in wasting daylight. Shall we be off, írima?”

Her arm linked through his, and it was _her_ pulling _him_ into the shadowy midst of the towering, ancient trees with the agreement, “No time like the present.”

 _One would think she would be wary of enchanted dark forests,_ he thought dryly, even fondly, allowing himself to be tugged about as they wove through the outer vestiges of the trees, as the sunlight which had suffused their clearing just minutes ago began to blot out into inky pools of shadow and flicker oddly as though bent and twisted all about.

This, he remembered. Even as a youth, Turkafinwë’s skills in navigation through the wilds were not inconsiderable, but it was shockingly easy to be lost here in these depths, where the trees might shift into new places at the lightest whim of their own accord, where the sunlight seemed to circle about in spirals as it passed through the gemmy facets of the leaves overhead and fall from all directions no matter the time of day, where the flowers clambered up the rough bark and perfumed the air with cloying sweetness that left the mind turned around and backwards as it sank deep into the mind and turned everything to fog. Quietly did they pass beneath the boughs of those whispering trees and laughing flowers, and Turkafinwë watched as Írissë gasped at the brush of a branch through her hair, tugging at the tight braids like a teasing child, with a little twitch of his lips.

“See,” he said, reaching out to gently brush the branch aside, watching as it bent and twisted like a living thing, rising up above his reach suddenly as it realized it had been caught poking at the strange newcomers, “Playful.”

Írissë’s pale eyes blinked up at the too-high-to-have-brushed-her-hair branch. “Is everything within these Woods so strange?”

Turkafinwë just gave her a teasing smirk and continued on.

For another three or four hours, they sunk deeper into the strangeness. And it felt so very familiar and so very warm despite the whimsical nature, despite the clearings of emerald grass that seemed to braid and unbraid itself as it swayed in the wind and the hanging wall of vining white flowers that tried to weave themselves into the passerby’s hair and the sudden appearance of virulent ivy and wisteria blooms entwined about all the trees for miles that sang softly into the empty gray space lingering just behind reality.

All the while—through the silly antics of the flowers and the trees, through the shy spying of the deer peering around trunks and the birds settling on nearby branches to gossip and chatter in their array of vibrant-colored cots—Írissë was wide-eyed like a young girl at her first big party, spinning to try to catch in the act the strange happenings just out of sight of her eyes, always missing them by a split second but still laughing along with the ghostly teasing.

Watching it, Turkafinwë felt something that might have been contentedness, something alike in feel and color to the golden shimmer through the leaves overhead and the dewdrops of sunlight trickling down from the sky to pool on the mossy ground below. The silvery glow of the orchids bloomed wherever the pair walked through the lush, grassy carpet, flowering open in a risqué display and leaving Turkafinwë feeling a bit hot about the color and pink in his cheeks, a bit frazzled but also a bit pleased. And the odd sound of voices under the breeze and beneath the buzz of insects and singing of songbirds all the while was familiar, and the drone of it passed over his thoughts like the stroke of a soothing hand upon his spirit, quelling the heat in that way that he so fondly recalled, in that way that he had so wistfully longed for in his worst days abroad.

And the sound of Írissë’s quiet laughter harmonized with the latent noise rather than spiking in a discordant mess, and it left him sinking further into the feeling of peace rather than feeling disrupted or disturbed with his stream of consciousness jolting unpleasantly in irritation. Like a puzzle piece, she fit into the image, meshed in with the half-forgotten memories, as though she had been there at his side the whole time and he had foolishly never noticed.

 _Maybe,_ he thought, _there is some truth to that._

And then, suddenly, he felt eyes upon his face and body. Barely did the rhythm of his footsteps stutter when the sensation came upon him, dripping cold down his spine in warning.

Well had he known they were going to be noticed eventually by someone or something more substantial and frightening than the trickster trees and the twining flowers. Freezing as an alert rabbit spotting the hovering form of a hungry hawk or owl, he stood still in the grass, eyes rolling through the shadows in search of the source of that incisive feeling, and he thought he might have caught a glimpse of someone staring back with cat-eyes flashing in the dark.

Maiar, in all likelihood, he knew. At least one, but maybe more. They were waiting for Oromë to arrive before confronting their visitors.

Turkafinwë felt a small spike of discomfort at the thought of waiting—there was a certain sort of agony to the art of waiting for good or ill news, most especially when one knew not which it was that would arrive upon their figurative front porch, and it was not an art that the third son appreciated or practiced—but bit the inside of his cheek to drive it away.

Ignoring the uneasy feeling of being watched and the annoyance at himself for feeling genuine _nerves_ at waiting to hear the words of either welcome or derision from the lips of Oromë in the flesh, he turned his gaze back to Írissë for distraction, all of a sudden silently comforted that she was at his side through this strange emotional turmoil. Paradoxically so, because it was normally the presence of others in and around his space, noisily interrupting his existence with their unimportant complaints and troubles, that made him feel raw and rough around the edges of his spirit. But, seeing her giggle as she reached out to let one of the wisteria vines try to wrap itself around her dancing fingertips, he felt his edges instead being smoothed and calmed again, little droplets of tranquility raining down to put out the fire flickering just behind his eyes.

“How much further?” she asked, still wriggling her fingers at the wisteria vine, which seemed to dance away from her touch as though it were, in truth, ticklish and would be laughing (had it the physical capability to utter such sound) at her gentle exploration.

“We would not be able to find the abode of Oromë and Vána unassisted,” he answered, voice low and soft. “We must be guided or remain lost.”

Humming under her breath, she focused the whole of her attention back upon the flowers, tracing her fingertips through the purple blooms again. Until she encountered the flutter of large but paper-thin wings, lazily flickering open and shut where they rested upon the fragrant nest of wisteria blooms. Even in the dim lighting of the Woods, Turkafinwë could see that the butterfly she encountered was bigger than his hand and bluer than the sky, its wings lined with intricate black lace and shimmering as though powdered with silver dust and ground turquoise stone. Two large eyespots rested on each massive wing, and they looked to have slits for pupils.

“Oh my…” She tiptoed closer. And Turkafinwë wondered if he should tell her that that was not, in fact, a butterfly.

It was staring at them too intently to be an insect.

Just as her fingertips pushed aside a flowering stalk of purple to get a better look at the beautiful specimen, its eyespots blinked and moved in a way that even Turkafinwë found to be profoundly unnatural and quite otherworldly. Like the butterfly was both an insect and, also, the mask adjoined to a face that had four large, bulbous eyes. Probably as instinctively horrified as Turkafinwë had been the first time he had witnessed such an oddity within these Woods, Írissë let out a tiny shriek and jumped away, hand over her racing heart. Disturbed by her noise, the maia who had taken the form of a butterfly seemed to sink down into the ocean of purple flowers and dissolve into little blue fluttering bits of light that danced away and vanished. To whence it went, it was hard to say, but it would certainly be gossiping happily all the while.

Helplessly, Turkafinwë let out a chortle.

“That is not funny!” Írissë exclaimed, scowling half-heartedly in his direction. “Did you know that that was not a butterfly, scoundrel?”

“Maybe,” he admitted, feeling a helpless grin form on his face, wide and lacking the normal sharpness and predatory hunger of his favored razor-blade smile. “I could not resist. I wanted to see your surprise.”

“Ass!” she accused, giving him a little shove.

“You were only a little frightened,” he crooned teasingly back. “It is a very cute look on you, melda. No need to be embarrassed.”

“I was _not_ frightened! And I am not embarrassed!” she insisted, though the growing red flush of her cheeks belied her words as she extended her fingers out to pinch his arm, only to pout when he darted out of reach. “Take that back, Tyelko! I was not frightened!”

“You were,” he teased in return, once more prancing out of reach as she tried to catch him with her fingernails. It was almost enough to distract from the continued feeling of being observed, growing stronger and knocking more insistently at the backdoor to his brain. “Come on, admit it, you were!”

“Never!” she declared, launching herself in his direction.

Which, inevitably, ended up with them rolling through the grass like a pair of completely undignified children, Turkafinwë with the advantage in pure weight and muscle but Írissë managing to squirm her way out of his grip at every opportunity, laughing all the while in that loud and free tone of deep, ringing bells that shuddered like pure white light through his skin.

(So, he may have let her win. Just a little bit. Just to hear her triumphant laughter shudder through his bones. Worth it.)

“Not frightened,” she growled out with feigned menace from above, straddling his waist with her knees pressed firmly to the earth on either side of his torso. “Admit it! I was neither frightened nor embarrassed! Just surprised!”

“Will I be back in your good graces if I yield, my lady?” he asked sweetly, pulling his wrists from her grip—she had been mimicking a pin, pressing his hands to the grass on either side of his head, and he had gone limp and allowed her to keep him apparently caged without a fight, entranced by the vision in white hovering overhead like something birthed straight from the lips of the Ainur—and grabbing her little hands instead, kissing the backs.

She sniffed down her nose at him. “I shall think on it, scoundrel.”

“Will you?” And then, playfully, he gave up the pretense of being cornered and captured and tipped her over into the grass where she lay like a little curled up cat with its long, fluffy white hair all mussed, said feline none too happy with that state of affairs. Laughing at the absurdity of her image (and the strangely down-to-earth beauty of it, ephemeral but no less precious for it), he leaned down to chase her soft, dark lips in a quick, chaste kiss whilst she squawked and flailed. The whole thing was entirely unattractive but, also, entirely adorable, and he was so caught up in her pout that he _almost_ did not hear the snap of a twig at his back.

No hunter in this entire forest would make so much as a sound without intention.

Turning his head, he blinked through the shadow of the Woods, shapes blurring into reality like ghosts out of the darkness. And, at their head, a familiar set of eyes, burning green and gold about the pupil and darkening to deep brown at the edges then ringed with a golden hue, glowed in the flickers of sunlight that slipped their way through the treetops and danced around the towering figure like sweet golden songbirds. Beside him, Turkafinwë felt Írissë still as she realized they were not alone, sitting up with grass stains on her white tunic and leaves somehow managing to weave their way into her bound hair.

He wanted to reach out and pluck them away and take their place with his digits. He wanted to chase the flyaway hairs about her temples with his fingertips. He wanted to tuck them behind her ear while she grumbled and huffed up at him trying not to smile.

None of those things did he do, instead rising to his feet (easily dwarfed by the newcomer despite his not inconsiderable height) and offered a low bow. At his back, he felt Írissë pressed up against him, her hands finding their way into his tunic and clinging while she peered around the broadness of his shoulders as his spine straightened.

“My Lord Oromë,” he greeted calmly. More calmly than he felt for the sudden double-time rhythm of his heartbeat fluttering at the base of his throat.

That face was familiar (precious, beloved, a balm to his mind in the golden and emerald light of his memories of an otherwise painful and divisive youth) and set in a stern, considering expression. But, at the sound of his voice, the harsh set of the mouth softened, the furrows at the corners of the lips turning into the faintest of dimples. And Turkafinwë very much did _not_ let out a gusty sigh of relief, the painful stiffness in his shoulders easing as he realized he was not about to be banished from one of the few places in the whole of Eä that he felt truly at peace.

“Welcome back, Tyelkormo,” Oromë said, stepping fully out into the sunlight whilst his hunters loitered and circled curiously about in the beyond, almost clambering to get a glimpse of the visiting Eruhíni. “And I see you have brought a guest.”

At mention of his “guest”, he then heard the maiar all about twittering to themselves in excited voices—their eyes flashing and flickering in all jewel-tones of blue, green, amber and yellow out of the blackness as they stared in wonder and joy—with tongues flying through the strangely harsh syllables of Valarin, and it sounded almost akin to chanting or incanting to one not familiar with the tongue. Yet, Turkafinwë knew a little of it having lived amongst two Valar and their Maiarin servants enough to have picked up a limited vocabulary, even if he could barely utter words himself and only with a heavy and laughable accent. He knew enough to recognize the word “mate” when he heard it, and felt his cheeks darken slightly as heat pooled beneath his skin. Very pointedly, he did not look at Írissë, though, in that moment, he would have liked to reach for her, to wrap her up in his arms and tuck her in close.

Because it was not the word “mate” that the Ainur used to describe two animals having intercourse to procreate. It was the word “mate” used for monogamous animals nesting together or building house together, one that roughly would translate to “spouse” if applied to the Eldar. Oromë’s hunters thought he and his cousin were an established mating pair.

And Írissë, of course, was completely oblivious to the maiar calling her Turkafinwë’s _wife_ within hearing distance. She understood not a word of their discourse and remained none the wiser to heir suppositions.

Coughing, he moved to pull her forward, to stand at his shoulder as equals. “This is my cousin, Írissë Anairwen of the House of Finwë.”

Oromë smiled broadly at them, white teeth showing just a little through his bronzed lips. And Turkafinwë felt oddly pleased at the expression, at the acceptance of his chosen partner without scrutiny or doubt from one he would once (might still) have considered to be something of a mentor (and maybe a father) combined. “We shall do our best to see the both of you comfortable during your stay,” the Lord of the Woods said, “For I assume that you are staying.”

Turkafinwë nibbled his lower lip. “For at least a short while. If you allow it to be so.”

“Allow it? Of course, I would see it done! Long has it been, and much has happened, and I would hear it all from your lips, meldo.” Large hands grasped at his forearms in the greeting of sworn brothers, and Turkafinwë returned the gesture. “Come along. Much there is to speak of, and Vána will want to lay eyes upon you. Perhaps her ladies would as well.”

Shuddering down his back, Turkafinwë thought of Vána’s ladies and maidens, of their sweet ambrosia voices raised in song as they coaxed flowers into blooming with sound alone in the morning and twilight, of their supple skin soft as rose petals and glowing with powdered spring colors, of their playful eagerness to cuddle and touch and kiss and love whilst flowers sprouted up in the grass wherever they made their bed. His very first lover had been one of their kin, dark-skinned and smelling of wildflowers.

But, at this moment, he felt no appeal to their exotic beauty. Very pointedly, he did not meet Írissë’s curious (and, dare he think it, jealous) gaze, did not reach out to touch or claim her, though his fingers itched with the need. “They will be most disappointed, then.”

And Turkafinwë knew he might as well have admitted it aloud for the spark of understanding in those golden-hazel eyes as they stared him down. Damn the Ainur, but they always seemed to know things they oughtn’t, always seemed to see right through the flimsy smokescreen of the mortal beings assembled in the form of bitterness or snark or wild laughter or fury, gazing shrewdly down into the marrow of the spirit.

And Oromë saw him that way. Saw him and knew in seconds what it had taken weeks for Turkafinwë to discover on his own time.

 _I am a fool,_ he thought, glancing at Írissë from the corner of his eye. There was a brush of fingers against his wrist, creeping down to tangle with his own. And he opened his palm to her advances, grasping hold and weaving them together so that their hands were held in plain sight of all the hunters and their Lord. It left him feeling more breathless—with the feeling of his lungs filling up and carrying him away for their lightness—than fear at coming here, at being rejected and turned away, ever could.

“They will indeed,” the vala said knowingly.

Turkafinwë smirked, but he knew it lacked his normal bite.

Glad to be back, he was. And eager, suddenly and perhaps almost boyishly so, to share with his partner all the things he remembered about these Woods and their secrets. One of the few places he could ever recall feeling truly accepted and welcomed and _at home._

He wanted her to feel it, too.

And, now, he would make it happen. Around her hand, he squeezed.

\---

Never had Írissë laid eyes upon any of the Ainur outside of very formal ceremonies or situations. Aware, she had always been, that the Valar and their maiar donned raiment that closely resembled the skin and hair and sculpt of an elven body, mimicking the Eldar in an attempt to ease the unsettlement and even revulsion that often was felt in their overwhelmingly powerful presence, at the way they seemed sometimes more liquid than solid and more energy than matter, all-encompassing and terrifying all at once. Aware, she was also, that such raiment was not in the least bit alike to the true form of any one of those ancient and timeless beings, who could at will morph and reform themselves into other shapes that were not alike to those of the Eldar, who existed in forms she could not even comprehend.

But, until now, she had never _seen_ anything of the sort. Only heard rumors of the demonic, fiery, unholy horned forms of the Valaraukar, or the wolfish form of the maia Sauron with monstrous, slathering jaws. It was rare even in Valinórë to encounter one of the Ainur often enough to recognize the “face” and “name” of their outer Eldarin shell, let alone to expect to ever encounter them without their skin hiding their truer nature as shape-shifter. Her only encounters had left her with the impression of the Ainur being alike to her kin in most ways, pale-skinned with eyes of typical colors and makes, their demeanor and proportions and texture all identical to the Eldar but for the strange ripples of _something other_ that often resulted in an ethereal afterglow staining the air wherever they traversed.

Now, she was seeing a dozen or more maiar gathered together, and none of them looked conventionally _right_ to her gaze for this was their home and they bothered not with altering their form for her comfort. Each left her with the feeling of _wrongness_ and _unease_ in her bones. It was an instinctive wariness that must the very first of the Eldar have felt as they stood and sang at the stars glistening on the inland sea at Cuiviénen, beholding Oromë for the first time and not knowing what he was, only that he was something _strange_ and _other_ and that they should be frightened and hide themselves away from his eyes.

If his eyes looked then as they did now, Írissë could understand their fear and awe. Hazel was not such a strange color for the Eldar—not common amongst the Noldor, who tended towards gray, blue and brown, but not _uncommon_ either—yet this was no hazel she had ever seen before or would ever see again, all ringed in gold that burned through shadow like the corona of Anar peeking out as she is occulted by Isil in their rarest of meetings in the heavens, streaking through the earthy tones like lightning made from sunlight. There was besides a strange darkness to the Huntsman’s skin, like it had been rubbed with wood-stain until it reached a honeyed hue, and the odd ripple of light through his dark mane of hair when it caught the light, streaked through with the essence of stars. And, of all the other Ainur here, Oromë was the one who looked the most _natural_ to her gaze despite the hint of fang to his teeth when he smiled broadly and the way his form seemed to melt and solidify as he passed through the shadows and into the daylight.

Írissë tried not to stare at the others. Truly.

She failed miserably, of course.

At first, when Tyelkormo had gone still and silent, she had thought, perhaps, they were under attack, seeing dark shapes weaving in and out of the trees, their edges blurred even to her sharp gaze. Like creatures emerging from murky water rather than from air, they swam forward in the shadow until their features came sharply into focus.

They were… bizarre. To put it kindly.

Peeking out from behind trees, they seemed to have painted faces and bodies. One, she could see, was the color of deerskin and striped with deep brown and white, face long and eyes large and brown, blending in so well amongst the trees she only could make them out only as they shifted minutely to stare her way in blatant curiosity. Another, she spotted, was the burnished, deep orange of a fox (Did they have the tail to match? She could not see and wondered with trepidation.) with a pointed chin and face all lined in black and white, eyes flickering with that iridescent predator’s glow, like golden coins. Another she recognized, all black with the faintest splotches of white and shimmering turquoise blue, except for the face, which was dark but for around the eyes where fluttered the large set of pearly blue wings resting like a glittering, jewel-laden mask. Four eyes blinked at her in unison, and she felt her belly quiver in primal disgust and curiosity both, for it seemed wrong to have more than two. Reaching out, she clung just ever so slightly to Tyelkormo’s back.

 _Not paint,_ she realized, looking closer at each and every face near enough to be seen with clarity. The butterfly creature, small and shaped as a female, seemingly naked but all the wrong colors, with _actual fluttering wings_ upon their (His? Her? Its?) face. The fox with long whiskers sprouting from the cheeks and a damp shimmer on the tip of the dark nose that wriggled. The deer with their enormous eyes and a soft dusting of fur all along the contours of their face and body, rippling along with the shifting of muscles.

Others could she see appearing one by one, as interested in looking upon her—perhaps they saw the Eldar but rarely or not at all and sought to explore their guests—as she was in looking upon them in all their strangeness. Amongst them, she could discern those who had bark-like flesh lined in mossy green, their eyes as vibrant as the leaves that sprouted from their heads and hands in place of hair, and those who were decorated with feathers that ruffled in the breeze and decorated their bodies and faces some in golds and browns but others in bring emerald green or sky blue or deep scarlet red.

Looking about, Írissë was so distracted by the strangeness of it that she almost missed her own introduction to the Lord of the Woods. Slightly did her cheeks flush pink as she forced herself to stop looking, to ignore the feeling of many eyes following her movements, many voices no doubt whispering and speculating about the presence of two elven visitors and instead look back to Oromë, wary of his golden-ringed eyes.

“We shall do our best to see the both of you comfortable during your stay,” the Lord of the Woods was saying, and she registered that his voice was a deep rumble. Not like thunder, but rather like the rally of a thousand horse’s hooves upon dry earth, like the groan of an ancient tree bending beneath a gale. And the tone was indulgent and fond, not jolly but rather alike to the purr of a contented cat instead. “For I assume that you are staying.”

“For at least a short while,” Tyelkormo said, “If you allow it to be so.”

“Allow it? Of course, I would see it done! Long has it been, and much has happened, and I would hear it all from your lips, meldo.” 

_Well,_ she could not help but think, watching as Tyelkormo was almost grabbed by the vala and easily dwarfed in the massive grip of those hands, donned with the familiar calluses of a hunter beneath their bronzed finish, _this is a warmer welcome than either of us were expecting. A surprise, but not an unpleasant one._

But, then, she supposed that, if the Valar had had any grudge against the Fëanárioni, they would perhaps never have allowed the seven brothers rebirth at all. And, perhaps, some of the Valar were more welcoming and trusting than others. Little did she know of each of them separately, though she had certainly heard much of the honorable nature and deep respect of Oromë for all living creatures, be they a creation from the breast of Yavanna or a living sentient being or anything in between. And, of course, she had heard of his skill in teaching the ways of the hunt and the wilds. More than half of what she knew, she had learned from Tyelkormo, and he had learned much of that here, amongst this strange folk and their Master.

“Come along,” Oromë added then, hand falling to Tyelkormo’s shoulder. “Much there is to speak of, and Vána will want to lay eyes upon you. Perhaps her ladies would as well.”

_Ladies of Vána?_

It took long moments for Írissë to register what the Lord of the Woods spoke of, for her to understand that he was referring to maiar embodied in female form who served under Vána Ever-young, and who, apparently, had more than chaste interest in _Írissë’s_ current lover. A frown snuck its way onto her lips before she could halt its course, a sly and slippery thing that defied her willful insistence deep within her mind that she _did not care_ if Tyelkormo went about bedding every vaguely female-looking being from here to Tirion and back (or any male one for that matter) and that she was unbothered and unruffled by the potential infringement upon what was very much _not_ her territory or _her_ male companion.

After all, she did not own him, and what he did with his body was his own affair.

She very much _did_ care, though, deep down in secret somewhere that she wished she could lock away. That same damning place that had gotten her, long before, cruelly and damningly attached to her husband though she knew it was foolish to allow herself to love someone she would eventually leave, to claim what was not hers to take. Now, the sting of jealousy and the urge to reach out and clamp her hands about Tyelkormo’s arm and squeeze were testament to that folly and need, to lay claim to his body with all these witnesses to see.

 _It is none of my business,_ she reminded herself, trying (and failing again) to keep her emotions from shifting from rest to hostile alertness, hackles rising and hair standing on end like a disturbed and hissing cat. _Tyelkormo is perfectly entitled to fuck whoever he chooses. Even if he chooses one of these strange maiar._

Nevertheless, she did not like it. She did not like it at all.

Tyelkormo let out a low hum as though thoughtful, following along at Oromë’s side. Half expected did she that he might speak fondly of previous exploits, and the thought of it made her heart sink down into her belly like a lead weight further carrying the heaviness of her dread, for she knew that it would be painful to hear, like sharp nails dragging over her spirit. 

But, instead, he only said, “They will be most disappointed, then.”

For a long moment, Írissë knew not what to say or think. Only that it somehow instantly dissolved that hard knot in the pit of her gut. Her feet almost skipped across the grass, pulling her even with her lover as he walked.

 _Is that his way of saying that he is not going to stray?_ Blinking, she looked up at Tyelkormo’s face from the side, at the familiar set of his jaw, and the familiar quirky little smirk of his lips, and the familiar narrowness of his silvery eyes. No lie could she detect in that face, nor any other indication that he meant not entirely what he said, and that left her with a smile forming upon her own lips, too tender an expression directed towards a man she professed only to care for as a friend with the occasional benefit of fantastic intercourse to spice up their daily interactions. Because _he wanted her back._

 _You could be wrong,_ she thought, trying to hold back the gleeful butterflies roiling through her stomach. _He could be bluffing. He could be trying to soothe your feelings._

Except, if she had any feelings for him ( _if,_ she internally scoffed, and a blush rose on her cheeks, because here she was, mentally debating the likelihood of her lover straying and feeling the anger at the idea boil like acid in her gut, when she would not have cared were it any other man she had lain with since her rebirth), she had not confessed as such to him, and he would likely not think to spare her even then. Such was not his way.

 _Tyelkormo does not lie,_ she reminded herself, smile broadening. Her cousin, even long before Exile had started to unravel his mind in all the most unfortunate ways, had always considered prevarication to be a waste of time and rarely bothered, preferring blunt (and, sometimes, cruel) honesty.

This time, though, his honesty was anything but cruel. In fact, it made her heart flutter a little bit in her chest. When she reached out to brush against his hand with her own, his fingers caught and twined with hers. And, though he did not turn to look at her, still focused entirely upon Oromë’s face, she could not help but feel just a little giddy, her grip tightening around his own, nails tickling across his skin.

Looking past him, she then momentarily met the eyes of Oromë. “They will indeed,” the vala said, and he stared right through her with ease, as though her body were but a glass pane and all the hidden truths of her spirit were naked beyond.

For a long moment, they stared each at the other.

And then he looked to Tyelkormo, and she let out a long breath of relief.

“Long has it been since we last had visitors of the Eldar in our home,” the vala told them then as he led them through the trees, and the trunks seemed to eagerly jump aside for his passage, some of the tricky beasties reaching out with their slender branches to swipe at the vala, to brush through his hair with unmistakable fondness, and he did not even glance in surprise so used to it he must have been. “Is there a reason that you have chosen to come amongst us now, meldo?”

 _Ah,_ she thought, fidgeting and wondering if they were about to be scolded for recklessly running off without so much as a word to anyone and leaving everyone back in Tirion knotted up in a worried tizzy. _There is that unfortunate business._ It did not exactly paint the best picture, a man and a woman taking off together against the wishes of the woman’s family and, especially, her father.

“Írissë left home for some time away from her family, who have been urging her to marry, and I accompanied her. We could not decide whence to go, however,” her lover explained. And the whole thing was sterile, lacking comment on the emotional turmoil and upheaval of those early days. Lacking comment upon the many tears shed, and hunt that ensued, or any of the other drama that must still be fast jumping from lips to lips in the Court of Tirion. “It was I who suggested we should come here for safekeeping. Just for a while.”

“You have used my halls as a sanctuary before.” Those eyes passed between the couple again, narrowing minutely, knowing there was more to the story than spoken here in brief but not pushing or prodding. “It pains my heart to hear that you are having such troubles, meldë. Family, we Ainur understand, is not always easy to get along with.”

 _He is addressing me directly,_ she realized a little faintly.

“I… Yes, it can be difficult for everyone to get along harmoniously no matter our shared blood,” she answered, resisting the urge to try and hide behind Tyelkormo again, for having the attention of such a powerful being resting upon her an her alone was no small weight to bear. But bear it, she would. “It is not forever, I hope. A solution to our strife may yet present itself which will soothe the egos of all parties.”

She thought about her father and winced just a little. She could not imagine any solution but immediate marriage upon her return which would soothe his worries.

“When you first arrived here,” Oromë told her then, “My hunters believed that you and Tyelkormo were already married, but I see that that is not so.”

_Does he not approve?_

Searchingly, she scanned his face and his body language for signs that he might be angry at the breaking of sacred directives or unwelcoming to a couple of lovers not bound together in marriage as propriety would dictate. But, if he did not approve of her taking lovers outside of official matrimony, she could not see it in any part of his being. Not in the set of his body, which remained open and welcoming, moving with a sort of languid grace as he walked in long strides that left Írissë almost trotting to keep up, nor in the expression on his face, which still spoke of pleasure at having unexpected visitors rather than the sharp lines of annoyance about the eyes or the creases of disapproval about the mouth.

Only after all of that did it really occur to her what he had said in truth, and the stain on her cheeks darkened. Looking over at Tyelkormo, she could see a rare flush steal across his cheeks, not often spotted outside of coitus.

_Does that mean he would not want me as a wife? Does that mean that he would?_

“We… we had not spoken of such things,” she answered honestly, stuttering just a bit because she wanted to say that she _wanted to speak of such things_ but was not certain how receptive her lover would be to the idea of being fenced in by marriage vows. She was not certain how receptive she herself would be to the idea even if he was, for she did not want marriage for the sake of marriage, nor marriage for the sake of lust, as had been her first disastrous attempt at matrimony. Írissë had learned that much from her past attempt and failure at finding marital bliss.

“Well, you shall have plenty of time to speak on any such matters of importance here after a large and hearty meal and some rest from your travels. I have it on good faith that someone has already rushed ahead to begin feasting preparations,” their host announced, and his eyes were upon the pair with laughing glee, an expression of “I know something that you do not” that had Írissë feeling a bit swept away.

_What does he know?_

“Once we have all indulged in meat and bread and fresh produce from the Garden, you can speak to us the full extent of your tale with your bellies full,” the vala added, making it plain that he knew they had very much abbreviated their reasons for coming here, for seeking refuge under the flimsy guise of desiring to make a short visit, and that he was going to demand to know more but later. “I would have thought it would take a miracle for Tyelkormo here to willingly endure companionship beyond that of his brothers, but he has brought you here eagerly, my lady.”

“We have been good friends since childhood.” Even as she said it, though, she knew they had been nothing like this in their younger years. Occasionally, they would go on a short adventure, but never too far for the sake of easing the minds of Írissë’s protective parents. Every now and again they would spend time together and speak, but their interactions were almost always wild and romping and full of _doing._ The only conversing that happened was for one to complain bitterly of the restrictive nature of their parents to the other.

What they had now was different. Like the constant urge to be near, to touch, to come together and entwine. Like the flutter in her belly that she had not gotten at first with her husband either but which grew slowly over time, speaking of budding feelings. Like the intimacy of cuddling after the sharing of bodies which Eöl had disliked but which Tyelkormo not only allowed but seemed to enjoy. Nothing about this was alike to the strangely close but distant relationship they had shared before, of two people who vaguely understood one another but had nothing else between them.

Now there was so much between them she had trouble finding words to describe it.

But she liked it. Wanted it to grow. Wanted it to mature. Wanted it to survive. To where that would lead her, she knew not, but…

His hand was warm in her own.

She wanted to see where this strange thing between them led.

“I see,” the vala said, and he must have seen far more than her mere words had implied.

Before she could speak again, they came through the line of trees, passing visibly through a strange sheen of golden light and enchantment that felt as a cool rain upon the skin when it rippled over the two newcomers. Stepping fully through, she beheld the Halls of Oromë and the vast and impossibly lovely Gardens of Vána beyond, and she felt all thought driven from her mind as she took it all in.

 _Well,_ she thought, wordless in those long moments, for never had she trod in the home of a vala before. _This is certainly no Tirion._

And she found that she did not mind that in the least.

“Welcome,” the Lord of the Woods said, gesturing them forward.

And she felt Tyelkormo’s hand squeeze around her own in reassurance. Looking to his face, she could see a genuinely pleased smile that stretched his lips and gave a freer expression about his sparkling eyes, and she felt her heart fail her for how it looked, so soft and so pleased and so _him_ but without the bite and without the scorn. Without the _hurt._

“Our thanks,” Tyelkormo said with a small bow.

 _My thanks,_ Írissë thought, though, as she copied the bow, wondering if their host would hear, _for allowing him to come home._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:
> 
> maia (Q, s) = one of the Maiar  
> írima (Q) = desirable (one)  
> melda (Q) = dear (one)  
> Ainur (Q, p) = angelic beings (both Valar and Maiar)  
> Eruhíni (Q, p) = children of Eru  
> Anairwen (Q) = daughter of Anairë (fem. patronymic)  
> Eldar (Q, p) = people of the Stars (high-elves)  
> vala (Q, s) = one of the Valar  
> Valaraukar (Q, p) = Balrogs  
> Anar (Q) = the Sun  
> Isil (Q) = the Moon  
> Fëanárioni (Q, p) = son of Fëanáro  
> meldo (Q) = friend (m)  
> meldë (Q) = friend (f)
> 
> \---
> 
> Flower symbolism:
> 
> Moon Orchid = I desire you, attraction, sexuality, charisma, elegance, beauty  
> Wisteria = enduring love, endurance, clinging love, honor, patience, creative expansion


	68. The Board of Dancing Chess Pieces

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The hunting party is on their way back towards Tirion, and the things, of course, get more complicated at Court. Because, of course, they do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: dysfunctional coping mechanisms, tough love and brutal honesty, scheming/politics, mention of rape/death/torture
> 
> Sorry this chapter is coming out a little late today. Work first, unfortunately. But here it is!
> 
> Finduilas' name showed up once in this chapter. Based off my analysis of her name, it contains a combination of findë + tuilë + lassë (hair like spring leaves, presumably of mallorn trees), and I decided to keep the d in place of the t to follow the family theme, adding only a few letters at the end to make it into Quenya. Now, enough of my strange linguistic rantings...
> 
> Maedhros = Maitimo = Nelyafinwë = Nelyo = Russandol  
> Maglor = Makalaurë = Kanafinwë = Káno  
> Celegorm = Tyelkormo = Tyelko = Turkafinwë = Turko  
> Caranthir = Carnistir = Morifinwë = Moryo  
> Curufin = Atarinkë = Curufinwë = Curvo  
> Amrod = Ambarussa = Pityafinwë = Pityo = Minyarussa  
> Amras = Umbarto = Telufinwë = Telvo = Atyarussa  
> Egalmoth = Aikambalotsë  
> Glorfindel = Laurefindil  
> Ecthelion = Ehtelion  
> Turgon = Turukáno = Turno  
> Fingon = Findekáno  
> Aredhel = Írissë  
> Fingolfin = Nolofinwë  
> Finarfin = Arafinwë  
> Aegnor = Ambaráto  
> Angrod = Angaráto  
> Orodreth = Restaráto  
> Finduilas = Finduilassë

_Anarya, 56 Lairë (8 July)_

\---

Clearly, reconciliation had not gone as planned.

Half-joking and half-serious had Curufinwë been as he bet Laurefindil a rather expensive set of finely faceted rubies that Turukáno would return to camp having exacerbated the bad mood of Aikambalotsë to the point of having his nose bloodied in retaliation. Internally, the fifth son had thought (obviously mistakenly) that forcing the two together might yield some sort of positive change in dynamic between the estranged former King and his former Lord and ease some of the tension plaguing their merry band of hunters. If they could put aside even a fraction of the open hostility lying between them, everyone could focus their efforts more efficiently and they could all go home sooner rather than later…

That had obviously not happened, so there was not much point in speculating whether that plan would have successfully gotten Curufinwë back to his wife’s arms post haste. Instead, all it had done was make the mildly irritating tension of before now thick enough to choke upon.

While Ehtelion had been having panic attacks and tricking Laurefindil and Curufinwë into some sort of twisted bonding ritual right under their noses—as was his wont, that annoying bastard—the other pair had had no mediator and, apparently, had had a row bad enough that Turukáno was pale-faced and silent upon returning, had not slept so much as a moment the whole night, and was still not speaking or meeting anyone’s eyes this morning. Even hours into the day, having finally found the _thrice-be-damned_ correct trail diving off somewhere to the southeast, their party had turned along with the river and was swiftly heading almost directly south at a light trot, and Turukáno was lingering in the back near his brothers and sulking with his eyes downcast and his lips firmly closed.

If Curufinwë did not dislike his cousin so much, he might have felt sorry for the pathetic sight of the man. The second Nolofinwion was looking even more dismal and overrun than the first, a magnificent feat by anyone’s standards given that Findekáno was still a bit shaky, deep furrows of exhaustion beneath his dark eyes from disturbed rest, and still occasionally needed to empty his stomach as it rebelled against his lack of alcohol consumption.

But Curufinwë did not like Turukáno that much, and he did not particularly feel sorry for the man, not in the same way he had pitied Findekáno.

Worse still, the failed experiment had Aikambalotsë back on edge. For days, the man of the House of Helyanwë had been, while not calm, at the very least growing steadily more welcoming towards his old, estranged companions. Now, they were back at the very beginning, with Aikambalotsë treading as harshly into the earth as he had that first night, mouth firmly set and green eyes burning with the fury of raw starlight just beneath their stained glass. Curufinwë might not _like_ his brother-in-law much, but this man was Lindalórë’s brother, had come with on this mission at her behest, and had done his best to stay loyal and companionable towards Curufinwë as the Fëanárion struggled and stumbled through his own problems and faults like a newborn colt with unstable struts for legs.

Curufinwë did not have to like the man in order to know when a debt was owed. And, if pushing Aikambalotsë and Turukáno together had done nothing but incite more turmoil and distrust, leaving his brother-in-law spiraling back down into a black mood and sitting up sleeplessly all night, perhaps spreading them apart was for the best instead.

That, and he was sick of the pouting.

Moseying on up to his brother-in-law, whose face was significantly less distracting after being forced to spend an entire day in the presence of a mud-covered (and annoyingly smug) Ehtelion and a fidgeting, overly worried, glaring Laurefindil, he captured those green eyes with his own and tried not to wince at the pang of longing for his wife that followed. Hers were the exact same shade, and often filled with this exact shimmer of ice-cold fury whenever Curufinwë had done something particularly stupid.

“What in the name of Eru did you do to Turukáno to get him to shut up?” the Fëanárion asked in a low murmur, “And will you teach me? I have not ever seen that snooty, uptight, provincial idiot so damned quiet!”

Aikambalotsë rolled his eyes heavenward, clearly surrendering to the reality that Curufinwë would persist in his unwanted nosiness until he had his answers. Smart man. He learned quickly. “You are incredibly annoying. Why does Lindalórë even like you?”

“My wit and charm,” Curufinwë verbally jousted. “There was no blood or any such violence involved! If Laurefindil had not been so craven and had taken me up on my bet of a handful of rubies that you would bloody dear cousin Turno’s nose, I would have cheated myself out of some perfectly good gemstones fated to make an appearance in the next piece of jewelry I forge for your sister’s delicate hand. So, dearest brother-in-law, tell me, did you enchant his mouth shut?”

Of course, he knew that Aikambalotsë had done no such thing, but the teasing did at least get a little spark of amusement through that emerald sea of irritation. His brother-in-law’s lips twitched upwards to hint at a hidden grin, face showing an emotion other than biting fury for the first time since last evening when they had all gathered in the clearing at the center of the tangled mess of a trap prepared by their pair of wayward lovers and then shared a silent and contempt-filled meal while all simultaneously bathing in their own sweat, mud and frustration.

The very first stop this morning had been at the nearest stream. Even (moderately) cleaner and smelling significantly less like the rotting vegetation at the bottom of a stagnant lake, Aikambalotsë had been fuming and looked ready to slit someone’s throat with his fancy curved sword hanging menacingly across his shoulders and gleaming in the sunlight.

“Your tendency for mocking and snark and constant teasing and hassling are the reason no one likes you,” his brother-in-law said matter-of-factly, “And no, I did not enchant his mouth shut or any such nonsense.”

Lighthearted though the comment might have been, Curufinwë, ever with the nose for the juiciest gossip to be used later as blackmail or for other nefarious slandering and rumor-mongering purposes, sensed that there was more to be told, heard it in the slight hesitation with which the statement was uttered. “Well? Are you not going to share your secrets?”

Aikambalotsë huffed, crossing his arms, and he shot a deadly look over his shoulder at Turukáno, who was very pointedly _not looking their way._ “I may have shared some harsh truths that he needed to hear, and not very delicately did they depart my tongue. And I rebuffed his apology again for good measure. One would hope for the very last time, but I doubt that it will sink in fully and stick in the mind of a stubborn man such as he. Back he will be later to bother me again, I am certain.”

 _Or, perhaps, he might have learned his lesson for once._ Curufinwë supposed his brother-in-law had dealt with Turukáno more intimately during Exile, so perhaps the fifth son knew not in reality enough of his half-cousin’s more annoyingly persistent habits to judge, but he had never seen Turukáno look so dejected and beaten, scowling half-heartedly at scuffs in the dirt and avoiding conversation even with his precious bookends.

“I would have paid to see the look on his face,” the Fëanárion said entirely truthfully.

“Yes, well, I would prefer not to have to see it at all,” the former Lord of Ondolindë grumbled under his breath, hands burying themselves in the depths of his cloak. The twist of his nose, wrinkling and bunching up with his dislike, made him look as does a man sucking on a particularly tart bit of lemon. “This entire ridiculous quest to ‘rescue’ Írissë and drag her back to civilization—or whatever it is that her brothers unrealistically expect will happen if we do manage to find her and Turkafinwë, which I sincerely doubt that we shall—has been rather a mess from start to finish.”

There was no denying that, at least.

“You should know,” Curufinwë said then, trying not to sound as though he were being helpful _intentionally_ —because he did not like Aikambalotsë that much and did not want the man to think he might go out of his way to be anything but brutally unhelpful at every turn, inciting all sorts of trouble as an agent of chaos rather than reining in the discord and proposing a peaceful solution—as he thought of their current location and the direction they headed, “We will be passing by Tirion tomorrow night or the next day in the morn. You could just…”

He made a vague gesture. Aikambalotsë stared.

“You could depart back to Tirion,” the Fëanárion finished, glancing over his shoulder to see if anyone else was listening. Intently were both Ehtelion and Laurefindil staring. And, by their lack of immediate reaction, he assumed the suggestion carried the approval of both. “I know you are only here because Lindalórë wished to be certain I was not lynched in my sleep, and that you would be quite happy to abandon us all to our unfortunate doom of chasing Turkafinwë and Írissë through the wilderness willy-nilly like some particularly mentally-deficient buffoons.”

“You might still be lynched,” the other man muttered, “What with how annoying you are at times, it would not surprise me in the least.”

Curufinwë snorted, smirking sharply in response. But the panic that, just a few days ago, might have overcome him at the thought of sleeping with no one but for a Nolofinwion or their allies guarding his back… did not come.

They both knew, in truth, that things had changed significantly in the handful of days they had all been stranded out in the wilderness together, forced to interact and depend on one another for assistance. Curufinwë, while he still was not sleeping particularly well or often, was not losing sleep for days on end and then collapsing in a fit of panicked paranoia and attempting to harm himself into wakefulness when he could no longer stay conscious enough to look over his shoulder at every turn. Turukáno, for all that he was morose and quiet this day after being scolded like the large child he sometimes behaved as, had also been much less hostile towards his Fëanárion cousin after the incident with cuddling and coddling a delirious Findekáno for days on end without complaint or cruel commentary. Ehtelion, of course, had been about the only decent man to come along on their doomed expedition to start with, but now even Laurefindil was spending less time glaring at the Fëanárion’s unprotected back and more time being quietly accepting of the Kinslayer in their midst if only because they had a tenuous understanding.

It was odd, but better. Curufinwë was not going to complain. Much, anyway.

He had been hoping a similar understanding would form between Turukáno and Aikambalotsë and unburden the rest of them of the pair’s constantly ongoing silent death-match resting unspoken on each the other’s tongue. But no such understanding had unfolded, for all that both men were stricken with the same overwhelming sense of guilt, of failing their charges and people out of pride and fear.

Aikambalotsë, knowing all that as well, let out a sigh. “Do you truly think it is for the best to run away? It seems…”

 _Like a retreat,_ they both thought. _Like a surrender._

Admittedly, Curufinwë would have balked at such an action as well. He had always been just as prideful and stubborn as his Nolofinwion counterpart, and he would have struggled to pull away no matter how much a retreat might ease the discomfort of the constant tension wrapped as an invisible hand about everyone’s throat.

“Think of it, then, as me sending you back to check on my wife,” Curufinwë finally said coaxingly. “I worry about her being alone. That seems like a decently husbandly thing to be, no? She has had no one for company but your parents in that huge, empty house. Probably, by now, she is going senile with boredom and needs to be snuck out for some well-earned adventuring about the city with someone who is not an old stick-in-the-mud or a servant-cum-babysitter. Who better to send to attend her in my place than my dearest brother-in-law?”

“There are times when I wonder if the pair of you just use each other as an excuse to get what you want constantly,” Aikambalotsë mumbled. “She is worried about you and you are worried about her, and I am half-convinced neither of you is really worried about the other at all and both just want to see everyone else run about in circles doing your bidding.”

“Truly, though,” Curufinwë insisted, not denying that there might be just a _little_ truth to that theory, “It will make this already undesirable chore much more tolerable for everyone, and we both know you do not really want to be here babysitting me besides.”

Thoughtfully, his brother-in-law eyed him, as though trying to decipher whether or not there was some ulterior motive behind his insistence.

“I would go with if I did not think that Nolofinwë would make me pay for abandoning my duties,” Curufinwë added. “You are bound by no such requirements. Begone already, and see if you cannot annoy Nolofinwë for me a little at Court whilst I am away slaving under the debt I owe.”

Aikambalotsë snorted. “Sometimes, I wonder if you even listen to the ridiculous things that slip out of your mouth. Still, I shall have to decline. I promised Lindalórë I would do this, and I will remain here and keep my promise. Even if the presence of Turukáno Nolofinwion is… unpleasant.” And, with that ridiculous understatement, he turned his face away, not acquiescing or surrendering to the Fëanárion’s will.

Yet, Curufinwë could smell victory, could almost taste it.

He simply needed to wheedle and disturb the correct hornet’s nest, needed to provide the impetus to move Aikambalotsë into the desired position on the figurative chessboard. Time for some more aggressive emotional tactics, then.

“He makes you uncomfortable,” the Fëanárion said, entirely serious suddenly, redrawing that gaze magnetically to his face. “That is why you are angry with him, and why you have been sulking since you returned to camp last night, not because he is unpleasant or annoying or for any other reason. You understand him too well, and you feel the same longing for forgiveness from the charges you failed to protect at the Havens of Sirion because you refused to dislodge or move them away from a known threat. You feel pity for him and, also, you feel guilty for feeling pity for the man who left you in the position of power you failed to uphold. You would rather blame him than take responsibility.”

“No one asked for your opinion,” his brother-in-law bit out. “If you think this will make me do what you want, you are sorely mista—”

“Mistaken, am I?” the Fëanárion interrupted. “Prove me wrong, tell me my logic is false. Look me in the eye and tell me that I did not guess correctly why it is that _you_ cannot forgive Turukáno for his failures as a leader and King, why _you_ remain so stubbornly angry with him that you cannot even stand to look at him without wishing to slit his throat. Tell me it has nothing to do with wanting to punish him in your own stead. Go ahead, do tell me that I have the wrong way of it, correct my slippery tongue of its lies and deceit.”

Of course, Aikambalotsë could not do it, could not lie that well without detection, and certainly not in the face of Fëanárion. They both knew it.

“We both know that you have not been sleeping. You barely ate dinner for how angry and upset you were last night, and you barely ate breakfast this morning either. What is the point in continuing this unnecessary game when you would be better off away from here and away from Turukáno Nolofinwion? You speak of protecting _me_ from my murderous cousins, but it may interest you to know that _you_ are the one currently looking worse for wear rather than I.”

Aikambalotsë gritted his teeth, and Curufinwë could see the spike of wildfire temper in those eyes. “You know nothing of what you speak!”

“Do not make me laugh,” the fifth son scoffed. “What I know is that you look like death warmed over, and your petty grudge against Turukáno—and against yourself—is only going to slow us down. Do us a favor and remove its leaden weight from our burden.”

Like an angry cat, his brother-in-law hissed at him. “You are blaming _me_ for this? _Me?_ And here, I thought we were meant to be allies, but you take _his side?”_

Hostility had never been enough to quell or otherwise hush up Curufinwë Fëanárion in the past, who had spent his entire childhood beneath the rapid pendulum of his father’s temperament swinging back and forth between frustrated rage and disgusted disappointment. Compared with Fëanáro on a particularly bad day, Aikambalotsë’s attempt to make him quiver in fear was almost _cute._

Even if it had been enough to, perhaps, leave Curufinwë thinking just a second longer about his sudden plan to foist aid off upon his unwitting ally—whether Aikambalotsë wished for his interference and backhanded kindness or not—he would probably have still gone along with his plan to remove Aikambalotsë from this toxic environment with a minimum of guilt for the unpleasantness of the procedure. Allies did what was in the best interest of one another, no matter how much they might genuinely like or dislike one another, and, as the ally of Lindalórë’s brother, Curufinwë was not about to let the man do a mental spiral over some ridiculous feud he had with bloody Turukáno Nolofinwion. The bloody former King of Ondolindë was not worth that much agony and suffering.

“I do not keep deadweight allies,” he said instead of the truth. Because Curufinwë knew it would make said ally angry.

_Oh yes, it would!_

“Deadweight!” the man of the House of Helyanwë snarled out. “That is rich coming from you, who could not even sleep in the presence of your cousins three days ago! To think that I even bothered to—”

Aikambalotsë cut himself off with a noise of frustration, swallowing the words down sharply, not wishing to admit to his acts of kindness—attempting to soothe Curufinwë’s frayed nerves with quiet fireside discussions and words of half-hidden encouragement—in a loud enough voice to be heard and embarrassed before the eyes of the rest of their party. Not that everyone was not already aware that an argument was unfolding besides.

“Fine,” the man snapped. “Fine! Fuck you, Fëanárion! And the fucking high horse you rode in upon! Burn in the Void!”

And he stomped off some twenty feet ahead of the main party, almost tearing through the undergrowth with his desire to get away from said Fëanárion as quickly as possible. Leaving Curufinwë behind with his smirk melting off his mouth and being replaced by a weary sigh. At least he would not be returning his brother-in-law to Lindalórë with a spirit the same approximate consistency as the broken yolk of a poorly poached egg.

And, well, he had had more terrifying men pissed with him and his spear-tongued mouth before. Aikambalotsë, once he was back in Tirion and well away from Turukáno, would be silently thanking him for his intervention.

“Are you quite certain that that was a wise idea?” The bookends appeared beside him, but both were steadfastly watching Aikambalotsë’s back as the man used his sickle-shaped blade to rather brutally slice through the low-hanging branches of several helpless trees and slaughter some innocent knee-high bushes, cursing under his breath all the while.

It was Laurefindil who had spoken, eyeing the whole scene with distaste and doubt.

Of course, bloody, bastardly Ehtelion—at the golden-haired vanya’s side but silent in contemplation—was looking thoughtful rather than upset or perturbed at the whole interaction. Probably, the illegitimate son of Lalwendë was perfectly aware of what Curufinwë had been doing. He might even approve, after a fashion.

“We do not need him and cousin Turukáno trying to rip one another’s faces off for the rest of the journey,” Curufinwë countered, crossing his arms and not meeting anyone’s eyes, because he was _not_ about to say that he had done _anything_ for Aikambalotsë’s benefit rather than his own, and certainly not out of the goodness of his absolutely nonexistent heart. “Besides, I was serious about wanting Lindalórë to have company. Even if said company will have nothing nice to say about me when he returns home.”

“Not so,” Ehtelion interjected. “He knows why you want him to leave. He simply does not want to admit that you are correct. To you or to himself.”

The three stared at the retreating man’s back.

“Yes, you are probably right,” the Fëanárion agreed quietly. As if that were any comfort.

And they continued on as if nothing had happened. For the rest of the day, Aikambalotsë stayed far ahead and Turukáno stayed far behind, and the three stood like a barrier in the middle between the crescent-shaped blade of Aikambalotsë’s sword and Turukáno’s guiltily-lowered head.

When their green-eyed companion disappeared as a ghost into the vespertine grayness of the forest, none said a word.

And Curufinwë shrugged, turning back to his dinner after his brother-in-law’s back vanished into the falling darkness. Before long, the peaceful waves of silvery moonlight were bathing at his skin, and the silence felt more liquid. Softer and filled with less dread and less pain. Fewer shards of cruel glass waiting to catch at an unwary spirit and tear.

And he was not sorry. He almost never was, even for the cruel words he spoke or the brutal help he gave.

He had paid his debt. And that was that.

\---

Rumors were already spreading like wildfire through Court.

This surprised Arafinwë not in the least bit. Gossiping was a way of life amongst the elite, who relied on their reputation in all aspects of their lives.

In all honesty, he had expected it to begin yesterday rather than this morning, for Hendumaika to amass his full strength in the form of his innumerable political and financial allies and have the entire city turning itself upside-down and shaking out its own pockets in search of his missing, rebellious daughter. When no word came at all on the day after Lindalórë’s disappearance, when there was not even a whisper amongst the Court that a woman had gone missing from her own home, the King had been slightly perturbed and anxious, wondering what sort of game was afoot.

Now, though, he was simply rather irritated and exhausted and wished it would all just dissolve and disappear. Because, of course, Hendumaika had been preparing to make a scene that would put himself at an advantage over his foes. And, of course, it would do nothing but complicate these matters of great importance further and contribute to the splitting headache already making itself known just behind Arafinwë’s tightly-shut eyes.

Painfully, he recalled that morning.

\---

_“What is this commotion?” Arafinwë was not expecting to sweep into Court first thing at the break of dawn, his wife at his side dressed all in silvery splendor, to find almost the entirety of Court assembled, able to hear nothing but a clamor of voices deafeningly filling the entirety of the hall. Most courtiers did not deign rise from bed at a time before the royal couple daily took their rather undesirably ostentatious seats in preparation for hearing of the trials and tribulations of the people. At the appearance of the King and Queen in their midst, the masses turned their heads to stare, voices slowly fading into uneasy silence._

_Looking about with hidden trepidation, the King spotted Nolofinwë there off to the side of the room looking like he had just dipped his tongue into tar, eyes sharper than jagged blades of ice and colder than any gust of frigid northerly wind. Anairë clung tightly to his arm, keeping him firmly in place and silent._

He is beyond angry, _Arafinwë recognized, suspecting already the cause and feeling his stomach sinking down towards his toes as his suspicions were confirmed._

_From the churning mass of brightly-colored, heavily bejeweled fabric of the flock of disturbed and overwrought courtiers emerged none other than Hendumaika of the House of Helyanwë, dressed in his finest clothes and bearing the crest of his house across his chest in the form of two conjoined semicircles of rainbows made from fine jewels set in a thick golden collar. That piece alone would probably have bought an entire village in the countryside. The tunic beneath was sky blue lined with golden embroidery and, layered over, was a fine velveteen robe woven from a deeper shade alike to the sky just after the sunset hues faded into blue. The robe, of course, was speckled in adamantine “stars” set with golden thread._

_The whole sight of it—of him—of the impossible wealth dripping from his form and the feigned worry marking his face and the misaligned body language of a confident and supercilious man, it all left the King frowning as he took his seat and leaned back to meet emerald eyes, pretending to have no knowledge of what was about to come out of his richest courtier’s lips._

_“My King,” Hendumaika said with a bow, “Forgive me for inciting such chaos and panic so early in the day and creating a disturbance of your morning plans, but I could not bear to wait with my news!”_

Of course, not, _Arafinwë found himself thinking dryly. “Speak of your news, then, meldo. How might we be of assistance?”_

_A faint smirk—just the flutter of the mouth—played over across those features, there and gone so fast that it would have been missed by one who looked not for signs of deceit with shrewd and incisive eyes. The man bowed his head reverently, pleadingly, to his ruler. “My King, it pains me to bring forth such news, but I had no other option but to seek the help of my sovereign and my people. My daughter, Lindalórë has disappeared from home. I fear she has been taken against her will!”_

_At his accusation, several women let out fearful gasps of shock._

Taken against her will, _Arafinwë internally scoffed, wishing desperately that he could roll his eyes but trying to keep the outer veneer of his face calm and collected in the face of such bitterly disgusting falsehoods. “Have you any reason to believe she was abducted?”_

_There was nothing at all in Hendumaika’s face to indicate that he was lying. Of course, there was not. The man was an expert with thousands of years of experience manipulating his prey. Without pause, he said, “For the past few weeks, since the reappearance of the Fëanárioni at the Midsummer Festival, Curufinwë Fëanárion has been harassing my family and my daughter. We fear that, despite being rebuffed and despite the plans of Lindalórë to marry another in his stead after they had been separated for so long a time, he may have seen fit to, one might delicately say, have her removed and reclaimed by his family.”_

_If he had not heard news of Lindalórë’s plight from the lips of others already, Arafinwë would have had no idea what was happening and no reason not to be suspicious of his nephew’s intentions. After Nelyafinwë had seen fit to “kidnap” a bride and steal her off into his mountain stronghold against the wishes of her family, no one knowing whether she had been willing or coerced or kidnapped, what reason was there not to be suspicious of the disappearance of another woman who had garnered the affections of one of the seven brothers? An uninformed man would certainly have thought Curufinwë capable of kidnapping if the Fëanárion felt threatened by the possibility of being replaced in the heart of his wife by another, would certainly have thought back to the trials and tribulations of Fëanáro in the ancient days and the man’s penchant for histrionics and recklessness in the face of emotional turmoil._

_No reason would any of these courtiers have to suspect that any of this was falsehood, that Lindalórë was not, in fact, willingly engaged to another man, or that she had not been abducted from her apparently loving and supportive family by her cruel and murderous former husband when she sought to reject and break their marriage against his desires._

_Whispers broke out all through the room, filled with excitement at the newest shiny bit of information to bandy about like a candied chocolate, sweet upon the tongue. In the back corner, Nolofinwë stood, looking almost apoplectic in his state of outrage at what was said. It was only Ambaráto present of Arafinwë’s sons, but the younger male looked mulish, lips pulled tight and pale across his face as he watched the proceedings with folded arms and bright eyes._

_At his side, Eärwen reached out and touched his arm, reminding Arafinwë to maintain a placid mask, to look unruffled by the sudden news, to not allow the spike of rage in his gut to overcome his common sense in these matters._

_“You make heavy accusations,” the King said loudly, raising a brow. The room went silent under his stoic regard, hanging off his every word as he stared down at their faces from above. “I should think that you would have proof, as I know Curufinwë Fëanárion to be departed from the city at this time and out of reach, as is his brother Turkafinwë, who is known to be his closest companion and accomplice in all his doings.”_

_“But Morifinwë Fëanárion was last seen departing yesterday in the morning,” Hendumaika countered, “The very morning after my daughter disappeared and could not be located anywhere within the city walls! And one of the younger Fëanárioni, a twin, was spotted in the city earlier the day before!”_

_Arafinwë almost huffed in exasperation. Little did he know of the comings and goings of the Fëanárioni, but he had known that Istelindë was planning to visit the city two days passed with one of the twins, that she planned to push him together with the beautiful dancer Amaurëa, but the King had no way of proving that they had departed the city without taking Lindalórë, not without time to amass witnesses from the common folk and the guards of the city gates. Furthermore, he had no clue as to the doings or whereabouts of Morifinwë._

_“Of course, we will look into the comings and goings of the brothers,” he soothed with a serene smile, an expression that momentarily had Hendumaika frowning and straightening as if perturbed slightly by the lack of panic or haste in the King’s actions._

Did he expect I would immediately jump upon the chance to accuse and pass judgment upon my own nephews without proof?

 _There was some murmuring amongst the crowd, who obviously_ had _thought he would be ready to accept such an accusation with essentially no form of proof at all, who were upset that he might balk at sending an army marching up the mountain to invade the home of the evil Kinslayers demanding the return of the woman they had stolen from her family home and, rather, wished to gather more information first and leap to conclusions like a fool later. Arafinwë suspected they had hoped for something more dramatic and were disappointed at the anticlimactic delivery of his decision and its lack of bloodthirsty accusations and sensationalism._

What a bucketload of nonsense!

_“My King,” Hendumaika said then, “I fear that haste might be justified in this instance! I would not wish for my daughter to be hurt by her violent husband’s family…”_

_“Melda meldonya,” Arafinwë responded, standing and making a show of descending from his throne to grasp the man’s outstretched hands, to enfold the ring-studded digits with his own and pat reassuringly, “Rest assured that we will do everything in our power to assist you in returning your daughter safely. We would not want to miss any pertinent details in our haste, however. Let me send my swiftest servants to glean the truth of these matters from those who might have seen something of great importance, for my guards will have known what time of day anyone, including a Fëanárion, departed the city and if they were alone as they went. They might even have seen Lindalórë if she was, indeed, taken by either the Fëanárioni or someone else, if she even departed the city at all! If we act too soon, we might miss the truth of the matter! Might she still be within the walls of Tirion in need, and we would waste precious time trying to uselessly recover her from the mountains if we do not take care?”_

_Of course, his courtier did not like this. They both knew (though Hendumaika knew not that Arafinwë knew) that Istelindë had left Tirion with her brother-in-law long before Lindalórë’s disappearance in the middle of the night. It would be easy to prove, for someone would have seen them._

_And, besides that, Arafinwë was playing the generous, understanding and kind-hearted sovereign, renowned and admired for his levelheaded fairness and caution where his siblings were impetuous and swift to act without thought to consequence. He could see that some of the ladies nearby were touched by his caring demeanor, and some of the men calming beneath the gentle croon of his persuasive voice._

_“Do tell me, when did she disappear?” he then asked._

_Hendumaika hesitated, still frowning. “She did not come down to dinner that night, though her fiancé was there to visit her, and she did not answer her door when called. It was not until morning that it was discovered she was vanished.”_

_Arafinwë patted the man’s hands, still within his own, once more as if to comfort. “How awful this must be, and distressing! Come along, meldo, and take tea and bread with me while we wait for news. The rest of business this morning can surely wait, for I want to give this matter my personal attention.”_

_“You are generous, my King,” his courtier responded, head bowed to hide the annoyance that flashed through his emerald eyes._

_And Arafinwë forced himself to continue smiling. And, all the while, he wished he could have spat in that face then and there for his hate._

_“It is but my duty,” he said instead. And wished the words tasted not so sour._

\---

Thus had ensued several painful hours of tea with a man Arafinwë wished he might slit open from throat to groin with the knife he kept locked in his desk drawer. It would have been over and done with before anyone could have responded to the screaming, before any help could have arrived to stay the King’s homicidal hands.

Kinslaying was not a sin that Arafinwë wished to have staining his spirit. But he could not deny that there would have been something sweetly satisfying in the act.

Instead, he had sent Hendumaika off after his guards had returned to him with a story of Istelindë and Pityafinwë departing as two alone with a near-empty wagon and nowhere for a woman to have stowed away or hidden amongst the small amount of clutter it contained. The frown upon Hendumaika’s face had deepened substantially after that, especially when Arafinwë had suggested further investigation into Lindalórë’s whereabouts rather than an immediate expedition to confirm the eyewitness statements by raiding and tearing apart the holdings of the Fëanárioni in search of the missing woman.

 _“Perhaps she has not been abducted at all,”_ Arafinwë had gently, almost condescendingly, suggested. _“Rest assured, we shall scour the city for anyone who might have seen her coming or going.”_

 _And find no one,_ he mentally added with satisfaction.

Now, alone in his study hours later after sending the infuriating courtier off to whisper insidious lies into the ears of someone else for the rest of the afternoon and evening, Arafinwë felt his headache pound and his lower lip protest the sharp gnaw of his teeth. This business was going to be far more unpleasant that he had hoped.

No missive had he sent to the Fëanárioni in haste, not wanting to bring suspicion upon his family or upon his nephews if the communication were noticed, but suspicion had fallen upon the latter anyway what with Hendumaika’s unfounded (but easily believable to the minds of the gullible) accusations. Now, he _absolutely_ could not send a messenger up that mountain without an army at their back lest he was accused of collusion in these matters. The whole thing had him rather wanting to throw the heavy paperweight that rested innocuously on his desktop, brain screaming to hear the sound of something other than his plans shattering painfully.

 _This is not an insurmountable obstacle,_ he reminded himself, breathing deeply through his nose and out his open mouth.

Kanafinwë would be about Tirion on the morrow. He would send a trusted messenger with his missive to corner the second son and pass on the word that Nelyafinwë and his wife were being summoned to Court at the whims of the King and why. Beyond that, there would need to be great care taken in proceeding just to avoid “confirming” the unfounded rumors now wildly being flaunted about by naysayers and rumor-mongers. It was no longer as simple as passing Lindalórë off into the keeping of her brother-in-law and washing his hands of the entire unpleasant situation cultivated by the Head of the House of Helyanwë.

 _Lindalórë needs to be smuggled out of the city._ Slowly, he placed his face into the cup of his palms and released a low, pained groan. _What a mess!_

It was, of course, then that he received a hesitant visitor in the doorway, distracting him from his spinning and whirling thoughts, knocking quietly at the frame with large gray eyes peering inside. “Atar?”

“Angaráto, yonya,” he greeted tiredly. “I suppose you have heard the news? Come in.”

“I think that everyone within the city walls has heard the news by now,” his third son said, letting himself in and closing the door quietly in his wake. He came to stand lingeringly behind the empty chair across the desk from his kingly father, hands tracing the finely-carved wood absently. “Even amongst the common folk the word is spreading quickly of the disappearance of Lady Lindalórë, and much confusion abounds. Lord Hendumaika has put out a reward for her safe return. A _very generous_ reward.”

 _Well, we were right in keeping her whereabouts as secret as possible,_ the King could not help but think, wishing he were surprised. _Money. A wicked temptation to surreptitiously draw the faithful into betrayal. Had her location been widely known, she would be found already._

“I assume that your blacksmith friend has your utmost confidence,” the King said tiredly, “For, if he gives away her position, he would be a rich man indeed.”

“I trust him,” Angaráto said immediately. “He has begun to spread word through the Exiles and other common folk, speaking of atrocities committed under the roof of the House of Helyanwë. From one side, they will hear that Lady Lindalórë was kidnapped by her wicked husband and carried off into the night. From the other, they will hear that her father held her captive and tortured her and other helpless women to force her hand into marriage. Public enough has her presence been with Calmacil—and clear enough her rejection of his suit and her fear of his person—that we have confidence in many believing the latter over the former.”

Arafinwë was forced to acknowledge that there was little for them to do now but wait and see which rumors would win out and who they might claim as allies when all was said and done. Hendumaika had already claimed the support of Court for his own with his public, emotional appeal of a helpless father seeking salvation for his daughter, and there was yet no proof to counter his claims.

 _Ambaráto needs time to gather evidence,_ the King thought to himself.

But it was still anyone’s gamble whether a majority of the common people would side with the nobleman or if they would believe the word of one of their own.

As distressing as all of this was for Arafinwë—and he found it most distressing indeed atop his already considerable duties as the King of the Noldor—he could not imagine how distressing it would be for Lindalórë when she heard. More than half the city would be prepared to drag her back to her prisoners and abusers, kicking and screaming and by any means necessary, unwilling to listen to a word edgewise with the promise of a hefty reward waved under their nose as a juicy steak beneath the drooling mouth of a starving man. The sooner they removed her from the city, the better it would be for her continued safety and security. Biting his lip again, still lost in thought, his eyes shifted from the window—outside it was sunny and beautiful and entirely unlikeable and unbefitting his current mood—towards his son.

“Would you do me a favor, yonya?” he asked quietly.

“If I can help ease your burden, Atar, I would.” Ever the selfless man, Angaráto would have moved mountains over tiddling matters if it saw his family happy. Devotion of that sort was rare in a man, and Arafinwë could not help but think that his third son would have made an excellent King. More excellent, perhaps, than Arafinwë could ever hope to be.

“I would like you to pay a visit to Nolofinwë’s household. Quietly, of course, but I doubt anyone would find it too suspicious if I send you as a messenger to my brother.”

Angaráto blinked thoughtfully. “And what would you have me do there?”

Guiltily, Arafinwë looked again away, a sudden wave of discomfort crawling across his skin on tiny insect-legs. “I would have you make sure that Lindalórë hears the news and knows she has our continued support. And… I would wish for you to speak with her, if you can bring yourself to do so. Your experiences are similar in many ways to her own. I thought, perhaps, it might help to ease her mind.”

Piercing gray eyes stared through him, not giving away so much as a hint of the thoughts passing beneath their surface.

It was much to ask. By the grace of his unenviable status as a favored thrall of the Dark Lord and a Prince of the Noldor, a rare and coveted commodity amongst the riffraff of the average thralls collected by Morgoth and his ilk, Angaráto had survived the hellish pits of Angamando where many others had fallen in his place. Yet, though his son had emerged into daylight after centuries in darkness, a sobbing, filthy and destroyed mess of a creature barely suited to be called a civilized being, Angaráto had healed where many others had not. Had reemerged changed but still strong and fierce rather than shattered beyond repair. 

_Maybe…_

“Maybe you can do something for her,” he said hesitantly. “Lady Anairë told your mother that she has not been doing well. Lindalórë, that is. That she has not been sleeping.”

His son’s mouth thinned into a stern line. “No one would sleep well after something like that,” he answered matter-of-factly, and his fingertips touched the back of the chair he had refused to sit upon, digging into the wood harshly enough that it audibly creaked in protest. “I cannot imagine that Uncle Nolofinwë is doing much better.”

Arafinwë was more than happy not to deal with his cranky older brother whilst the temperamental man was in one of his wildly fluctuating states, swinging harshly from deadly calm and collected ruler to murderously enraged monster and back again. Well did he remember the early years after his brother’s rebirth, full of bandaged hands and nightmarish screams and long, circuitous arguments of self-worth that always ended as a lost cause.

“You can try to reason with him, but he will hear none of your words regardless of their wisdom,” Arafinwë warned. “He has ever stubbornly refused assistance where it is due. Such has always been his way, believing his failure as a King has deemed him unworthy of such privilege.”

“Then, perhaps, I will speak with Aunt Anairë instead,” his son countered. “I cannot guarantee anything I say will help Lindalórë. The comfort of a stranger will be cold and unfamiliar as a bitter wind compared to the comfort of a lover or a friend. Though, I suppose there is no one else, so we will have to make do.”

“I… do not meant to force your hand. If you are not comfortable.” Arafinwë was never quite certain how far he could push Angaráto, how close his iron-willed child was to breaking beneath his nearly impenetrable shield of an expression.

Those eyes met his own, and their stare still made him uncomfortable despite the centuries that had passed. It was, perhaps, what had driven his third son to leave Tirion entirely to begin with, that unspoken and awkward distance between a parent who had seen too much of their child and a child who sensed the unspoken unease and rejection of their parent, however unintentional it might have been. Arafinwë, even after all these years, did not know how to address what he had witnessed at the end of the War of Wrath, did not know what to say to mend the broken bridge between their hearts, did not know that it was his place to try.

Angaráto had gone elsewhere to heal when he found not in his parents the support he needed. In Eldalótë and others had he found his salvation, away from the hateful intrigue of Court life and away from his parents who could never really understand.

Apparently, at least this request was not pushing too far into that forbidden territory never broached between father and son. “I will go and speak to them,” Angaráto said firmly, allowing for no disagreement on his father’s part. “If nothing else, I might be able to give Aunt Anairë some ideas which she might use upon her charges. Even if I will be but a pale shadow of comfort in comparison to others.”

 _You could never be a pale shadow of anyone,_ Arafinwë wanted to say but did not dare. Never had he met anyone who burned stronger and fiercer than Angaráto. Never, either, had he met anyone he understood less than his third son.

“Go well with my blessing, then,” the King said, “If we do not see each other again soon. I know that you will want to be returning home to your wife and son.”

“Indeed,” Angaráto said, and his mouth did twitch into a small smile even through all the filth and shadow hovering over their heads as a noxious thunderstorm about to drop acid instead of rain. “You know that you are welcome to visit. My son should get to see family members outside of Restaráto and Finduilassë.”

Every time they crossed paths, Angaráto always said the same thing.

And, for some strange reason (that he knew but did not wish to acknowledge), every time Arafinwë found himself hesitant to accept. “The sacrifices a King must make for his people,” he said jestingly, heart aching at the flash of disappointment quickly shuttered behind the deep iron-gray of those eyes, “Alas, I am so busy most days your mother can scarcely convince me to pause and eat! I surely have not time to gallivant across the countryside when there are matters that need seeing to! But I will discuss it with her, nevertheless. Perhaps, when all of this troublesome misfortune is put behind us…”

There was always an excuse.

“Perhaps,” Angaráto agreed. “If I do not pass through again, just know that you can send word to me if I am needed. Do not hesitate to ask.”

 _Already have I asked too much of you, yonya,_ Arafinwë could not help but think.

“Of course,” he said aloud instead.

And they parted as quickly as they had met, the third son slipping away like the tiniest grains of fine, white sand slipped between the fingers and were carried off by the wind. If there was any reason for which Arafinwë could not allow any more of such evil and suffering to wheedle its way into the peace and paradise of his home, it was for the sake of his third son and others of like past torments.

No one else should ever have to know that their child went through such things. No one else should ever have to see it with their own eyes and know they had failed as protectors.

No one else should ever be destroyed by it the way they had been.

Lowering his head to his desk, he let his cheek rest upon the cool wood and closed his eyes, willing the images away along with the tears he oughtn’t be shedding. Sucking in a sharp breath through his nose, he let it float out through his mouth. Again, and again. In through the nose and out through the mouth, fast and then slow. Repeat. Repeat.

Until his heart was no longer throbbing and his chest no longer aching.

Until the images faded again.

It was a shame the guilt was not so easy to drive away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:
> 
> Ondolindë (Q) = Gondolin  
> meldo (Q) = friend  
> melda (Q) = dear (one)  
> meldonya (Q) = my friend  
> Fëanárioni (Q, p) = sons of Fëanáro  
> Atar (Q) = Father  
> yonya (Q) = my son (informal)


	69. To Feel A Paradise Of Bliss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More exploration of the Woods of Oromë...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: long AN (please read), slight racism/classism, misogyny (low-key), nudity/group bathing, pining, Valarin weirdness, discussing sexuality, propositioning, mention of past spousal abuse (emotional), living together unmarried
> 
> Hi there friends! Long AN today!
> 
> A couple of things! First, I have made the executive decision to start updating every three days instead of every two (that means next update is on Wed). Now that I may be getting a second job on top of my current one, that may be stretched to four days in the future depending on my hours. For now, we're giving three a try. By no means does this mean I have any intention of abandoning this story! My plan is to see this through to the end. Even if it takes ages. Which, I suspect at this point, it might.
> 
> On other notes: The Valar and sexuality.
> 
> Lots of stuff comes up in this chapter. There's a little bit of what might be interpreted as racism (and certainly a little classism), so I'm giving y'all a head's up in advance for that. I'm also a firm believer that, just because the Valar all sit in a circle and have a (presumably mildly democratic but probably mostly dominated by Manwë's opinions) council every once in a while does _not_ mean they all are in agreement about rules or laws or how to deal with the Children. So, I'll let you know in advance that, while Manwë has seemingly promoted a very Western (that would be North American Western) type anti-touching modesty culture in the Silmarillion and related works, I have Oromë and Vána here pretty much blatantly promoting a much more communal, skin-ship allowing culture and not denying anyone the right to consensually go about their private business. That doesn't necessarily mean they won't promote the idea of marriage (they actually very obviously do here), but that they aren't going to go around forcing it on anyone like an a-hole with a massive stick up their butt.
> 
> Furthermore, there's the question of sexuality. In most stories, elves are pretty chill about it. In this one, I literally cannot imagine them being fine with any type of sexuality, mostly because they literally try to force people who have sex to marry and _clearly_ hold procreation in high importance, and misogyny of this sort tends to promote misandry and other things, like homophobia and hypersexualization of homoerotic relationships (basically, the idea that lesbianism is only fine if it's for the pleasure of a man). So, if you can't stand the idea that elves are a bit quietly homophobic here (briefly mentioned as "they don't encourage it" but, like, it's not considered a crime or anything either) then this AU may squick you a little. Also, the maiar and sexuality are weird. I don't even believe the Valar or the Maiar have an actual sex but that they manifest whatever they're most comfortable with, nor do I think they are capable of procreating without intention (explored this concept quite a bit in the Silm Prompts about Melian), or that they have sexual urges the same way as living creatures who need to reproduce to live, so if they seem a bit forward and fine with pretty much anything (or nothing) as long as all parties are into it... they pretty much are. Some will be in monogamous relationships, some won't be, some will be into everything, some will be completely asexual, etc. Just like real people.
> 
> Finally, there's a brief mention of Vána being upset about Laurelin and taking it out on the Noldor. It's BoLT canon that she and Irmo were upset the most by the Two Trees being destroyed, and also that Aulë is pretty pissed with the Noldor as well. Just so y'all know where that's coming from, because it's pretty much erased from the Silmarillion proper (and all the Valar are made to look like they have great solidarity and never express any negative emotions ever except self-righteous fury).
> 
> Thus ends today's long AN. Thank you for reading. You may proceed to the story :) <3
> 
> Maedhros = Maitimo = Nelyafinwë = Nelyo = Russandol  
> Maglor = Makalaurë = Kanafinwë = Káno  
> Celegorm = Tyelkormo = Tyelko = Turkafinwë = Turko  
> Caranthir = Carnistir = Morifinwë = Moryo  
> Curufin = Atarinkë = Curufinwë = Curvo  
> Amrod = Ambarussa = Pityafinwë = Pityo = Minyarussa  
> Amras = Umbarto = Telufinwë = Telvo = Atyarussa  
> Aredhel = Írissë  
> Mandos = Námo

_Anarya, 56 Lairë (8 July)_

\---

Írissë did not know where to look first what with the bombardment of stimuli tearing at her senses. Or how to stop looking at what her eyes caught as they spun in circles across the oddly beautiful sights set before them as a feast.

She settled first for the largest and most evident difference between this lively and alien place—with all its movement and clamor that eerily matched and yet was entirely different from the walkways of Tirion’s market during the midday coming and going—and what she was used to seeing in the embossed and gilded and gem-encrusted city.

_The structures… are made from trees…_

Toweringly large trees that made her feel as an ant before giants, not hollowed out by any form of carving or violence against the inner flesh, but seemingly _grown_ into the shapes of rooms, open and airy pockets just beneath their rough skin, vining flowers of small snowy white and vibrant sky blue and a deep royal purple wreathing every doorway and every makeshift parting of bark and wood to form windows from which faces peeked out at the commotion below. Gawking, she knew, was unattractive, but she could not seem to close her mouth or pull away her gaze. It was only the gentle tugging of Tyelkormo’s hand in her own and his voice calling her name in amused tones that urged her to move forward upon unsteady feet, to drag her eyes from the sight and back to his face.

Of course, there was more to see, and she was easily distracted from his entertained grin and the stare of his silvery eyes twinkling like stars at the sight of her awe. There were maiar moving every which way going about their daily business, but they all seemed to stop and stare, to almost ripple in excitement at having guests, furred or feathered or plantlike or whatever other alien form they took, carrying their baskets of fresh fruit and greens or dozens of flowers, many-colored (and many-numbered, in some cases) eyes following as Lord Oromë and the pair of Eldar passed by.

She blinked. And stared back.

“Come forth,” their host said, leading the couple amidst a small crowd of his own curious hunters trailing just behind. Spinning her head about, she could see them fully in the light now, could make out their tall, slender forms (there was definitely an orange tail swishing back and forth over yonder), the quivers nestled upon their backs and the bows slung across their shoulders richly carven and arrayed with decoration. Down the center of what she supposed made for a sort of street did they all traverse, but it was unpaved in the midst of the green of unbroken grass, and there was a vibrant rainbow of color of splashed across every surface in the form of flowers and exotic birds fluttering and tessellations of winged insects in every shade of red, orange, blue and yellow. “Vána awaits our arrival in the Gardens,” the pair were told.

Dragged along as she was, head spinning this way and that, Írissë wondered that anyone could come here and not be overwhelmed—by the distracting sights, by the cloying smells, by the amazing people—by the strange wonder of it all.

Especially when they entered what must have been the Gardens of Vána herself, coming upon a veritable wall of trellises upon which roses and honeysuckle and wisteria were overgrown and dancing beneath her gaze. Passing through the singular opening left by the plant-guardians into the sanctuary beyond, she felt the little wriggling ends of vines tugging at her clothes and her hair, brushing soft upon her skin as she reached out to touch, as if they were tasting her essence in return and playfully welcoming her under their protection.

They stepped through, leaving the gaggle of hunters just outside.

Inside, there was no end to the flowers. Not a surface untouched, for even the grass was speckled with wildflowers and dandelions. Every shade and color, every shape and size. Even as Írissë’s feet touched the ground and then moved, white blossoms sprang to life where she had stepped, singing softly to a tune that she recognized intimately but had never heard before in all her life, humming beneath the din of buzzing insects and glorious voices murmuring through the afternoon haze of heat and light and sweet, sweet smell. Her hand tightened around Tyelkormo’s as she tried still to take it all in.

Not just the plants, but the maiar minding them as caretakers, dew falling from their fingers to feed the flowers below, shimmering faintly of golden Anar as she sank beneath the jagged line of the mountains in the far-off West each night.

_Their eyes…_

Some of them were as the butterfly creature had been, their faces painted in many shades of butterfly wings or iridescent dragonfly shimmers or the black and yellow stripes of bees with slender bodies and spindly fingers made with ebony black or deep brown skin. Those sometimes had two large eyes, but sometimes had four or more, each new set blinking just a split-second behind the first and leaving Írissë shivering and looking away swiftly. Others wore robes and garments that looked to be naught _but_ flowers, large-sleeved about tiny, graceful hands and billowing folds flowing around tiny dark feet that danced upon the mounds of evergreen grass. Their eyes were large and vividly-colored even in shades of pink and orange and bright, electrical blue and violet, surrounded in sharply contrasting masks of blooms that splattered across their skin. Not skin colored naturally to Írissë’s eyes, but in shades of green and purple and dusky pink and pastel yellow and a dozen other things that she could scarcely see and comprehend were bare and not painted with rich dyes and ground gemstones. Long, flowing hair spun around their too-symmetrical faces, just as many-colored and woven with crowns or garlands of flowers.

And they were watching back, giggling.

“The servants of Vána,” Tyelkormo murmured to her, voice low and soothing. “They are a little odd, but peaceful and generally welcoming. Mostly, they spend their days tending to flowers and gathering dew. Little else do they do but dance and sing to lull the plants.”

She bit her lip and tried to stifle her immediate dislike.

It was not in her nature to be jealous of other women, even women as jaw-droppingly wondrous as these women certainly were with their full and perfectly-shaped mouths and their large almond-shaped eyes and the unnatural shimmer like stardust upon their skin as they passed beneath beams of afternoon sunlight. Írissë knew that she was an attractive female in her own right, and she knew that she could garner attention whenever and wherever she wanted it from her male counterparts, for she was no novice in flirtation or seduction. But she was unalike to these beings, who were entirely alien in their awful and perfect beauty. And her current lover had _been with_ one of them. Or more than one. She did not quite know. She did not quite know that she truly wanted to know.

Furthermore, she did not quite understand how he had done it. Did he… find those things attractive? The wildly-colored hair and the glow of the strangely-colored skin and the flowers that seemed to bloom straight out of their bodies? Did he find those sorts of things more attractive than a plain elven woman’s simplistic and streamlined normalcy?

It certainly did not help that said maiar (she did not know if she should call them female or not, though she thought their forms seemed female enough in the swell of their chests and the curve of their waist to slightly widened hips) were staring back at the couple. Their full and painted lips were smiling as they murmured back and forth to each other in a language that made Írissë’s hairs stand a little on end for how it buzzed and jolted in the air in gilded tones and timbre, sizzling against her skin and rippling across her spirit. Even hearing it, she broke out into chills and silently wished they would cease.

Long had it been since she had dealt with the malicious nature of Court life and Court gossip and Court _women,_ but Írissë remembered it well from girlhood. And this felt all too similarly unwelcoming and uncomfortable.

The staring. The whispering. The rumors. Talk about how she behaved as a slob or as a man, inappropriately for a girl of her age and her status, running amok unchecked with trousers beneath her skirts, white fabric constantly torn and stained by grass and earth in her maiden days. About how she was an ugly and undesirable thing who enjoyed playing in the dirt more than sitting in the sterile and clean indoors with a needle in hand, who was all plain and dressed in white like a young child rather than layered in colors and gemstones to attract the eyes of men. About how she would certainly never marry, because who would want a woman who was so untamed and so uncontrolled, who behaved more like to her brothers and male cousins than a proper lady. Even after thousands of years, even after she had moved over the hurdle of desiring approval of her fellow females for the sake of fitting in and having companionship and understanding—certainly, she had learned that she needed not some empty-headed ninnies as those jealous and cold-hearted girls to find that precious regard that she could absorb in the presence of other strong-minded and wild-hearted women and men—there was still the memory of how it had felt. Of how it had left her heart sinking and her eyes downcast to be so rejected by her own gender, to be looked upon by their eyes with scorn, the young and inexperienced slip of a girl in her spirit wondering…

This reminded her all too sharply of that unspoken oppression of expectations and requirements and stresses enforced by her own gender in silent cruelty. By women going about tearing into their fellow females like scavenging birds to raise their own self-esteem, to make themselves seem and feel greater in the face of their own doubt. That was all that behavior was, and she could not allow it to worm its way under her skin as a nibbling parasite, for she was above letting others control her emotions.

And, yet, in the here and now, were these maiar not greater than her? Were they not, in all ways, superior beings?

“Look not so distressed,” Tyelkormo said quietly, looking from the giggling female maiar in the distance, twirling flowers about their fingers as they trilled and sang, to Írissë’s face, where he must have seen something of her trepidation and hesitance. Of course, he read her like an open book, and she was grateful that he did not keep the knowledge of her disconcertion to use against her later as he might have done for anyone else. Instead, he explained in a murmur, “They do not speak anything derogatory. If anything, they are, for the most part, curious about your skin. And your hair as well.”

“My skin and hair?” She felt at a loss. Like most of her family members, she was porcelain-skinned and dark-haired. Nothing special or unique at all for one of Noldorin descent. Her only truly distinguishing feature were her eyes, so pale a blue they almost brushed upon white. Compliments about their exotic hue, so light but ringed with inky black lashes, became old and overused after millennia of hearing them again and again from the lips of different men trying their hand at flattery.

“That was what they always found most interesting about me,” Tyelkormo answered, shrugging his shoulders with a lopsided smirk. His eyes lingering upon the strange maiar for but a moment, turning back to her even as the flower creatures laughed and waved their elegant hands through the air, sprouting from their palms little showers of petals that scattered upon the wind. “They think you look made of snow and ink. It is coloring they see seldom in their own brethren.”

Now that she truly gave it thought, she looked around, and she could see that none of the maiar were actually wearing bodies with the typical peachy to alabaster white tones of smooth hairlessness that were universal in the Eldar. There was deep and bold or wild and bright colors, fur or feathers or strange plantlike smoothness and shimmer lined with veins, abstract designs as the coloring of woodland creatures or insects or birds, but nothing so plain or smooth or soft as an elf. She could not find a single one who simply carried a “natural” skin tone.

Even the most “elven” in appearance—Oromë himself—did not have what Írissë would have considered typical coloring. Occasionally, one might see a mariner or dockworker whose skin was slightly sun-kissed, just a bit more golden-brown than what was considered to be proper—and certainly, it was a color associated with the lower class, with laborers who spent time working outdoors—but none with such a deeply burnished brownness. To her eyes, it was both lovely but also very foreign.

Speaking of, the vala seemed to be deliberately ignoring the conversation passing quietly between her and Tyelkormo, walking a few paces ahead and giving them the illusion of privacy, though he must have heard the words exchanged between them as he wove their small party through the complicated network of twists and turns. How they had not get gotten lost within this labyrinth of a thousand sweet smells and a million exotic blooms, she knew not.

Though they might have seemed to have privacy, she knew better than to think that no one was listening. In all likelihood, every ear within a hundred yards was eagerly eavesdropping upon every word that departed the lips of the two elven guests. So, she did rather know that she did not want to ask Tyelkormo if any of the maiar they had passed by had been his lovers or if he had a particular preference for their very exotic, even upsetting, physiques or coloring over that of his own people. Not until they had some more substantial privacy.

Instead, she said, “Did they think the same of you? You are paler still than I.”

To which her lover let out a little chortle. “They asked me if my mother had bathed me in the dew of Telperion as a babe. They seemed to think it was the reason my hair was so pale and that my eyes were silver-gray.”

And she had to giggle a little at that. Certainly, Tyelkormo did not carry the distinctive dark hair of the typical noldo—his father had been black-haired and his mother red-haired, and he had somehow come out so pale a blond that his hair ran silver but for a faint darkness at the roots—but that was not really how babies worked, and she could not help but imagine the ridiculousness of the image spawned in the back of her mind at what life would be like if it _did_ work as such. “If our people could have dyed their children silver or gold with the dew or sap of the Two Trees, how many silver and gold people do you think would be running about all across Valinórë now?” And the pair shared a bit of a laugh, because the Noldor were as ostentatious as the Eldar could get—worse, in many ways, than even the Vanyar managed with their golden curls and their holier-than-thou-art attitudes—and there would certainly have been many happy to have a gilded or argent child to match their obsession with bejeweled beauty and craftsmanship of metals and stones. It would not even have been that out of place in a city as decadent as the richer residential areas of Tirion could be.

It was then that Oromë came to a halt seemingly in the middle of an empty clearing, and Írissë anxiously looked about the seemingly endless expanse of flowers, searching for some sign of that which had brought him to still. The vala was smiling fondly, his golden-ringed eyes narrowing as little wrinkles folded at the corners of his eyes.

What he said was in the language of the Valar, its syllables all jagged, but she could still hear the affection within the timbre.

“Ever the charmer,” a new voice said, and Írissë was not quite certain what she saw or did not see, if the Lady Vána grew from the earth or melted from the flowers or spun herself into existence. Just that she was tiny with hair of spun gold—they had joked earlier of babies dipped in the sap of Laurelin, but Vána’s hair burned with that vibrant golden flame, gleaming like pure sunlight and almost as blinding—sunny skin with a deep earthen undertone and glistening veins just beneath the surface, and eyes that contained every shade of green Írissë had ever known beneath a net of shimmering lashes.

The pair of Valar exchanged an affectionate nuzzle, eyes fluttering shut as their brows met, his dark head bowed and her upon her tiny tiptoes.

And then they pulled apart, and Vána looked at the visitors.

“Long has it been, Tyelkormo,” she greeted, coming forth like a wave of light and nearly sending Írissë reeling back. But she broke upon them like a soft, warm breeze, her hair slipping against their skin in waves of heat. The Fëanárion seemed unbothered by it all, standing firm in the face of such otherworldly splendor, allowing the tiny valië to grasp his hands in her own.

“I thought you would be angry with me,” he admitted. The tone he used was full of playful snark, almost teasing, but Írissë could see in his eyes—in the way they refused to meet Vána’s directly and looked instead just over her shoulder—that he meant what he said and was stricken with shame. He had feared (more than he feared almost anything, she knew, because there was very little that Tyelkormo Fëanárion feared) that he would be turned away.

The valië’s lips fluttered into a small, saddened smile. “For a while, perhaps,” she admitted, reaching up then to play with one of the loose silver wisps of hair tickling at the sharp line of his cheekbone, “But anger does not last for eternity.”

“Laurelin was dear to you.”

The golden hair burned brighter for but a moment, pulsing as if in thought. “She was. But it was not the fault of the Noldor—neither you nor Fëanáro nor any other of the Eruhíni—that the Two Trees were destroyed. And it was not your fault that your father refused to lend aid in resurrecting their glory, that he was unwilling to part with the Silmarilli for the betterment of all, or that my brethren requested them so cruelly and inconsiderately, dismissive of his grief and pain and hardship, instead of approaching with compassion. All ended as was foretold before the beginning of Time, and, with that, I am satisfied.”

Írissë looked back and forth between the two curiously.

Only vaguely did she understand. It was written that the Silmarilli could have, with the golden and silver light of Laurelin and Telperion bound within their everlasting and hallowed white facets, perhaps have brought the Two Trees back to life. Always, though, had Írissë assumed this to be an exaggeration, a last trifling hope against hope that what was lost could be brought back or healed to its former beauty, and she did not believe that the Silmarilli could have rebirthed Valinórë as it had been in the Years of the Trees. The power of those three stones could not do what the Valar and all their strength could not, even if Fëanáro had agreed to part with them and allowed their use for such a purpose.

Which, of course, he had not.

_If they had reclaimed the three Silmarilli and returned to Valinórë alive, would the brothers have given those stones into the keeping of the Valar?_

Staring at her lover’s profile—at the sharpness of his cheekbone and the downward slant of his brow and the small, niggling frown that was beating back his ever-present shark-like smirk—she wondered about the sons. Tyelkormo had died long before the last two Silmarilli had been reclaimed by his older brothers, but Nelyafinwë and Kanafinwë had not kept the stones for themselves. Both, separately and of their own accord, had cast their treasures aside, one to the fiery breast of the earth where no mortal creatures could hope to reach and one into the black depths of the ocean until it disappeared into shadow. Had Tyelkormo been alive, had he been there, would he have…?

But that truly did not bear thinking upon. It was all in the past now.

Carefully, she slipped her arm through his, entangling them at the elbow. At her slightest movement of comfort, Vána’s eyes shifted from Tyelkormo to her, and she felt the weight of them suddenly upon her the same way she had felt Oromë’s glance, piercing and unnerving.

Flowers bloomed along the pale seams of Vána’s skin. “And you have brought back with you a beautiful female,” the vala said, smile going from sad and wistful to large and bright as her hand reached out to stroke Írissë’s cheek, as little white flowers of jasmine bloomed from her fingertips when they brushed though Írissë’s dark hair, still bound up in braids. The tiny flowers crowned the Noldorin woman’s head, and the feeling of them weaving through her tresses was intensely disconcerting. “I can see that you hold her dear, or you would not have led her here.”

At that, Írissë felt a hint of embarrassment tinting her cheeks pink alongside the rush of pleasure at the thought that Tyelkormo might hold something more than lust for her in his breast, that he might be genuinely fond of her and think her special. If nothing else, that regard gave the hope sitting nestled in the gentle cradle of her silly heart a boost, building and growing the little bud further and further with nourishment until it felt almost ready to blossom in truth.

“This is Írissë,” her lover introduced, tugging her just a bit further forward by their joined arms, “Of the House of Finwë.”

“You are beautiful, one made from Isillissë.” Warm fingers brushed against her face, and Írissë felt a little stricken and breathless. “Come. Let us find you some proper clothes. I see that Tyelkormo here has run yours ragged leading you through the wilderness.”

Red struck Írissë’s cheeks then. She frowned. “He did not do anything to my clothes that I did not allow, I assure y—”

“Peace,” the valië interrupted, laughing as she grasped Írissë’s free hand and tugged her away with a kiss pressed against her knuckles. The Noldorin Princess floundered. “It was meant in jest. I am certain he has treated you very well.”

The force of that grip was inexorable. Not jerking or jolting or forcing but drawing her forth. Glancing over her shoulder, Írissë could see that her lover was watching, and he inclined his head with an amused smirk. A silent _go ahead_ and _I will be waiting._

She returned the smile.

And, if the two watching Valar saw it, both pretended at seeing nothing of the quiet intimacy between the pair. “Let us have a bath to rid us of the dust and sweat of our daily toil,” the valië said then, drawing forth the Noldorin woman’s eyes, “And then we ladies can chat and soften our skin with oil and dress in peace while the hunters finish preparations for the feasting.”

Írissë had half a mind to resist doing anything that might be considered “womanly”—she was not some sort of delicate glass bauble that needed to be coddled and cradled and handled with care, and she had had worse sweat and dirt than the little which stained her skin and clothing in the last three days since she and Tyelkormo had bathed together in a river beyond the borders of the Woods—but heated water and scented oil and fresh clothing did sound rather pleasant. And, perhaps, there was something sweet in the idea of getting all cleaned and prettied up just so that Tyelkormo’s eyes would be riveted upon her form when she returned all clothed in pristine silver and white for the first time in weeks. No sweat stains from travel, no mud stains from romping through ponds, no grass stains from lovemaking half-dressed in clearings beneath the stars.

She wanted him to have eyes for only her.

With the added benefit of not smelling so sour. Even she could admit that, after a few days without, she did not exactly smell as pleasant as the flowers that bloomed and danced across every inch of the Gardens.

“Okay,” she agreed quietly.

And, to that, Lady Vána almost seemed to jump in excitement, her spring and summer and evergreen eyes swirling dizzyingly as her hands clapped together in giddy joy. “It has been such a long time since I heard tell of the outside from the lips of an Eruhína, lissë! You have come from Tirion, have you not? Tell me of the happenings there!” the valië demanded, linking their arms and pulling her along. Or, really, it felt as though Írissë allowed herself to be pulled along—exchanging one last amused glance over her shoulder with Tyelkormo as she went—because the form Vána had chosen was so tiny and so slender, as willowy and lanky as any fledgling elf on the cusp of womanhood, that she doubted someone this size could pull her anywhere without her compliance.

“Well, I am not so certain how much there is to tell,” she began, turning her head back to face those laughing eyes, still flushed beneath their knowing gaze. “I suppose the most talked about happening would be the Midsummer Festival, or that would be my guess. It was the first time the Fëanárioni appeared in public at a royal event since their rebirth, and the first time anyone beyond the family laid eyes upon Nelyafinwë Fëanárion’s new wife.”

“Oh, we heard about her, the Telerin Princess,” Vána exclaimed. “Tell me about her. She must be something special to have captured the eye of a Fëanárion. As you are.”

_I am nothing compared with you. Compared with anyone in this place._

Írissë could not stop herself from thinking it even as a helpless and silly smile adorned her lips. “Well, I barely spoke to her, but Istelindë certainly is something else. A month after her sudden elopement with Nelyafinwë, they appeared at the palace…”

And, so, the story began.

And, so, it would end with Írissë here, in this strange and wonderous place.

But there were hours and hours between. And time seemed to flow strange about her as she was pulled under and away.

\---

“You have chosen well.”

Turkafinwë had followed his mentor away from the Gardens, falling back into the bizarrely soothing rhythm of life within the Woods easily, as ducks took to water, so the saying went. Though it had been centuries—nay, millennia—since he had set foot within this place, it still felt as natural as breathing to take up his place as a hunter at Oromë’s side.

Now, he looked to the vala. “I may have chosen her, but she has not chosen me.”

“Has she not?”

It was the same thing, again and again, which crossed his mind whenever he felt himself slip into the heady trap of imagining that Írissë was his and he was hers, whether it be as a wedded pair or even as long-term partners. All day, he had been thinking about it, and he knew better than to get ahead of himself out of eagerness or some sense of his own importance in the eyes of his lover. He knew better than to assume he knew best, to take away her choice in these matters, to invalidate her desires by prioritizing his own. It had him even now frowning, hesitating, his steps diffident and light upon the earth and his arms crossed over his chest protectively, shielding himself from a blow he did not think any physical barrier would deflect.

“Her father wishes for her to marry,” he said lightly, playing at nonchalance he most certainly did not feel in the twist of his innards. “If we go back to Tirion, he will demand it in order to salvage her reputation at Court. Marriage to me. Or to someone else. It is the way of our people. But she does not wish to marry again.”

And he did not want to force her hand.

The vala let out a thoughtful sound. “That does not seem to have stopped you from your liaison in the least.”

To which Turkafinwë lightly sputtered, trying to keep the smile off his face. “Well, being lovers and being legally wed are two very different things. For one, we are hardly bound to one another with any permanence as we are now, and, for another, she is no better at choosing a single partner and staying true than I.”

“You say that, yet your eyes have not strayed, though I know you have seen more than one lover here already,” the vala countered with a light chuckle. “So certain, you are, that your enchantment with one another will fade.”

“It always does,” the elf insisted half-heartedly.

Of course, the part he did _not_ say was that there was usually very little enchantment in such couplings to begin with. Many other things incited most of his singular nights of pleasure. A little bit of frustration. A little bit of attraction. A great deal of need. But enchantment? Enthrallment? Love?

He thought of his first lover. Young, inexperienced Turkafinwë who had never done more than speak with a lady at a safe and proper distance—and poorly at that, for he had never exactly been what most would consider a charming conversationalist, and his allure was of a more dangerous sort that was taboo and unknown to young women of Court in the long-past days of peace—had stumbled into the midst of many curious and ancient beings more than happy to show him the way through the confusing tangle of corporeal and fantastical urges. She—for the form she had taken with him was female with anatomy familiar to his species—had been something very beautiful and very unique to his inexperienced mind, skin so deep a brown it was nearly black beneath his pale fingertips as she guided him, as he felt her spirit rush over his own in blinding flashes. Her eyes had been dark but surrounded by gold and yellow blossoms, and her lips had been stained such a vibrant and entrancing pink as they kissed him, and she had engulfed him whole in her body and in her spirit and left him dazed.

Passion, certainly there had been that. Days and days of wild copulation in the Gardens, upon grassy hills, betwixt the wildflowers, in the shade of willow trees by the water, beneath the vast expanse of the stars. There had been that, too. But, by the fourth day, he lay in her arms and felt cold to her touch, his body humming with satiation and his mind grumbling in annoyed protest as her lips tried to spark his body to life again.

Amiably had they parted when the heat had fizzled out. Even as he had walked by her earlier this day—recognizing her in part by the similarity of the raiment she now donned in deep brown and golden yellow, but for the most part because it was difficult to forget a spirit with whom one had melded so closely and intimately—there had been no thought of her beyond that recognition. They were acquaintances more so than friends. Certainly, they were not permanent lovers with an unspoken agreement of any sort, though she might be willing to lay with him again in the way of the Eruhíni if he so propositioned.

No _love_ lay between them. Of course not.

Not with his first lover, nor even second or third or fourth—all Maiarin kin and servants of Vána or Oromë with whom he had shared meals and baths and successful hunts and satisfying, quiet evenings but, also, with whom he had slowly drifted away and parted on quietly friendly terms—did he feel anything that resembled what he thought he might be feeling now when he thought of Írissë. That unmistakable though unfamiliar magnetic pull, an urge to turn on his heels and go back with swift steps, to trail after her and never lose sight of the shape of pale blue eyes or the deep cranberry stain upon her kiss-swollen lips or the way she held her back straight and tall with pride. Even now, he felt it, and it had nothing at all to do with lust.

“Maybe not this time,” Oromë answered, giving him a hearty pat on his shoulder, hard and heavy enough to almost send the elf—who was, by no means, small or weak in stature for one of his kin—toppling forward and face-first into the ground. It would not have been the first time, Turkafinwë thought wryly, remembering his early days within the Woods, an unsuspecting and naïve young man, as he met those golden-hazel eyes. “Come, meldo, and let us go to the hunters while Vána has her fun. I know that you have little in the way of skills when it comes to the preparation of meat and produce, but, at the very least, you can keep the dogs company while they whine and beg for scraps at the stewpot.”

“Are you calling me a dog?” he asked with a smirk, ignoring the sharp pang that wracked through his bones at the mention of hunting hounds.

“Not at all,” the vala teased, “Only that you have the approximate taste of one when it comes to how you eat your meat.”

_Well, he is not wrong…_

Laughingly, he agreed.

\---

What ensued was very strange.

It was not that Írissë had never bathed in a group before, though it had been a rather rare happening, as elves bathed only with their own gender (unless romantically involved) and she had barely one female friend to her name, let alone enough to fill a large tub. Besides that, the Noldor did not keep baths sized large enough to fit a dozen or more women all at once. The amount of heated water necessary for such a thing made the task of even preparing such a bath rather monumental and hardly worth the excessive amount of effort.

But she was currently wrinkling like a prune within the steaming confines of a bath that easily and comfortably housed well over a dozen splashing and chit-chatting females, including herself and Lady Vána. Almost self-consciously—knowing that many eyes were upon her nakedness but trying to remember that they stared not out of hate or derision—she rinsed bubbles from her skin and began to layer jasmine oil upon her whiteness, rubbing it in with slow strokes.

“And so,” she was explaining to the quietly listening valië, “Tyelkormo said that he departed to find me in the wilderness. Not but a day later, I heard tell of a follower from the words of the trees, and he and I had a rather merry chase through the forest.” Her cheeks filled out with a little color, thinking about that. A merry chase indeed! She had spent the entirety of that afternoon with her thighs damp with her need and lust burning a hole through her lower belly as she waited for her lover to hunt her, then give chase and catch her, throwing her down into the grass and—

“A-and,” she stuttered, “We spent a rather pleasant evening together afterwards.” She glanced at Vána, uncertain whether or not she was meant to speak of intercourse freely in the presence of one so vaunted as one of the Valier. Had it been Lindalórë, she would have very descriptively told of how much she had enjoyed being bruised and manhandled and grabbed and pounded until her entire lower body ached, of how many times they had made love that night in the grass until they both collapsed in exhaustion and laughter, but…

“Well,” said one of the listening maiar, sidling close, “If you ever tire of pleasant nights with Tyelkormo, you could always join us in play.”

Said maia was lavender-skinned and smelled just as lovely as the herb with which she shared a shade, her lips a few shades darker and her eyes large and glowing amber-yellow. A little shocked, Írissë felt a helpless giggle rise to her lips, which she covered with her palm, as all the maiar around shared in their companion’s eagerness in their bell-like voices. Vána, laughing as well, splashed at them.

Írissë was a little shocked. This maia was very clearly donning a female form and still suggested that they might make love-play. Such things were not entirely unheard of amongst the Eruhíni, but she could not deny that they were not spoken of lightly or publicly, and certainly they were not encouraged or considered acceptable behavior amongst the elite. Yet, the Princess also found herself a little pleased and a little curious. Not because she was necessarily interested in seeking partners beyond her current lover, but because she could see the chorus of nods and smiles about the baths, and it helped her feel less like the staring was malicious and jealous and more that it was admiring or even lust-bearing.

She was not even certain of the Ainur felt lust the way the Eruhíni felt it, or if they did such things purely out of enjoyment, or if they had some other motivation entirely. What strangeness this was indeed!

“Ah, maidens, leave Írissë to her lover,” the valië said then. “I think she has rather captured Tyelkormo’s eye. Let them have their time together!”

“I just thought she ought know,” the lavender maia responded cheekily.

Finishing up with her oiling, spreading the warm liquid between her toes, Írissë felt as though she glistened and glimmered from the top of her head to the soles of her feet. Seeing that she was finished, Vána rose from the steaming water as well. The elven woman nearly protested aloud as _one of the Valar_ moved to start braiding her damp hair, spreading oil through every inch of black locks as well. “My Lady, truly, you need not—!”

But others of the maiar were joining her, and Írissë was left once more feeling a little heated under her skin and wondering what exactly this place was that the hostess would braid the hair of the guests with her own bare hands as though it were a normal thing to do.

It was nice, though. Very nice. And, apparently, not so strange at all, for the maiar about were also braiding their lady’s hair and each other’s hair. Helplessly, Írissë found her fingers interlaced with long, damp locks of cornflower blue, and she started to braid the hair deftly without thought to her actions, combing through the smooth tresses with her fingertips, wondering at their softness and tugging gently at any lingering knots.

Having been soothed once more, she continued. “Tyelkormo and I did not know to where we planned to go, so he suggested we might come here. Even though he was hesitant of our welcome. Thus, we have been traveling now for many days until we arrived here.”

“And having a very pleasant time in one another’s company as well,” Vána presumed, fingertips brushing against Írissë’s bare shoulder. “You seem very happy when you speak of him, lissë. Perhaps I encounter elves seldom, for it has been long since any of the Eldar ventured amongst my Gardens in search of wisdom or learning, but I know enough to see that you enjoy his company very much, and not just his sexual prowess.”

It was true, Írissë was coming to realize. “I suppose that is so, my Lady. Still, enjoyment of another’s company is all well and good. But forever? I am not so certain!”

Though she grew more and more certain of it by the day, Írissë was wary of her own feelings on such matters. There were days when being in Tyelkormo’s presence felt like flying, moments when she thought she could stare at him forever, but, also, days when she wondered if she were not fooling herself into false belief out of wistfulness or hopefulness. A tangled web of memories surged forth to the surface—of her father demanding that she wed, of Lindalórë suggesting her cousin as a candidate, of Tyelkormo telling her he would stay with her in Tirion if she desired to go back—and he wondered if she was not convincing herself that marriage was necessary rather than falling into it naturally through love and devotion.

After all, the last time, things had not gone so well.

The last time, she had fallen swiftly into lust and married Eöl sometime later because it seemed the logical thing to do with a man she mated with exclusively. It had been very alike to what was happening now, those early days and years of her marriage to the dark elf, and yet, also, as different as night and day. Feelings were born between her and Eöl eventually, slow and steady rather than fast and wild as their lust. Simple actions, kissing on the cheeks and holding hands in the woods and quiet hugs and pleasant evenings more of conversation than of sex, slowly wormed their way under her skin and dug down deep. Those had all come later, sneaking up on Írissë like thieves in the night, stealing her heart and giving it away right beneath her nose.

But there had been warning signs as well.

 _“No, you cannot leave,”_ he would tell her. And, though his words were playful in her ear as he nipped at the lobe, she could hear the hard undertone, unyielding and firm, as he denied her agency to come and go as she pleased. _“You are my wife, and I would have you here with me.”_

 _“It is too dangerous,”_ he would then say when she wanted to accompany him to the mountains as a compromise, to leave the house and the forest for _just a few days_ to combat her boredom and the antsy feeling of being bound and restricted. _“I would not subject you to any danger, melethril.”_

 _“Your kin abandoned you,”_ he would scoff when she expressed her desire to venture out and visit her cousins. And his nose would crinkle as he wrapped his powerful arms around her waist, as he hugged her to his chest and nuzzled at the side of her head. _“They care little for your safety and wellbeing. Why would you prefer their company to mine?”_

In retrospect, in those early days of starry eyes and more mating than speaking, Írissë had missed all the signs that, later, would become the downfall of her marriage. She had missed the possessive behavior, thinking it a bit obnoxious but mostly harmless and funny. She had missed the isolation, thinking that her husband was simply overprotective of his wife, uncertain but wondering if he had lost family before and was left anxious to see his precious ones safe. She had missed the derision with which he spoke of her kin, not realizing until much later—until he banned her from speaking her native tongue, until he had forbidden her to tell stories of her homeland and her family to her own child, until he had demanded she stop using the amilessë she had given her little Lómion because it was Quenya and therefore as terrible as a curse—that he sought to cut her off entirely and hold her captive.

That was not to say she thought he had not loved her at all as a husband ought to love his wife, that she thought he had no care for her in his prickly heart. Only that, perhaps, he loved the idea of having her like a trinket to soothe his loneliness (feared the idea of losing her to her wanderlust and her adventurous spirit and her high-elven kin) more than he loved the idea of her happiness at his side. In the end, that had been their undoing.

Because she had longed to escape the cruel cage he had built around her and her life more than she had been desperate to stay by his side and keep his love. She had chosen the freedom of her and her son over the love she held for her husband. And, when it had all ended terribly, part of her had wondered if he was not right to fear her family and her people for their uncontrolled retribution, for their revenge-stricken and bitter spirits of fire and ice and ash. Part of her had wondered what would become of her child now that he had been set free and then abandoned without guidance.

With a sour taste in her mouth, she cut off that flow of thought.

All she knew was that, had she been a little wiser and a little more hesitant to leap forward over that edge and into commitment, perhaps none of those terrible things would have come to take place. Perhaps, if she had just been paying attention…

And now, here she was, at the very beginning again. Falling in love.

Tyelkormo did not show those same signs which she associated with Eöl’s later aggressively restrictive behaviors. He did not demand she remain separated from her family no matter that there was clearly no friendship or kinship between him and her father and brothers. He did not tell her where to go and demand that she obey his word as law, instead asking her if she was willing and waiting in silence for her answer rather than cajoling her into agreement. He did not grab her without a word and hold her close and demand that she look upon no one else, even if a tiny part of her perhaps wished that he _would_ if only so that she knew that his eyes were drawn to her and only her, that he wanted her above all others and did not want to share.

But was she missing other signs? Was she being blind once more, not seeing something concerning in his behavior because she did not _want_ to see anything untoward?

“Well,” she said, trying to cover her anxiety with a bright voice, “We will not be spending quite as much time together now, I suspect. Maybe the interest will wane more quickly if we are not bedded down together.”

The hands in her hair, which had been soothingly combing and braiding whilst she sat in silent thought for long moments, paused in their doings. “Why would you not be bedded down with Tyelkormo?” Lady Vána sounded genuinely confused at her words. “We would not keep you apart intentionally if you do not desire it to be so.”

Írissë actually turned to look at the valië, stunned. “Pardon me?”

In no elven society—not even the slightly laxer and touch-friendly kin of the Teleri—was it allowed, let alone _encouraged,_ for unmarried lovers to sleep abed together. Almost could she not believe what she was hearing!

“Well, if you wish to be separate, we can have another place prepared,” Vána said then, “For we had assumed you would share and prepared only one space. Were we wrong to assume? Should I have another bed prepared for tonight?”

If Írissë had so much as a shred of propriety in her spirit, she would have agreed to that proposition on the spot. If she slept abed with Tyelkormo with _so many_ knowing witnesses, eventually it would spread all about that they were sharing a bed like a husband and wife, not just having half-hidden romps in the fields and playful meetings at the river. If anyone in Tirion ever heard about it, ever found out…

 _They already knew you were lovers,_ her mind insisted stubbornly. _They already knew that you were having relations, so what does it matter now?_

“No,” she said, “One room sounds lovely. It was just unexpected. That is not how the Eldar would do the guest arrangements, that is all. I was surprised.”

“Ah, lissë,” Vána said to her, kissing her cheek, “Oromë and I—our people—we are not so restrictive as some. Nor so judgmental. To our eyes, you and Tyelkormo are happy with one another, and we see no reason that should not be encouraged.”

“But the laws… the divine ruling of the Valar…” Írissë felt a frown cross her mouth.

Ever had the Valar been strict proponents of marriage. Of a single marriage to the same person for all eternity. It was no secret that, though they had not _stopped_ Finwë from remarrying, they had been _very disapproving_ of such flouting of the unspoken rules as laid out by their strict codes of moral behavior.

But Vána let out a little scoff. “Just because we are divine beings does not mean all of the Ainur agree on what constitutes proper behavior,” she answered, tying off the braid at the end of Írissë’s long, dark hair and then coiling it upwards into a knot. “Manwë and Námo are quite disapproving and strict, but not all of us are so stringent or unforgiving and unbending in our minding of the rules. So far as I can see, restricting you from your beloved would do the _opposite_ of encourage you to bind yourselves to each other, so there is no purpose to it. Especially given that it would not deter either of you from continuing on mating besides.”

Írissë was not quite certain whether she should feel overwhelming relief that she was not about to be cut off from the only familiar thing in this entire bizarre place or if she should feel mildly offended that it was the goal of the valië to encourage her to marry just like everyone else. But, at the very least, the encouragement was not forceful or demanding.

She supposed she could live with that.

“My thanks, then, my Lady,” she whispered.

“Now then,” the valië said, standing and helping Írissë to her full height (half-a-head taller than the tiny but impossibly powerful being), “Let us see about finding you something lovely to wear tonight. I have it on good faith that you prefer white.”

“Greatly,” Írissë agreed.

Some of the maiar let out little dismayed groans, but the valië smiled and patted her cheek, somehow making her feel incredibly young, like a girl going through her first courtship with all her many female cousins and aunts (perhaps even with her mother) all eagerly preparing her to go out and strike a blow to her suitor’s heart and knees. It was something that Írissë had never, in truth, experienced at all, for her marriage had had no great public courtship, no fancy gowns and parties, no cooing relatives to fawn over the sweetness of the couple.

It was strange, yes. But, like many of the other strange things here, it was also sweet.

And Írissë thought she could get used to that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:
> 
> maiar (Q, p) = group of lesser angelic beings  
> Eldar (Q, p) = people of the stars (high-elves)  
> Anar (Q) = the Sun  
> vala (Q, s) = one of the Valar  
> noldo (Q, s) = one of the Noldor  
> valië (Q, s) = one of the Valier (f. vala)  
> Eruhíni (Q, p) = children of Eru  
> Silmarilli (Q, p) = the Silmarils  
> Isillissë (Q) = moon-sweetness, made-up name for Jasmine flower  
> lissë (Q) = sweet (one), sweetness  
> Fëanárioni (Q, p) = sons of Fëanáro  
> meldo (Q) = friend  
> Valier (Q, p) = female Valar  
> maia (Q, s) = one of the Maiar  
> Ainur (Q, p) = angelic beings/angels  
> melethril (S) = f. lover  
> amilessë (Q) = mother-name
> 
> \---
> 
> Flower symbolism:
> 
> Jasmine = beauty, sensuality, abundance, hope, victory, congratulations, associated with the moon


	70. I See Me Through Your Eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The end of the first night in the Woods of Oromë...
> 
> Alternately: Of Cute Dogs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: murder/betrayal mentioned, kinslaying mentioned, cute dogs, flirting, thoughts of sex, kissing and cuddling, past spousal abuse (emotional), past uxoricide, drunkenness
> 
> Hi there! A couple of notes for today! More fluff (for now) with the appearance of a dog. MatsumotoSensei's art ruined me forever and so I think of Huan as being an absolutely giant borzoi with the ridiculous curly tail. Just so you all know. There's also some of Aredhel thinking back on her marriage, including the less nice parts of it that could be considered spousal abuse, so read with care. No beating/rape, but still some unpleasantness.
> 
> Maedhros = Maitimo = Nelyafinwë = Nelyo = Russandol  
> Maglor = Makalaurë = Kanafinwë = Káno  
> Celegorm = Tyelkormo = Tyelko = Turkafinwë = Turko  
> Caranthir = Carnistir = Morifinwë = Moryo  
> Curufin = Atarinkë = Curufinwë = Curvo  
> Amrod = Ambarussa = Pityafinwë = Pityo = Minyarussa  
> Amras = Umbarto = Telufinwë = Telvo = Atyarussa  
> Aredhel = Írissë  
> Turgon = Turukáno

_Anarya, 56 Lairë (8 July)_

\---

This was a bad idea.

The smell of food sat heavy and rich in his nose and drifted over his tongue, leaving him faintly salivating for as taste of the roasting meat with the herbal seasoning. The aromatic smoke drifted upwards towards the sky in a cloying spiral, dark against the rainbow of orange and pink and violet that stained their way across the heavens as Anar began her descent through the Doors of Night and plunged the world into darkness.

Sitting as he was nearby, Turkafinwë felt the heat of the flame combatting the oncoming nighttime chill, blinked his eyes against the swirl of smoke about his face driving back the onslaught of midges, and watched in silence as the maiar went about preparations with their excited voices echoing up through the canopies overhead.

He tried to keep his eyes up. Towards the sky and the trees. Towards the maiar and their roasting meet and their glowing fire. Just not down at the ground.

At his feet, where a whining dog heeled, looking up at him with big, pleading eyes.

This was a _very_ bad idea.

It really was not a surprise that Oromë still kept hunting hounds, at least a half-dozen different types. And, for the most part, Turkafinwë would have been entirely unmoved (that was a lie, read: he was never entirely unmoved) by the big-eyed beggars, all too used to such begging behavior. He had dealt with thousands of pleading dogs in his time as a hunter, both within the Woods of Oromë and without.

(He was absolutely not thinking of one particular big-eyed hound whining and circling about, eyeing up his evening meal or his sizzling breakfast. Absolutely not. Not the big blue eyes, the long white face, the pale, silky fur, or the curling tail.)

It was just that this particular one…

He looked. Of course, he did.

With those huge, sad brown eyes and that long, slender face, all dressed up in long, pale fur with a sweeping, bushy tail that ended in a little curl, its image struck a chord in his heart that he had hoped to keep untouched for the rest of time. Turkafinwë stared down at the dog unblinkingly, halfway to allowing a sigh to leave his lips. Whimpering, the large hunting dog scooched just a little closer, tail swishing. Those huge eyes flicked across his face searchingly, waiting and watching for any sign of his façade cracking.

“You will not be getting any food from me,” he muttered, raising a hand in surrender.

With an excited leap, the hound came to his side, allowing him to scratch it—he gave it a glance with a sideways tilt of his head—her behind her ear as she eagerly nosed at his leg. Beneath his fingers, her hair was silky-smooth, her warmth feeling painfully familiar. Even though she was quite a bit smaller than Huan had been, he still felt a crooked smile (bittersweet and wistful) cross his features as the hound hoisted her head right up on top of his thigh, enjoying the personal attention.

“You are a rather lovely girl, are you not?” he asked, scratching under her chin, watching as her tail began to wave back and forth in delight.

“Her name is Lelya.” At the sound of that voice, Turkafinwë turned and looked up at Oromë, who was looking back down at the elf and the dog with a fond little grin curling at his lips, leaving little wrinkles at the corners.

“Fitting,” Turkafinwë replied, looking back down at the dog with her big, glittering brown eyes, bred to race as far and fast as she could in pursuit of her prey. Despite being a creature whose every muscle and sinew was made to optimize and streamline the hunt, he could not imagine that Lelya had so much as a malicious bone in her body, just that she followed her instincts as truly as any hound. He could not deny that he had always rather liked dogs more than he had liked other elves, for they were often very honest and very sweet and very loyal. The Eldar were dangerous, lying and scheming and capable of evil as well he knew—he was one of their number, after all, and few were capable of worse evil than he had perpetrated with his own two hands—but dogs only knew the love of their masters and the adrenaline-fueled bliss of the running and hunting. In some ways, Turkafinwë was almost jealous of how simply and blissfully they lived.

Beside him, the log he perched upon creaked, indicating that the vala had sat a foot or so away, still watching the pair.

Turkafinwë felt something hard clog the back of his throat. “Did you know?”

“About Huan?” Oromë’s voice was neither jovial nor scolding, resting somewhere in between the two. Soft and low. Speaking in a tone Turkafinwë had never heard from his own father’s lips. “Of course, I knew that he was something special, and that his destiny laid outside these Woods, but of any of the rest of it no one could make tell. Even we, the Valar, are not prescient to such a degree.”

“And you said nothing.” Turkafinwë did his best not to be sour about the whole of it, to keep the hurt out of his voice and focus instead on the pretty hound with her chin cupped in his palm, letting out little snorts and whines of happiness at getting attention. At the end of the day, he knew that Huan had been his own beast and had made up his own mind, moved by the cause and love of Beren and Lúthien to betray the trust and friendship cultivated with his former master, and Oromë could not be blamed for that.

“It was hardly my place to bar someone from their calling,” the vala said, reaching out to run his long, dark fingers through Lelya’s pale hair, twirling the curly fur about his fingertips. “Huan had chosen you, knowing it was what he needed to do, and so I gave him to you as a gift. And you adored one another right from the start. Perfect companions.”

Of course, they had been. Little had Turkafinwë needed more in those days—as he was preparing to leave the only place that had so far felt like home, planning to return to his brothers and his parents and the horrific weight of princely responsibility he wished he could shuck from his shoulders, realizing he needed to go back (if only for the sake of his mother) after months and months of hiding from reality in the midst of this strange paradise—than a faithful companion who did not mind sharing in unsolicited embraces and who would not share word of it later to ears that would not appreciate the young Prince’s need for such physical comforts. Well could he remember afternoons sitting on the back step—working up the nerve to enter the house after a long day of flouting his father’s desires and orders, knowing he was going to have an enraged Fëanáro screaming in his face for hours on end as a result—and burying his face in the long, silky-soft fur to hide from that spine-chilling reality until his heartbeat stopped its racing terror and swelled instead in foolish bravery. Well could he remember lazy mornings lying under the oak trees on the front lawn, staring up at the sky wondering what it felt like to be a bird, able to fly wherever he wanted whenever he pleased without a golden leash, all the while with a heavy weight lying warm across his belly and the soft pants of his companion filling his ears as his free hand stroked again and again down that long, gentle-eyed face.

For millennia, nowhere had he gone without Huan for a companion, near and far across the entirety of Valinórë and then beyond those borders. Even into Exile. Even through the disgusted and filthy looks his father had cast upon the dog as he panted obediently at Turkafinwë’s feet, splayed across the deck of the swanship that bore them forth. Even through the tumult of sudden battle, ambushes screaming through the trees, enemies attacking only to turn tail and flee as they realized they were about to be torn asunder by his dog’s faithful jaws. Even through the long days of endless travel and too much time to think, playfully racing his brother and his canine companion across the broad and empty plains on horseback as he wildly laughed in joy.

Knowing that all those things—all the comfort given, all the companionship observed, all the loyalty measured in long days by each other’s sides—meant nothing in the face of the _love_ of Beren and Lúthien, it left Turkafinwë wondering if it had not all been a front to begin with. If Huan had even truly been a dog at all, if he had ever loved his ornery and mercurial master in the least bit, or if he had been some sort of maia in disguise, using Turkafinwë to achieve a prophesized goal and nothing more.

The thought made his fingers upon Lelya’s head hesitant. He made to pull away.

“She is not alike to Huan,” Oromë told him, seeing easily the train of his thoughts into distrust. “She is not immortal, only long-lived. No doom or prophecy or other heavy destiny lies over her head, nor any intelligence beyond that, in truth, of a dog.”

Slowly, his fingers returned to scratching behind her ears. A crooning noise rumbled in the back of her throat as she blinked up at her newest friendly ear-scratching companion. Even through the harsh and cold feeling of betrayal ringing through the cage of his ribs, Turkafinwë could not deny her his smile for how pathetic her sad brown eyes looked when he dared for even a moment to cease his attentions.

“And,” the vala added, “She seems to like you.”

“Me, hm?” Turkafinwë snorted. Of course, no one but a dog would love a creature like him. His own kin were properly wary. But dogs loved easily and eagerly and openly.

“Yes, you,” the vala teased, grasping his shoulder and squeezing reassuringly. After a few moments, though, the grip softened, thumb rubbing into his muscle in deep, comforting circles. Glancing over, he could see that Oromë’s smile had dimmed into a straight line, and those ancient eyes were darkened with regret. “For what it is worth, Tyelkormo, I am sorry for what happened. It was never my intention to bring you harm. Nor do I believe that it was Huan’s intention either.”

Looking away, the elf swallowed sharply against the immediate urge to spit and hiss insults in retaliation for such an assertion. Of all the things that the Fëanárioni could not stand, out of all those crimes they could not take lightly, betrayal was one of the most heinous, one of those they punished the most harshly and without impunity. Kinship was hard-won for their brethren, growing up in a household and family riven with constant and tumultuous strife and political conflict, and trust had always been a sparse commodity shared only with those one held closest and dearest. To have given his trust to someone other than Curufinwë—who had, while occasionally keeping things from his gaze in the form of little white lies and omissions, never done anything that the fifth brother did not believe was in the best interest of his brothers and family—and to have had it thrown back in his face as though it were _meaningless_ when there was no greater compliment or gift he could imagine bestowing…

It was hard to swallow. It was hard to think on it objectively. Even now, he was careful of his fingers as they curled in Lelya’s fur, for he did not want them to knot in at the roots of her silken locks and tear them out from the strength of the anger lingering in a fiery haze just below his skin.

 _I know,_ he wished he could say through the blaze. Because part of him knew and understood that Huan had had a duty, a purpose, a mission granted to him by Powers that Turkafinwë could scarcely comprehend, that the hound felt important above all else to fulfill. Because part of him was certain that the betrayal had not been purposefully malicious, and that the friendship he had shared with the strange beast had been true.

But he could not make the words come.

And Oromë, sensing his inner turmoil and confusion, did not push for forgiveness on his behalf or that of the hound in question. Instead, he reached down to pat Lelya on her head as she panted and nuzzled at Turkafinwë’s still and trembling hands. “I think that is enough somber conversation for a single night, do you not agree, meldo? Now, come, dinner has been prepared and is ready for consumption, and you are one of our guests of honor! This is a night of feasting and merriment and frivolity, not sorrow! And we can hardly feast until you and your love have had the first bites!”

“Írissë is not…” His voice dwindled off, for he could not make the words _“is not my love”_ roll off his tongue with any ring of truth in their vibrations. To his awakened eyes, to his somber mind, to his rippling and fiery spirit, she might very well be his love. It was simply that he might not be hers in return.

Golden-ringed eyes sent him a look. “Whatever you say, meldo.”

Turkafinwë mumbled incoherently rather than trying to incite argument as was his usual habit in such situations. He stood to follow and tried to ignore how natural (how pleasant) it felt to have Lelya follow at his heels, to reach down and again trail his fingers through her silken hair and feel a tongue lap at his fingers affectionately, a nose nuzzling its way into his palm and begging for more ear scratches.

It was as he began to gather food into his dish—the roast was a rich golden-brown and buttered, smelling of an herbal blend in which it had been rubbed, and a thick stew was poured over it, filling his senses with savory temptation—that the sound of the approaching maidens of Vána and, presumably, their mistress and female guest, could be heard in the harmonious tones of their sweet voices rising in song before they even came into sight.

His mouth went dry. Because his first thought was for Írissë, even as he stared down at the delicious spread of his plate and added handfuls of berries and freshly-baked slices of buttered bread. He should have been consumed by the hollow ache of hunger panging in his belly. Instead, he was watching out of the corner of his eye as the colorful parade of maidens spilled through the line of trees, trailing flowers in the grass upon their heels and sprouting vining blooms wherever their fingertips brushed. Silently and guiltily was he watching for a splash of pure white amidst the bright and brilliant overtures and the soft and dreamy pastels. For, certainly, Írissë would be dressed all in white.

Stomach doing an odd dance that felt too akin to it tying itself into unpleasant, colic-like knots, he finally dared to turn his head and stare outright.

Clearly, the ladies of Vána had been waiting upon his attention, for they met his gaze and burst into flutters of giggles and half-spoken songs, wrapping around and enfolding upon themselves until they parted down the center of their ranks. It was then that he could make out the white through the sea of color.

Maybe it would have been wise to sit down before looking. Or at least set down his delicious spoils. It took conscious effort not to drop his plate on the ground and give the dogs his rations as an unexpected treat.

Turkafinwë had not exactly attended many weddings. In fact, he could count his wedding attendance on one hand. Curufinwë. Turukáno. Two.

Therefore, he had attended enough weddings to know what a bride looked like.

Traditionally, there was a white dress involved. Of course, Írissë wore white always, and one might have ascertained that she always looked as a bride might, but Turkafinwë would have argued that that was hardly the case. With her tendency to don breeches underneath, not to mention the practical and trim make of most of her gowns worn outside the rigorous oversight of the peahens of Court, Írissë did look pristine and pure, but more as a warrior maiden than a bride on the day of her marriage. Thinking about it now, he tried to pick out what it was about her sight that brought weddings first and foremost to his thoughts, for he could not deny that that was his very first thought as he beheld her standing there, surrounded by the ladies of Vána, pink-cheeked and smiling excitedly.

Lindalórë had married Curufinwë on the beach without a veil or a crown, dressed in a loose and simple gown, hair braided with opalescent shells, shoulders bare to the wind and feet naked in the sand like a creature risen from the waves. It had been almost Telerin in make, practical and quiet and humble but for the ostentatious gift of the necklace made by the hands of Fëanáro that rested elegantly across her throat. On the other hand, Elenwë had had a dress large enough that Turkafinwë had honestly wondered how the tiny vanya could move with so _much_ hanging off her frame, and she had been decorated with golden lining upon every layer of fabric, embroidered into each transparent sheet of white, glittering diamonds on her wrists and throat, and a veil trailing behind that was long enough that it needed to be carried so that it would not drag upon the ground as she trod. Between the two very different weddings, though, he could most certainly remember there being flowers cradled in the bride’s hand or braided into her long hair or elegantly stitched to her white dress, white and soft.

Maybe, he thought dazedly as he stared, it was the flowers. Or maybe it was how they were worn, braided into inky black hair as a crown of white, following the line of her collar sitting low upon the swells of her breasts, easing over her shoulders, draping from her waist and spinning themselves down her skirts, bunched at the hem just above where her feet teasingly poked out from below. But her throat was bare, no jewelry adorning her endless stretch of white skin. Seeing his stare, she gave a little laugh, raising her arms—the vining flowers had wrapped about her wrists and up towards her elbows—and twirled in a circle, revealing a glimpse of her bare feet and ankles in the grass fully to his gaze.

It was foolish, how the heat jumped and kicked in the pit of his belly. He was half-hard and had completely forgotten the food his stomach was pleading desperately for in the face of a much more pressing desire asserting itself farther down.

Color flooded his cheeks, and he was forced to glance away or make it worse.

 _Foolish,_ he could not help but think, looking again because he had not a lick of sense to his name, catching her pale eyes as she came forward in a flourish of creamy white carrying with her the sweetest of scents on the air, _they are just bloody ankles. I saw the whole of her naked this morning!_

But it was different. This was different.

This was in public, and it was all for him. As she came forward and looped her arm through one of his own, he breathed in the soft scent of jasmine, sweet in the air about her form, and the undertone of earthy _her_ that the oil shining upon her skin and the flowers braided into her hair sought to (and failed to) hide. “Well,” she said, leaning in close enough that her warmth brushed all up and down the side of his body, “What do you think? I have not had a chance to wear anything but stained, old, rundown dresses for weeks, so this is rather nice!”

He did his best not to let his eyes slip too far down. Even though, from the corner of his eye, he could see her nipples poking out against the light fabric. If they had been alone, be probably would have run his hand over them, maybe caught one between his fingertips and squeezed just to hear her sharp little gasp.

“You look beautiful.” He said instead, because he did not really know what else to say. Compliments he could have given her in that false and obsequious tone he had once used to flatter and seduce courtly ladies in Nargothrond, to garner favor and access to bedchambers whenever he had an itch to be scratched. But it seemed trite and disrespectful to even imagine saying some of _those sorts_ of things to Írissë, who was beautiful enough that he did not quite have the words to explain to her what he thought. It was not just the way she looked, but the way she looked whilst spinning about like a dancer of the ancient world with her toes in the grass, like something out of a story from the unwritten times before the Two Trees. Not just the way the fabric fell upon her body, but the way she smoothed it with her hands as though she enjoyed the silken feel upon her fingers. Not just how she was so pale, cleaned of all the dirt and sweat of the road with her skin pearlescent and her hair thick and gleaming, but that she was all that and laughing and happier than he had seen her in days or weeks, her smile stretching wide over her face as she came forth and snatched his dumbfounded, idiotic self up like a snowy owl snatches up an unsuspecting bunny.

 _It is not the flowers,_ he thought dumbly, still caught up in his staring. _It is her joy. She is joyous. Like a bride._

“Just beautiful,” she scoffed playfully. And he wondered if she was disappointed by his lack of verbal lyricism, by his unpoetic soul struggling to find words to place upon his tongue.

Before he could think of anything to combat his stumbling tongue, there was the snuffling sound of the dog at his heels and her soft whine as she beheld a new potential friend and ear-scratcher, curly tail waving as she looked up and up with her big brown eyes.

Almost immediately, Írissë melted.

“Oh, hello there!” she cooed, forgetting about her pristine white dress (as she always did in the moment), crouching down to put herself even with the hound, who bounded forth eagerly to smell the newcomer and receive pets and praises. With her hands, Írissë reached out to cup the dog’s face in the cradle of her palms. And then she leaned in close and made a face that was simultaneously ridiculous, unattractive, and adorable. “Are you not just such a pretty girl? Yes, you are! Who is the prettiest girl? You are! Yes, you are!”

Blissful with her attentions, Lelya gave a spin of excitement, butt wiggling as her tail wagged hard in delight. And Írissë was laughing as she pressed a kiss upon the hound’s fur-covered face, right between the big eyes.

 _Yes, you are,_ he thought, staring at her as she stood back up, still laughing as her hand pushed her jasmine-laden hair back from her face. There were a few dirty pawprints on the hem of her dress, but she did not seem to notice or care, looking up at him through her thick eyelashes with her lips still curled into a smile.

She was absolutely _perfect._

And he did not know how to make her understand.

\---

Never had she thought to see the day that Tyelkormo was stricken speechless! Yet, here it was, happening right before her eyes!

Of her lover, she knew he could be silver-tongued when he so chose to take advantage of his razor-sharp intelligence and dauntless spirit. Not a stuttering, bashful or shy man was he, as was his younger brother Morifinwë. In fact, the third son often _chose_ to remain quiet and contemplative, waiting and watching from the shadows like a nighttime predator in the dark, and, when he did speak, it was always to the point, always eloquent, and sometimes brutally honest or carrying a bullwhip of sarcasm in its mocking tones.

But, right now, he was flushed in the face, and his eyes were averted. They had drifted over her hungrily when first she had appeared before them, brushing across the skin bared about her throat and chest and shoulders, following the flowing gown down to her feet as she spun about in the grass, leaving the white, diaphanous layers blooming outwards. And she saw his widened eyes, darkening as his pupils grew in size, lips parting ever so slightly in surprise, eyelashes fluttering open and shut, open and shut. It all spoke of astonished fascination, a look that was not unfamiliar to a woman who had been married, who had seduced lovers, who could recognize when her partner was both sexually attracted and utterly overwhelmed in her presence. “Well,” she asked eagerly, almost giddily, “What do you think? I have not had a chance to wear anything but stained, old, rundown dresses for weeks, so this is rather nice!”

She could see his jaw shift, watched his lips open and close, watched his eyes shift across her frame, watched his hands clench and his feet shift in the grass. His long moments of silence were not awkward or strained, but simply stricken.

“You look beautiful,” he said finally, and she watched his fingers tangle together with themselves into abstract knots. A nervous gesture she recognized from childhood, one he rarely displayed but which was commonplace in some of his siblings. Disappointed she should have been with so little said, but she felt her lips curling at the corners instead, for she knew when he was fighting back his flustered blushing and stammering. Was there any greater compliment than to watch him struggle to find the right words to say when words came as easily to his tongue as they had to his charismatic father’s?

Strong was the urge to reach out and touch his face. To clasp it between her hands and to kiss his lips right then and there with all these witnesses to see her affections with their own two eyes as proof. Especially when he glanced up at her through the pale silver of his eyelashes, almost shyly, mouth in a little convoluted twist of a line, as though he were not certain what he ought to say or do next. As though he were not certain even of what he felt at that moment except that he could not look away from her whilst she was before his eyes.

Írissë felt like a goddess. For all that she was surrounded by beings far more ancient and far wiser than she, beings who could bend the world to their will with little more than a handful of words, it was _her_ that entranced him, and not anyone or anything else. _Her._ Not any of the beautiful maiar twittering about her like a flock of colorful birds, watching with dizzying jeweled eyes and delighted grins on their perfect faces as the courtship unfolded. _It was all her._

“Just beautiful,” she teased with a grin.

But she did not make a spectacle of them in public. Instead, her gaze fell to the hound trailing after her lover. Because, of course, he had always loved dogs more than he had loved other people. And they had always had a particular affection for him despite his temperamental and vicious nature. “Oh, hello there!” she exclaimed.

 _Tyelkormo is only truly cutthroat and vicious to those who deserve it, and the animals always seem to sense it,_ she could not help but think with a fond little grin as she knelt before their new canine friend, taking in those big brown eyes pleading for scratches and pets. _It is his way to mock and tease, but malice and sadism…_

Maybe she was being naïve. After all, he was a murderer in the cold blood. Maybe even of children, and of helpless and unarmed men and women. But she had never asked his motivations, if he would ever take enjoyment in such slaughter, or if he had approached the Kinslayings with the same seemingly heartless practicality that he approached a kill during the hunt. A necessity, something unpleasant that needed to be done for the sake of a greater purpose than to cause pain and suffering.

She was afraid to ask. Afraid of where that might lead.

Still, she could not imagine him killing a child and taking pleasure in it. Any more than she could imagine him killing a dog and taking pleasure in that.

Closing her eyes, she tried not to think of Eöl. Tried not to think of her husband pulling out a javelin and aiming it towards their son—who stood wide-eyed with shock and frozen with terror, unmoving in the face of oncoming death—and grinning with almost diabolical lust to shed the blood of the Noldor upon their very doorstep and have his vengeance against their evil lot even at the cost of his son’s life. She could not imagine, for even a moment, Tyelkormo doing something so awful, betraying family in such a despicable manner.

Cupping the dog’s face in her hands, she made little kissing noises, cooing to the beast in a manner not too differently than she had once crooned and coddled her infant son. And she pushed those thoughts away, because this was no time for tears, no time to think of such terrible things, no time to remember the grief endless her son’s eyes as her blood splashed across the ground or the harsh and jealous love and vindication in her husband’s gaze as he watched her collapse, wounded and poisoned on the ground. Instead, she bathed herself in the oncoming wave of joy that suffused her newest companion, the female hound wagging her curly tail, so happy for no reason other than for loving and being loved. “Are you not just such a pretty girl? Yes, you are! Who is the prettiest girl? You are! Yes, you are!”

Excited, the hound let out little whines, and Írissë could feel paws catch at her gown. But she did not particularly care. Pressing a kiss upon the brow of her newest companion, she grinned and looked up at her lover, who was staring back with his silvery eyes blazing so pale they were as the purest of white stars.

When she stood, he was still silent. As if he knew not what to say.

“When did you encounter our newest friend, then?” she asked, running her hand over the dog’s back as it wove between their legs.

“Her… her name is Lelya,” he stammered out, looking down at the dog obediently sitting at their feet, tail thumping, head tilted to the side as she watched her newest favorite two-legged duo. “You do know she is only here for the generous distribution of pets and the free meal she will beg off us with her big brown eyes, do you not?”

“Lelya,” Írissë repeated, patting the hound’s head. “I do not know. You can occasionally be charming company to keep. Maybe she simply likes you.”

“Only occasionally?” he asked then, his mouth quirking upwards into a smirk.

Like a young girl with her first suitor, she clung to his arm, wondering what strangeness this was that overcame her that her whole belly fluttered with butterfly wings. Maybe it was this place, this wonderland with the sound of heavenly choirs singing rippling through the very air, with the towering trees that tickled at her cheeks with their branches, with the flowers that sprang forth beneath her heels, and with the everlasting beings who had braided her hair and decorated her with silk and flowers and watched even now with dazzled eyes as the elven pair danced around one another more alike to courting birds or butterflies than an already mated pair. But it felt magical and new and young and breathless. And she could never remember feeling quite this way before. Not even with her husband.

And it eased something inside her she had not even realized was tightly bound and closed to his touch, to the way he snorted with laughter when she said, “Of course, only occasionally, thou fiend!” while simultaneously standing on tiptoe to press her lips to the ridge of his cheekbone, and to the way he reached out to brush a loose, dark curl behind her ear and stroked his fingertips down the soft line of her jaw. A thumb eased over her lips in a soft caress that had her shivering and damp between her legs. Just a bit.

And then he broke their staring, looking down. His other hand was still holding his large dish, dipped down at the center and holding his feast. “We should— You should— There is food. And I know it has been long since we ate this morning, and you must be hungry. Besides, I have it on the authority of the host that the feasting and drinking cannot start in truth until we have first tasted and approved the offerings.”

“Is that so?” she asked, a little disappointed to have to pull away as the strange moment between them broke and reality rushed back into their small sphere of warped existence. Now that she was paying attention, she did feel that empty, gnawing ache of hunger tapping at the back of her mind insistently.

“So I am told,” he answered with a half-grin. “Shall we, my lady?”

“We shall,” she said, beaming.

And they did.

\---

_Isilya, 57 Lairë (9 July)_

\---

They retired to their accommodations late: a small and isolated “cottage” of a tree on the outskirts of the otherwise active and bustling center of the small town-like community, their little place decorated with a wild and overgrown garden and open windows covered in sheer nets. They were still hand in hand after a long and filling dinner, after dancing and drinking sweet nectar and wine in the twilight gray, after listening to stories until well after the night had begun and the moon was risen high, and they now approached on slightly wobbly legs, clinging to one another for balance as their heads spun with drink and merriment. Sweet Lelya was still trailing after their heels, belly full from begging meat and bread from their fingertips.

Slipping through the door, Írissë breathed in the spacious and sparse indoors, chest expanding until it went tight, and let out a low sigh of satisfaction, shoulders falling as her lungs emptied of the night air. Glowing white lanterns hung in the corners of their rooms to alight every space enough to walk in the darker nighttime hours, but she had eyes only for the massive bed laid out as a prized possession, the sheets pulled down in offering. Eyes drooping with the onslaught of fatigue after a long day being a hundred news places and meeting a hundred new faces, she wondered if it was as soft as the silly but impossibly comfortable bed she kept at home in her parents’ townhouse in Tirion.

A kiss swept across her collarbone and distracted her from her important musings. “Well, írima, what did you think of your first day and night in the Woods of Oromë.”

Yawning, eyelashes fluttering, she wrapped her arms about his neck and nuzzled in close with feline laziness and contentment. “This place is strange but amazing. Why do not more come here and stay forever? It is so peaceful and so open!”

To which he laughed. “Ah, but the hunting is a sacred art with deep and faithful respect towards the cycles of the earth, and the work is that of a simple laborer using his or her hands buried deep in the soil, and the outdoors and indoors are separated by but a net to keep out the nighttime bugs and little else. You and I are used to the wilds, even the midges and the spiders and the rain and the wind, but others are less so. This life is so simple in comparison to the physically cleaner yet somehow messier complexity of a life at Court.”

 _That,_ they both silently acknowledged, _was the beauty of it._

But beauty is in the eye of the beholder, so the saying goes. Írissë thought of her mother trying to survive even a few nights here, amongst these people with their shamelessness in sharing their bodies in friendly hugs and caresses. She honestly could not imagine that ending in anything other than a scandalized woman wondering how she was meant to bathe when all the pools were shared and wondering how she was meant to sleep when the windows could not be closed with glass panes and covered by heavy curtains to keep out the sound of bugs buzzing and the chill of the nighttime breeze and the early morning sunlight as Anar peered her brilliant eyes over the tops of the distant mountains and blazed across every surface.

Resisting the little snort of giggling laughter that tried to rise up her throat at the mental image, she instead leaned in and distracted herself with the taste of her lover’s throat beneath her lips. “What should we do now, Tyelko?”

The pair lingered closer still as his arms swept around her, as they traced across the line of her waist, thumbs massaging into the slight cushion of softness at her hips. “Come to bed,” Tyelkormo whispered against her ear.

They exchanged a kiss upon their lips, smooth and long and very languid as their tongues twined. Her fingers reached for the ties of her gown, only for his hands to catch her own, to stay their progress before they could tear at the fabric in the effort to reveal her bare skin to his eyes and touch, to feel his heat against her already tingling flesh.

“That is not what I meant,” he said quietly.

She blinked and thought, _Oh?_ And he took her to the bed, suddenly lifting her whole body and sweeping her from her feet with ease, laying her down upon the welcoming cloud-like softness with a flourish. Only did he pause to remove his outermost, dust-covered layer of clothing and his muddy boots before he rolled onto the mattress to join her in appreciation of its embrace, taking her into his arms and leaning into her neck to press little teasing licks and kisses. His scent wrapped all about her reassuringly as she gently coaxed his mouth upwards, as they began to make love with their mouths once more, him in his untied leggings and untucked undershirt, her in her flower-laced white gown looking like a maiden on her wedding night. Breaking apart with a gasp, feeling again the first hints of arousal burning low in her belly, she then rolled over and pushed herself shakily upon the stilts of her elbows, hoisting herself up to look down upon his face as he panted below.

 _Oh,_ she thought then, _I understand._ It brought pause to the sensual attack she had planned, for she was seeing the look on his face as she lingered above like a hovering angelic creature with her flower-laden hair spinning down about him in dark, braided waves. And she was _seeing him._

Silently, they seemed to come to an agreement whilst they stared into each other’s eyes, and the simmering heat in her belly was set aside quietly to fizzle out in the night. Unsteady from the wine, she sighed and lowered herself back down beside him with a little flop, head cushioned upon his shoulder and arm flung across his torso all akimbo. There was some of the scent of dirt and sweat stinging her nose, but she could not bring herself to care, then throwing a leg about him as well to cuddle, washing them both with the layers of her skirts, translucent white spread across their sheets. Every inch of their tangible forms was squished together and tangled, as close as two could get without being One, and his heat was aflush in her skin.

His hand upon her back was gentle, smoothing down her spine.

“It is strange,” he admitted to her, voice so quiet and hoarse with drink she almost could not hear it above the nightsong of crickets and whispered breezes in the tree whose bark and flesh served as their temporary home. “Was it like this for you _with him?”_

For long moments, she thought about the question. And other things.

She thought of those early days and nights after her “abduction” by her first husband. Of Eöl and his sharp but handsome features and the way his grin made her knees feel as made of water. Of his forwardness when he kissed her and his deep rolling laughter whenever he found her words humorous. Of the way he grabbed her and held her close at random moments. Of their first mating beside the river where she had put up a token struggle and then surrendered out of curiosity. Of the other joinings that came later in those first weeks and months, filled with so much wild passion but utterly empty of words. Of her decision to marry him not from love but because it seemed the sensible thing to do. Of their hand-fasting and their wedding day, no different than any other day.

How, after Eöl had stripped her naked and ravaged her thoroughly in the sheets upon their now-christened marriage bed, she lay naked and shivering above the covers, cloaked in a drying layer of sweat with his spend between her thighs, and he laid still as if dead at her side. How, after all of their passion was spent, he had never turned and looked at her and told her she was beautiful, or even lovely. How he had not offered her his arms, how he had not wanted to hold her close and cradle her lovingly in a way that had nothing to do with their mutual burning sexual desires. How he had grumbled tiredly and rolled over to face the other way as he drifted on the golden wave of exhaustion that followed the pleasure. How she could remember feeling saddened that there was not more (determined not to feel sad because she needed not a man’s regard to stoke her ego) that there was no spark or celebration, that it was not special. Disappointed that it was not everything whispered about in romantic novels and by young Court ladies (determined not to feel disappointed because those things were silly fantasies anyway) and tired at the rush of emotion. Perhaps a little alone and chilly. Perhaps a little isolated and adrift.

“No,” she whispered, fingers curling into the fabric of his loose shift. “It feels very different than with Eöl. Even after we were married, he would seldom wish to let me out of his sight, but he seemed to not wish to touch me except when we laid together abed and had intercourse. Strangely, it felt distant compared to this, as if he were afraid to be close and afraid to let it appear that he desired more of me than an occasional lover. This is… it is soft and welcoming and warm and open, and I feel like I am falling into you when we come together and embrace, even though we are not physically joined and striving towards the end.”

His sigh was a wisp of breath across her forehead. Whatever he might have thought of her answer, she could not have said, for she did not look up to gauge his reaction from his facial features in the dim lighting of their new shared bedchambers. Instead, she thought to ask her own questions.

“What about you?” she asked, “Did you feel this way for Lúthien? For the many others? For your lovers here?”

His hand never ceased its stroking up and down her back. His fingers fluttered gently at the nape of her neck, curling into her hair, and she let out a low moaning sound and shuddered against his body with the pleasure of it.

“No,” he admitted. “It has never felt this way before. Not for me. Not for any one of my lovers, and most especially not for Lúthien.”

“Not even for your first?” she pried.

“Not even for my first. Anarilótë. She and I were not friends or traveling companions. We did not share much conversation but occasionally during our meals or travel with one another on the hunts, for she was of Vána’s folk and we rarely crossed paths. She was beautiful and curious of me, and I was young and inexperienced and wanted a guide. She offered and I accepted. But there was never…”

His hand tugged lightly in her hair. Against her temple did she feel the point of his chin as he turned his head, as he tucked her face into the crook of his neck and cradled her. “There was never anything alike to this,” he continued. “There was brief and fiery joining, and then we parted ways. And then we joined, and then we parted. And I never desired more. One might never have known that the pair of us even knew each the other’s name for how we led two completely separate lives beyond the brief moments of passion. And it has… it has been that way. With all the other lovers as well. Except you.”

“Except me,” she repeated. “Why is this different?”

Beneath her, his shoulders shrugged. “You never tried to force me to stay. And, so, I have never felt the need to flee. And we speak beyond flirtation and lovemaking of shared interests. And we play together and hunt together still as we did in our youth. And you do not see me as an exotic plaything, nor as a potential route to power and wealth, nor as a captor, nor as a prize to be won.”

“You are not a prize to be won,” she said against his skin. “You are a prize who may choose to whom you are given. I would not try to take that away.”

_I did not like it when it was taken from me._

“I meant what I said earlier,” he then told her then, voice soft, almost (dare she think it) hesitant. “You look beautiful tonight. Radiant. Like a bride. I did not know what else to say, so forgive me for losing my eloquence at your sight, but any words I said would have felt shallow.”

Thinking of the way he had looked upon her, about how it left her heart racing to know he was entranced and her lips curling up at the corners when he stumbled upon his words and excited bliss bubbling as champagne in her gut when she caught his faint tremble and saw his hands fidget, she shook her head and laughed quietly. “Ah, Tyelko, you did not need to say anything else. I understood.”

He let out a tired noise. “Good."

Feeling no more need to speak this night, the pair stayed curled up in silence. Letting her eyelids fall to half-mast, Írissë began to drift away, warm and satisfied. Even though the dress would be wrinkled in the morning and smell of her instead of the crushed jasmine flowers. Maybe… maybe she would have Tyelko… make love to her with it on… and then…

And then something jumped on her legs, and she let out a squeal that had him jolting beneath her, half-sitting up in alarm.

A soft whine came from the end of the bed. And Tyelkormo snorted in amusement.

“I did not realize we let Lelya in with us,” he confessed, though she was half-convinced that he was blatantly lying when his voice shook with silent laughter.

The large hunting hound let out a huff, spreading herself out across the bottom of the bed, happily ignoring the bumps of two sets of elven feet beneath her weight. They had been bare, for neither Írissë nor Tyelkormo, in their tipsy states, had sought to pull up the covers to shield their bodies from the chill neither felt with alcohol blazing through their veins.

 _Well,_ she thought hazily, _at least our toes will not be cold come morning._

“Just for tonight,” she said, now too tired to care overmuch about the dog invading their bedchambers. The fatigue was tugging her towards the edge of sleep again.

“Just for tonight,” he agreed.

Laying her head back down, she let out a contented sigh. And, with the sound of his heartbeat throbbing in her ear, she fell through reality and into the slumber beyond.

But did spare a last thought to think that this felt oddly, pleasantly lovely. That she could get used to falling asleep this way, curled up against Tyelkormo’s side, sharing a real bed and not just a nest of grass rumpled by their wild lovemaking.

That she might not want to go back to sleeping alone.

And then there was only warmth in the embrace of Lórien. And she dreamed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:
> 
> Anar (Q) = the Sun  
> maiar (Q, p) = lesser angelic beings (a group of them)  
> lelya (Q) = simple verb "go"  
> Eldar (Q, p) = people of the stars, high-elves  
> vala (Q, s) = one of the Valar  
> maia (Q, s) = one of the Maiar  
> Fëanárioni (Q, p) = sons of Fëanáro  
> meldo (Q) = friend  
> vanya (Q, s) = one of the Vanyar  
> írima (Q) = desirable (one)  
> Anarilótë (Q) = lit. Sun + flower
> 
> \---
> 
> Flower symbolism:
> 
> Jasmine = beauty, sensuality, abundance, hope, victory, congratulations, associated with the moon


	71. A Tale of Two Siblings (Apart)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alternately: Of Healing and Homecoming...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: mental breakdown, crying, unhealthy coping mechanisms, catatonia (or near to it), self-imposed isolation, healthy (healthier) coping mechanisms, mentions of injuries, rape, beatings, abuse, torture, murder, mercy-killing/kinslaying, and self-harm
> 
> Just a few little things. Another potentially triggering chapter (mention of rape) so read carefully! Also, no, Anairë has no idea what happened to Angaráto (Silm Prompts headcanon, just a reminder, though I think it's explained well enough here in non-explicit detail that you needn't read all that angst unless you so desire), nor do most people outside his immediate family members/parents/siblings. He had to deal with making sure Sauron/Morgoth didn't use him as a political prisoner/ransom though, so given what we know about their usual tactics (Maedhros/Maeglin/Gelmir/Celebrimbor examples) I think we can all understand his motives just a little at the very least.
> 
> Maedhros = Maitimo = Nelyafinwë = Nelyo = Russandol  
> Maglor = Makalaurë = Kanafinwë = Káno  
> Celegorm = Tyelkormo = Tyelko = Turkafinwë = Turko  
> Caranthir = Carnistir = Morifinwë = Moryo  
> Curufin = Atarinkë = Curufinwë = Curvo  
> Amrod = Ambarussa = Pityafinwë = Pityo = Minyarussa  
> Amras = Umbarto = Telufinwë = Telvo = Atyarussa  
> Fingolfin = Nolofinwë  
> Angrod = Angaráto = Angamaitë  
> Finrod = Findaráto  
> Orodreth = Restaráto  
> Egalmoth = Aikambalotsë  
> Turgon = Turukáno

_Isilya, 57 Lairë (9 July)_

\---

Uncle Nolofinwë was about as cooperative as his father had warned.

The older man let Angaráto inside the townhouse with nary a word of acknowledgment, immediately shutting the door in his wake with a quiet click after glancing up and down the street with a harsh frown. “I assume you are here to speak with Lindalórë, nephew. Let me show you to her rooms. I think she is awake right now.”

_Not a moment to get a word in edgewise,_ said nephew thought as he toed off his boots. By the time he was barefooted, his uncle was already impatiently waiting at the top of the stairs, feet shifting anxiously against the carpet. It was clear that Nolofinwë was feeling leery of and uncomfortable with the situation, probably no less upset than Angaráto was after yesterday’s great reveal by Hendumaika in Court that had half the city searching high and low for the woman currently holed up in a guest chambers just upstairs. But his uncle was showing it in every angle and movement, façade solidly cracked down the middle to reveal something vulnerable writhing and shuddering beneath.

Taking the steps two and a time, he caught up to the older man. “This way,” Nolofinwë said, taking off with a quick stride.

Following, Angaráto tried not to sigh.

“Lindalórë has been rather withdrawn,” his uncle told him matter-of-factly, “So, I do not know for certain that she will be willing to speak with you as she has been hiding in her rooms since her arrival. One can hardly blame her for feeling poorly after such an ordeal, and Anairë says she has not been very interested in eating either, but—”

“How are you feeling, Uncle Nolofinwë?” he interrupted quietly.

Blue eyes spun around in their sockets to stare at him as though he had grown extra limbs out of the blue. “Pardon me?”

“You were there as well and heard what happened,” Angaráto said quietly, “So, I asked if you were feeling well, too. Or should I be concerned with Lindalórë alone and pretend that not one but two of my family members experienced such a horrible event?”

At this, his uncle seemed strangely flustered and confused. “I have certainly been in worse positions before. But Lindalórë—”

“I asked about you.” Angaráto was familiar with this sort of evasion. He had done it before himself many times, foisting attention off on others more in need than himself, especially in the very early days after his rescue from the hellish pits of Angamando. “Besides, Atar asked me to check in upon both of you, not only Lindalórë.”

To which Nolofinwë grumbled in annoyance. “You may tell that nosy busybody that I am quite well, thank you very much! He has many more important things to be worrying his dumb head about than his older brother’s wellbeing.”

As a man who spent much of his own time worrying about his two older siblings—both Findaráto and Restaráto, who each had their fair share of horrors under their belts to incite the former’s long-term insomnia and nightmares to strike seemingly random blows at the least inopportune moments or the latter’s self-imposed isolationism to flare up without rhyme or reason at the smallest trigger—Angaráto respectfully and silently disagreed with that sentiment. Instead of arguing, however, he offered a thin smile. “I am certain Aunt Anairë worries, too. Eldalótë worries about me constantly.”

Nolofinwë scoffed but refused to meet his gaze. They came to a stop in the middle of the hallway. “Through there,” he said gruffly, and then disappeared like a ghost into his study back down the hallway and around the corner, leaving his nephew standing alone.

Angaráto turned to look at the door in question, sighing patiently in the face of his uncle’s stubborn resistance to any sort of comfort, help, reassurance or concern. Aunt Anairë would undoubtedly have better luck pulling the older man’s strings than his quiet watcher of a nephew did. On the other hand, there was truly no one about at all to help poor Lindalórë after her ordeal, for her husband and brother were both away, and her only friend besides, and she must be feeling so utterly alone that it made his chest ache in empathy.

Perhaps better than anyone, he knew how she felt. More than once, he had had to sit through something terrifyingly similar and disgusting and internally scarring.

Something equally guilt-inciting and impossible to erase from his mind.

_Screams echoing down through the dungeons. Pleading. Crying. Sobbing._

_And the sight of golden eyes watching him through his bars, watching for the moment that his will crumbled and he broke. Staring back with a hate-filled grimace, he ignored the distant sounds and the way they stabbed and pierced at his innards like poisoned blades. Because to show weakness amongst the favored elite of Angamando was to invite torment and death upon one’s self in the most horrific and humiliating manner._

_And Angaráto could not afford to look weak. Not here. Not now._

_So, the screams and the cries and the sounds of flesh upon flesh continued. And those golden eyes stared, watching and waiting for the most minute falter._

_And Angaráto stared back through the taste of bile upon the back of his tongue._

Shaking his head, he raised his hand and knocked quietly at the door. _Tap, tap, tap._ “Lady Lindalórë? Are you there? It is Angaráto Arafinwion, your husband’s cousin.”

At first, he thought that she might not have heard, and, when he repeated his greeting and a few seconds passed in silence, that she might have chosen to ignore his calling. Then, just as he was considering retreating back to Uncle Nolofinwë’s study to bother and hassle the man, he heard the softest sound on the other side of the doorway alike to the shuffling of feet upon plush carpet, and a crack appeared between door and frame, green eyes peering out at him from within. “Angaráto Arafinwion?”

“Yes,” he said softly. “I do not think that we have formally met. My father, the King, asked me to come here, to update you on the situation at Court and out in the city… and to ask if you were feeling well after… everything.”

He could see that she frowned, eyes narrowing. “Why would I be feeling well?” she asked with just a hint of bite in her voice.

And Angaráto knew better than to take that personally. His own path to recovery had not involved anger or fury at the injustice and indignity visited upon his person and his spirit, but it did for many others. In those early days, when all involved were stressed and horrified and standing on the knife’s edge of a spiral into breakdown, his wife had had days of sky-splitting fury, of screaming rage that ended in the pair curled up in a pile of tears on the kitchen floor. Eldalótë’s fury had been born from seeing her husband destroyed and remade again and again, trying over and over to heal and relapsing again and again each time they seemed to take steps forward. And he did not blame his mate for her frustration then.

And he would not blame Lindalórë for her rage now. After all, to her, he knew nothing of her suffering.

“I would not presume to say,” he murmured. “Are you willing to speak with me, my lady? I do not mean to infringe upon your privacy, but there is news of the outside that you should hear if Uncle Nolofinwë has not seen fit yet to share it with you.”

In her eyes did he see the internal debate between the woman who wanted to be left alone—and Angaráto knew that hellish state as well, of feeling withdrawn, like all contact was as rough rope or scratchy stone upon delicate skin, like any smile or laughter in his vicinity was too garish to observe, like it was _wrong_ to be accepted and loved and well treated after all he had seen and all he had done—and a woman who wanted to _know._ It seemed, at least in this instance, that the latter won. Not by much of a margin, but enough to grant him access to the room in the form of the door swinging open. A cold welcome, but he was not one to reject such a gift. She might have chosen to simply shut the door in his face instead.

Cautiously, he entered. Lindalórë withdrew to the bed, sitting down upon the top of the blankets looking lost and distant in her eyes as they gazed off towards the wall. For the moment, Angaráto did not approach, not wishing to encroach upon her space.

“Nolofinwë told me,” she said quietly, “that my father has claimed to Court that my husband’s family abducted me from the house. And has offered a _generous reward_ to anyone who will return me to my _loving_ and _caring_ family and fiancé.”

“He did,” the third son said softly, leaning back against the doorframe. “Atar has refused to act upon the suspicions without proof, of course, so there have been no raids marching up the mountainside to tear down the reclusive stronghold of the Fëanárioni or any other such nonsense. But the Court is in a tizzy over the whole melodrama. Cousin Nelyafinwë is being summoned with the hopes that the entire situation can be proven false and laid to rest.”

“But I…” She bit her lip, hunching in upon herself. Sitting there alone, she looked so terribly small, and Angaráto felt his heart stutter just a bit, for he had seen this very hopeless look on a thousand different faces during his time in the dark. Cellmates who had shared his tiny sleeping space, thralls who dragged their chained feet through the rough soil steered by his cell, victims dragged down towards the torture chambers again and again… that look of horrified confusion and loss, of not knowing what to do or where to go or how to overcome the seemingly impassable wall of helplessness lying ahead, stretching up to touch the pinnacle of the sky. “What am I supposed to do if I cannot go with my husband’s family? I cannot even leave this house for the bounty put on my head!”

Cautiously, Angaráto moved forward, sitting himself gingerly upon the end of the mattress, careful of approaching too quickly but unable to keep himself away. It might have been wiser to stay away altogether, to leave the woman alone entirely, but never had he been capable of watching suffering without acting before if there was even something so simple as words and gestures of comfort he could offer.

Sitting in his cell and listening to his people being tortured and raped and killed, there had been little greater torture for him than that.

A little bit of Angaráto had died with each one of them, and every single little piece of his spirit still ached at even the memory of it. More sore spots of guilty conscience, of lost opportunity, of broken responsibility, he could not bear to suffer.

So, he reached out to her, brushed against her hand. “You are not going to be a prisoner here,” he told her quietly. “We will find a way to get you out of Tirion and into the keeping of cousin Curufinwë’s brothers until his return. We may have allies beyond the nobility, for your father may have won over Court with his caring, frightened father song and dance, but the common folk are not so easily convinced what with the spectacle you and Calmacil made in the streets these past few days. Especially amongst the followers of Fëanáro.”

Her green eyes turned to stare into his eyes, wide and glistening. “But… but Atar’s offer of reward! Surely…”

Angaráto once might have thought the same, long ago, that _anyone_ could be swayed by enough money waved beneath their greedy nose. Before he had spent hundreds of years living without even basic necessities, without clean water or fresh food or a soft bed or even a warm blanket or clothes on his back. Now, he could not imagine giving up his quaint little countryside home with his wife and his child for anything. No need had he for a giant townhouse on the silver streets of Tirion, nor thousands of golden coins to buy all manner of fancy and unnecessary trinkets and clothes and jewels. There was no appeal in his spirit for such materialistic emptiness, for he had all he needed.

And, for many of the men who had left behind their simple lives—their homes and wives and children—being back in the peace of Valinórë with a simple and safe existence, families by their side, made them happy without the need for such frivolous luxury and wealth. And many remembered that the only thing standing between them and insanity in the worst years of Exile—when their days were spent traveling through mud and desert and dust and heat and blood, when they walked towards violent and agonizing death on the fields of battle knowing friends and comrades would die horrifically before their eyes, when they sat around the fire and felt the wistful burn of homesickness striking as a blow to their hearts—was their brothers-in-arms, those suffering the same horrible fate, the same striking terror, the same desperate longing for home. Loyalty could be a powerful motivator.

Somehow, despite being an absolute jackass, Curufinwë Fëanárion (and his siblings besides) inspired a furious and protective loyalty in his followers. And Angaráto hoped that would be enough to win the followers of Fëanáro over at the very least, to pit them against the Lord of the House of Helyanwë in this conflict.

“We shall see,” he soothed, “But I have faith that not all men can be swayed to do evil simply by the offer of copious amounts of money. They all know that your engagement to Calmacil was not willing or wanted before any of this kidnapping business, and they all know he abused and terrified you. There are already rumors about the city that you have fled for your own safety and are in hiding, though none know where but for a very few trusted individuals. Word is spreading, also, of what Calmacil did to that servant woman, and that your father allowed it, or may even have encouraged it, under his roof.”

Lindalórë abruptly looked down at her hands, unwilling to meet his eyes even at the mention of the woman who had been assaulted in her place. “I do not deserve their support.” And she tried to pull her hand away.

But Angaráto closed his fingers over hers and held. “Do not say such things. Of course, you deserve their support. You have done nothing wrong.”

There were two ways Angaráto suspected she might react to his gentle assertion. Locking herself away in silence and rejecting his presence entirely, to which he might have to speak with her in a gentle voice and slowly melt her icy rejection with his words over the course of long hours, or with fury that he presumed to be right and she to be wrong. From her sharp reaction to his presence earlier, he strongly suspected the latter would dominate her reaction.

He was, of course, correct.

“You know nothing of it!” she hissed, yanking her hand from his grasp. “You know nothing of what I did! I hid like a coward and let her be raped while I listened through the door! And I did _nothing_ to help her! _Nothing!”_

“And what would you have done to help her?” he asked softly, not even flinching in the face of her fury, watching as she teetered on the edge of dissolving into frustrated and horrified tears. Already could he hear the hitch of sobs fighting their way up her throat, and he knew she was holding them back with the sheer force of her rage as a wall of fire.

“I should have gone out there and I should have confronted Calmacil!” she yelled. “It was the _right thing to do!”_

For many decades, Angaráto had sat in his cell, listening to people screaming and dying, and pondered whether there was ever a _right thing to do_ and a _wrong thing to do_ in any situation. Or if both states were merely subjective designs, foisted upon their host by the morals and ideology of the society in which they were born. In the early days, he had felt much the same as Lindalórë, guilt-stricken that he sat by and did not offer himself as a trade to save the lives of those who were tortured in his place. And he had steeled himself against the agony that came from doing _the wrong thing_ in the name of surviving another day, in the name of winning a silent battle with the followers of the Dark Lord in which he could not be broken no matter how many thralls were broken in his place. But, as the long years passed, his opinion of what the _right thing_ and the _wrong thing_ were was warped out of proportion, and he could not look at the situation in such a black and white manner any longer.

He had known, even at the start, that, even if he had given in and shared his identity, even if he had broken and given Sauron and Morgoth what they wanted, even if he had surrendered whenever they said _“we will spare this pathetic slave if you just tell us your name”_ and waited upon baited breath for his reply…

Even if he had told them, it would have made no difference for the thralls. The slaves would die horrifically and painfully anyway, and Angaráto would potentially die along with them, and his sacrifice would not have been some magnificent spectacle as had been the death of Nolofinwë. It would have been a purposeless, baseless, agonizing and slow death in the filth-ridden pits of Angamando, without honor and without bravery and without ceremony. His death would have been as pointless as every other thrall’s death in that dark and horrid place.

Except his enemies would have known his name and would have sent word with their spies and messengers. To _“tell Findaráto Arafinwion of Nargothrond that his precious brother Angamaitë was raped and tortured to death, that he died begging for his life like a craven dog on the floor covered in filth, that he was fed to the orci and even his bones have been digested into nothing but orcish refuse”_ and his family… his family would know of his survival…. would know that they had unintentionally abandoned him to an ill fate… would suffer the same guilt he was suffering… and…

And Angaráto had not wanted to give the Enemy such a weapon of psychological warfare. He had not broken. Even unto the very end. No matter how many thralls were raped or tortured or slaughtered in his place. No matter how many he had to end with his own two hands. And was that _the wrong thing to do?_

He did not think so now. Not anymore.

While this situation was different, it was, in strange ways, the same.

“And what would have happened then?” he asked flatly, not giving her the pity that she was seeking, the affirmation she desired, the assurance that she was an evil creature who had done something terrible and was deserving of her suffering. “If you had revealed yourself and Nolofinwë, or, worse, if you had been alone in that bathroom and opened the door to confront your tormentor, what would have happened?”

The tears overflowed. He could see her lip wobbling.

“You do not understand,” she cried out. “It does not matter what would have happened! All that matters is that Yavannië was hurt in my stead!”

“It _does_ matter,” he insisted, quietly but without yield.

On her face, he could see the frustration and the pain. “How can you say such things? You could not possibly understand how this feels! A woman was _raped_ because I stood by and did _nothing_ to help her! And you think you, a stranger and a _man,_ can waltz into my rooms and tell me I have no right to be feeling what I am feeling?”

By now, she was on her feet. Angaráto, face blank, did not move from where he sat. Did not argue back. Did not try to reach out and stop her. Did not try to interrupt her tirade.

He let her scream in his face. And he knew, in reality, she was not even angry with him or what he had said, not truly. He knew that, when she swore him out in a very unladylike manner, she was truly angry at herself. He knew that, when she commented on the legitimacy of his birth and labeled him a coward and snarled that he was condescending, she was furious that she, in truth, wanted so badly to agree with his words and ease her own guilty conscience and sore heart. And he knew that, when she stood over him panting and rumpled and crying with her hands curled up in his shirt, threatening him with violence upon his person for daring to be here trying to comfort her, that her energy was spent from her pacing and her shouting and her inner turmoil. And that rage burning in her eyes through the veil of grief really had nothing to do with him at all.

“Why can you not just leave me alone?” she asked, though he had been sitting still and doing nothing for almost fifteen minutes now while she turned into a whirlwind of her inner confusion and upset, shrieking and snarling in his face with all the fury of a violent gale crashing against the shore.

It was not even him she wanted to leave her alone. He knew that feeling, too.

“Come, sit,” he said quietly, finally, plucking her hands from where they weakly clutched and trembled in the now-wrinkled fabric of his tunic.

“Do not tell me what to do!” she said then, but it came out more as a broken sob than a snarl, and she did not resist his pull when he guided her down to sit beside him on the mattress. Exhausted from the overwhelming outpouring of emotional detritus, she leaned against his arm with all the iron in her spine of a blade of grass, face half-buried in his sleeve. And he felt the hot burn of her tears soak through the fabric and into his skin below.

“I know it is hard,” he told her quietly. “My wife used to tell me how relieved she was that I was safe, how grateful she was that I was relatively unharmed, how much I deserved her love and devotion, and she used to tell me so many times a day it made my head spin and my stomach tie itself into guilty knots. And, every single time, I doubted. Sometimes, I still do. I, too, have done things of which I am not proud.”

Lindalórë’s head shook against his shoulder. “It is not the same,” she rasped out, and her hand, one still curled about his, tightened until her nails bit threateningly at his skin.

“It is all too similar,” he countered. “Do you want to hear about it?”

Not often did he share, for his tale was not a pleasant one. People looked upon him differently after they _knew,_ could not bear to look at him with the same eyes as before. It always left his tongue feeling swollen in his mouth before he spoke of his time in the dark, because, though the harsh judgment of his actions and the unmistakable fear of evil and the poisonous bite of repulsed pity were not intentional, there was no denying that many people found the story of what happened to the prisoners and thralls within the iron walls of Angamando—and Angaráto’s reactions and decisions under that pressure, his immoral and stubborn behavior when battling one-on-one with the Enemy to keep his identity secret while letting his people and comrades die in his place, or occasionally ending them with his own hands—to be too disturbing to reconcile, too disruptive to their calm and peaceful reality to bear thinking upon, and they wished to pretend they had never heard him speak of such cruel reality at all. He considered himself the luckiest man in the world that his wife was not amongst that majority number.

Not like his parents. Like his father, who could still not meet his gaze after witnessing his rescue from the depths. Like his mother, who looked as though she would cry whenever they were in the same room.

Lindalórë stared at him with her red-rimmed eyes. Surrounded by such contrasting color, puffy and swollen from her tears, her eyes looked so green that they could swallow a man whole.

“Okay,” she whispered.

And, so, he told her everything.

\---

For the first time since her arrival, Lindalórë ventured out of her rooms.

And Anairë could not deny that it was with great relief that her charge— _my niece,_ she mentally corrected, annoyed with her old and stubborn habit of thinking of the House of Fëanáro as a line separate from the family to which she had married—was standing up, out of her rooms, and in a new change of clothes. Perhaps Lindalórë was not yet bathed and still carried the scent of rain-slicked sweat, but at least the younger woman was groomed enough to not look as a recluse who had been nearly catatonic abed for the last two days and then some.

It was clear that she had been crying again, but she was not crying _now,_ nor did she carry that wild and reckless light in her eyes. That was also a bit of a relief, because Anairë had not known what to do to help the woman calm. Give her a crying child with a skinned knee and she would have them laughing within minutes and feeling better in less, but a traumatized and terrorized woman weeping…

_Well,_ she thought, watching as her nephew, Angaráto, approached with Lindalórë on his heels, _at least someone was able to reach her. Even if I would never have expected it would be Angaráto who would manage such a feat._

“We heard that dinner was ready,” her nephew commented.

Smiling brightly, Anairë did her best not to show her overwhelming relief, instead extended a hand to each of her younger family members and trying not to think about how nice it was going to be to have someone else (two even) at the table with her and Nolofinwë, who could not be counted on to be either good company or a good conversationalist in his current state. Truthfully, she had not expected either of them to respond to her slightly timid call to gather for mealtime. “Oh, yes, excellent! I hope you are hungry! I was going to bring up a tray, but, please, feel free to join us!”

Angaráto took it all in stride with a polite smile and thank you. Lindalórë, on the other hand, looked like she could scarcely believe she was being warmly welcomed to the table of her husband’s father’s greatest political enemy with such gleeful and warm acceptance.

Ushering the pair past her and into the small dining room—large enough to seat herself and her children when they all saw fit to be present for a meal—Anairë could not help her delighted hum as she joined them all. Nolofinwë was sitting in his informal spot across from her own place setting, not bothering with the “head of the table” business when there was no one else around to see. Angaráto, unbothered as anything, seated himself directly adjacent to his uncle, scooting his chair in. Lindalórë, more hesitant, seated herself across the table beside Anairë’s own place.

The matriarch whose table had been empty now for too many days seated herself with pleasure and took to saying grace.

And, at least for a short while, everything felt as though it was going right.

\---

He arrived at the city just as night was beginning to fall, exhausted and sweaty and more than ready for a bath and the privacy of his own damn rooms after spending more than a week trudging through the wilderness with a bunch of ornery Finwioni for company and the sounds of snoring, whispering and nightmarish screaming in his ears every time he tried to sleep.

Thus, it was that Aikambalotsë of the House of Helyanwë entered the streets of his home. And found that there was something stifling in the very air.

At first, he could not identify exactly what it was that put him so very on edge. It had been more than a full day since he had been chased off by Curufinwë, and, while still annoyed and agitated with his brother-in-law, his anger had fizzled and died as quickly as the miles passed beneath his swift feet. Little could he deny, either, that each pace he put between himself and Turukáno Nolofinwion lightened his heart and removed shovel-loads of the weight of burden from his shoulders. After days unable to think of anything but his unceasing hatred for Turukáno as he listened to the man talk and breathe and shift in his sleep (after days unable to think of anything but the fact that his hatred of Turukáno was a mere reflection of his hatred for himself, half-forgotten beneath the illusion of the peace of Valinórë now brought to the surface with all the subtly of an infected splinter of wood slotted between his ribs) it was a relief to leave it behind, step by step, and see nothing but the green and the brown blurring as he passed all the wilderness by and fled to the haven of Tirion.

When its white pearl appeared upon the horizon, he thought he could finally breathe a sigh of relief and put the last few days behind him, that he could forget about the self-deprecating guilt for just a little while longer. Maybe he would spend some time with his little sister cheering her up while she waited for her husband to return home. Maybe he would sit out in the gardens with a book and be somewhere else—be _someone_ else—for a few pleasant hours in the afternoon sunshine. Maybe he would venture out into the city for some pointless browsing and sample the pastries at the café on the corner of the market street simple to taste something sweet and innocent upon his sullied tongue.

But then he noticed the eyes following his every movement.

Occasionally people did stare at one of his status, of course, when he dressed the part of the heir to a ridiculously wealthy House with all the heavy velvets and elaborate embroidery and glittering excess of jewels that status implied. But those stares were few and far between even when he was dressed excessively decadently for some formal even or another, which he was not right now. And they were more curious and less… malevolent.

That was how this felt. Malevolent.

Jaw working to fight back the urge to stop the nearest person and ask _what in the name of Morgoth’s chains was going on,_ he instead steeled his back, squared his shoulders, and marched right on through the lingering, noxious black cloud of _hate_ that seemed to drift over him as a choking smoke. It clung to the air, tasting sour and sharp on his tongue, and bored holes in the back of his neck where the little hairs were standing on end.

From the corners of his eyes, he could see men and women alike stop and stare in the streets. Some people froze in the doorways of the shops, blazing pale eyes fixed upon his figure as he passed, silent and focused enough to drill through bone. He could feel their venom in his very blood, even when he turned away from the black glares upon their eyes and the curling sneers upon their lips, both confused and unsettled and undeniably upset. Because he had been gone from the city for days and days, and whatever these rats were upset about had absolutely nothing to do with his doings, and he absolutely did _not_ want to deal with whatever rotten misfortune had come whilst he was out in the middle of nowhere trying not to give into the urge to rip out Turukáno’s eyes and feed them to the hubris-stricken coward if only to take pleasure in watching the man choke.

Even shop owners he knew he frequented often as a returning patron did not seem eager to approach him as they normally might in the street, nor did they seem as though they would welcome his approach in return no matter how tentative or unthreatening he might appear. Turning his head, he caught sight of a familiar shoemaker hovering just outside the doorway of a familiar shop and bearing a heavy frown upon his harsh features, looking Aikambalotsë up and down the way a man sizes up an opponent before charging into battle.

The heir to the House of Helyanwë almost expected to have a knife thrown at his back as soon as it was turned for all the fury and hate he felt sliding across his skin. It left his pace subtly picking up, carrying him faster through the serious of narrow streets housing the shops and restaurants, wishing he had decided to take the back alleys to reach home instead.

Or, perhaps, they would have been waiting to knife him there for real. He was too tired to give that more than a passing worried thought.

It was, then, a great relief when he made it through the markets and entered the residential areas reserved for the wealthier patrons of the city without being assaulted. Shuddering all the way down his spine, he made quick legwork of the very last stretch of his journey home, eager to put that mess behind him (to put the last week or two behind him) and wait to figure out what had a bee in the bonnets of every man and woman in Tirion until tomorrow morning after he had slept off his overexposure to Fëanárion snark and Nolofinwion nonsense.

The familiar opulent street of his childhood home appeared before his eyes, radiant in the dusk. The cobblestones glowed beneath his feet, at odds with his mud-smeared and sodden boots. The trees waved in welcome, creaking faintly as if, in their own ancient and wordless tongues, expressing pleasure at the homecoming of an old friend. With a bubble of glee in his belly, he came upon the familiar doorstep, lined all about with irises as was his mother’s preference, and beheld the two conjoined half-circles of rainbow color that alighted a blue background dappled with stars. The heraldry of his House. His unspoken welcome home.

Stained glass windows glowed vibrantly upon the floor as he let himself in, dyed with the very last rays of Anar as she sank down to kiss the mountaintops far, far off to the West. Hastily, he kicked off his boots, eager to ascend the staircase and change from his disgusting clothes. Maybe, he might even surprise his parents at dinner if he managed to clean and groom himself sufficiently at speed, and—

And a servant appeared at his side. “My lord?”

Turning, he beheld the familiar face of the man, one who had served his family for centuries without complaint. And, with abject confusion, realized that there was half-concealed terror looking back at him from gray eyes that were normally reserved and quietly friendly. The family manservant seemed ready to bolt at a sharp gesture, swaying nervously just out of reach, like he expected the heir of the House to reach out and react with violence.

Feeling a chill go down his spine, Aikambalotsë simply stared, tongue caught in the trap of stunned silence.

It was wrong. All of it was wrong. The heir felt his stomach turn to lead and sink. Down first to the pit of his belly, swelling with a surge of anxious nausea. And then, when he took a step forward and the man took an equal step away, eyes widening and watching for a sign of oncoming harm or fury, it sank further still. Until it felt like it had slipped right past his toes and fallen down into the depths of the earth to burn.

“What is going on?” he asked sharply, looking into the man’s ghostly white face. “First the marketplace and the staring, now this? What in all of Eä—”

At the top of the staircase a maid appeared, trotting along and panting as though she had seen him through the window and run up the stairs at his appearance. And, right behind her was Amillë, wearing a robe she had clearly thrown on whilst still damp from a bath, her hair all askew down her back in a wet and tangled mess.

“—is going on?” he finished, voice falling down to a whisper as he stared at the spectacle, trying to comprehend what he was seeing.

The whole evening had taken a turn into bizarre. The sort of bizarre he did not like in the least bit. The sort of bizarre that made his skin crawl and his mind spin in upsetting circles.

“Aikambalotsë,” his mother said then, and he was shocked when she came down the stairs on swift feet—his mother _never_ ran, never even moved without that odd floating grace that he could never manage to mimic as a young an inquisitive child and had never tried to copy as a grown man whose footsteps ought be heard—and wrapped her arms around him. Caught off guard, he allowed the embrace, feeling the water soak through his shoulder where her head rested over his heart. Slowly, his arms came around her despite his confusion at the sudden onslaught of such physical comfort where his mother had never been overtly physically affectionate with her children before. Not ever. Not even after his rebirth. Not even the first time coming home after hundreds of years in Exile.

_Something is wrong._

“Amillë,” he said then, “What is going on?”

He began to ask another question after a lingering moment of uncomfortable silence rested thick in the wake of his words upon the air, only to feel her finger upon his lips. The gesture left his voice drifting off into silence before he could expel another sound.

“Come upstairs,” she said then, voice at a whisper. “We do not want your father to hear, so please, stay quiet.”

_Atar?_

Confused, he let himself be led away. He knew, deep down in the earth where his stomach was still dragging along, that something terrible had happened in his absence. Something that had the servants flinching back as if prepared to be struck. Something that had his mother walking on tiptoe around the house. Something that had them all fixated with bone-deep terror at the thought of Hendumaika. And Aikambalotsë, for his part, did not know how many more terrible happenings he could take when his bones already felt as though they might crumble beneath the squeeze of his mother’s hand about his own.

_Somehow,_ he could not help but think, _I feel as though I am not coming home to any form of respite after all._

And he knew not how right he was.

\---

“My Lady!”

The words started Eressëa from her trancelike state, and she almost slipped on the tiling beneath her feet for how she jumped. About her, the bathwater splashed and flickered in little rainbow droplets, bubbles drifting about as they were thrown up into the air like gleaming confetti. Her eyes followed the little drifting spheres as she registered that no threat was imminently apparent and her racing heartbeat slowed.

For long moments, Eressëa only breathed. Wide-eyed she wondered what had happened to leave one of the maids shouting at her in her private bathing chambers, scaring the skin right off her muscle and bone.

For long moments, she wondered if they had been _caught._

In the days since Lindalórë’s departure, things had changed drastically for Eressëa of the House of Helyanwë. That first awful morning, she had gone to her chambers early claiming fatigue, emotional shock and upset, and, in the following days, she remained mostly reclusive and avoided her husband and unwanted thankfully-not-son-in-law as much as she could muster without appearing to be engaged in open avoidance.

Which was how she had developed her latest habit to pass the evenings by.

Of course, her husband thought this newest habit of hers was taking long, hot baths for hours and hours on end in the company of her maids. It was only an added benefit that such a situation was one in which not even her husband was willing to infringe upon, knowing that he would be disturbing more than just his wife whilst undressed. Out of all the terrible things that Hendumaika might or might not have done, including aiding and abetting a rapist in his violent assaults within the very walls of this house, the man did not trespass upon the private time of the women of his own accord.

Eressëa could not help but wonder how he could be so respectful of the privacy of his wife and her maids when bathing but could at the same time allow Calmacil to assault more than one of his female employees, maids who had loyally served their House for centuries. She could not help but feel sick just thinking about him these days.

But, of course, she was not truly bathing her evenings away.

The first night after the assault, Eressëa had called her handmaiden into her private bathing chambers—along with Yavannië and Míriel, both of whom had stood before her trembling with bruises on their faces and necks—and demanded that they allow her and Víressë to attempt to heal their injuries.

That ended with the clumsy attentions of the Mistress of the House and her handmaiden, armed with the pile bandages, poultices, bruise-healing creams and antiseptics procured from the Healing House earlier that day in secret, and then hour-long bubble baths to soothe the aches and pains. Eressëa had helped wash their hair and tend their bruises with her own hands—she had never done that for anyone before, not even her own daughter—and had ended up with two crying girls in her arms soaking her gown straight through.

And, for some strange reason, it left her throat feeling tight and her eyes stinging with tears. Because she was doing something _right._

So, the next night, she called them back in to check on them again. That night, she had not bothered wearing a gown to get wet and soapy in the bath.

And the next night, now, again.

And it was about halfway through this healing and bathing session that she was interrupted as such. Naked and halfway in the water, she spun around, wet hair sprinkling water across the tiled floors, looking at the maid who had appeared in the doorway.

“My Lady,” the panting young woman exclaimed again, eyes wide and face white, “Lord Aikambalotsë has returned home!”

Breath catching, for long moments Eressëa knew not what to think.

Her first thought was excitement to have her son home and safe when she had just lost her daughter, likely forever. The past few days had left her aching and raw in ways she could not quite understand, like her soul had been rubbed raw, struggling beneath the weight of feelings she had not even realized she possessed. And, now, there was a feeling of overwhelming _relief_ at the thought of having one of her children back within reach where there had been nothing before.

And _then_ she thought about Hendumaika, about her husband’s attempts to _replace_ their precious son with that filthy demon of a man, Calmacil. When Aikambalotsë left on his excursion into the wilderness, he had seemed on good terms with his father, but later words had made it clear that her son may have no idea that his father viewed him with a certain amount of sharp disdain for being “weak” and “emotional” instead of a cold-hearted and ruthless man willing to sacrifice anyone and anything in the pursuit of wealth and power as a proper heir apparently ought. Now her son was home, possibly walking straight into a trap with no idea what he would be dealing with, and she could not possibly allow that.

All the while, in the back of her mind, she was also wondering if that meant _Curufinwë_ was back, if they were about to have a murderous Fëanárion storming up to their house and beating down their door with his bare fists. Or, worse, with a sword at the ready. And Aikambalotsë, when he found out what had almost happened to his sister, when he found out what _had_ happened to the two blanched young women in the huge bath before her, when he found out his father was complicit, if distantly, in their rape and abuse…

Eressëa hoped this would not end in bloodshed and banishment before hot tempers and cold-blooded murderers could be gotten under control.

Hastily, she extricated herself from the bath. “All of you stay here,” she ordered Víressë and the other two girls even as she toweled herself hastily dry and reached for the silken robe that hung in waiting for her to don when she finished her bathing. Then, barely clothed and with her hair all askew, she turned to the newcomer, young Menelluinë, so named for the shade of her large and vibrant eyes. “Take me to him.”

Hurriedly, they exited the baths and Eressëa’s private chambers, quick but careful to slip past the closed study door—light peeking golden from beneath the wood—without inciting suspicion from those lingering within. Too soon and not soon enough both did they reach the top of the staircase, and Eressëa looked down into the foyer and saw the familiar towering figure of her firstborn, hair pulled back in a messy braid, clothes tattered and splattered with mud.

“Aikambalotsë,” she breathed in helpless relief.

Even though she could smell the stagnant water and algae and dirt and sweat from several feet away, opposing harshly the clean and freshly-bathed scent of rose oil on her own skin and hair, she flung herself at her child. Felt him stiffen beneath her sudden and unexpected embrace.

Slowly, his arms came around her in acceptance. And, for the first time since everything had begun to spiral out of control, she wondered if things might not be okay.

Clutching him close, she knew there would need to be many words spoken this night. Much would be explained, and the conversation would be long and arduous and ugly for all involved, yet an unpleasant necessity it would be, nevertheless. But, for just that moment, her mind jumped ahead to a future where, hopefully, something could be done to negate the horrific mess that had splattered itself like vomit all over the shreds of her life.

Her son was home. And that was a start.

She would not be letting another child go. Not again.

Aikambalotsë, she would protect. Because, for Lindalórë, there was nothing she could do. And she was tired of being helpless. She was tired of being ignored. And she was tired of being frightened.

She was tired of being tired. And she was tired of being a useless mother standing aside while her children were hurt.

And things were going to change. She would make certain of it.

Things were going to change.

\---

“You have my gratitude,” Anairë said as she was guiding her nephew to the door late in the evening, watching as he donned his cloak and thrust his feet into his boots, lacing them up with dexterous fingers. “Lindalórë had not left her room since her arrival here. I was worried that there was nothing to be done for her.”

“All I did was speak frankly with her,” Angaráto countered.

To that, Anairë worried her lower lip just a bit, thinking to early that day. To hearing Nolofinwë let their guest in, wondering who would be calling at such a time and whether they were safe. To her husband’s sour face as he announced that Angaráto had arrived bearing messages from his younger brother and asking all sorts of nosy and prying questions. To the sound of conversation from Lindalórë’s room turning into a rather alarming bought of shrieking and screaming and yelling and then dissolving into loud and messy crying.

And then the quiet afterwards. Anairë had half-expected to see Angaráto fleeing from the house as though Morgoth himself were upon the man’s heels, for she knew that men were often hopelessly lost when it came to the intricacies of dealing with even simple emotions (her husband being a chief example of this deficiency) and even _she,_ another woman, purportedly old and wise with her larger collection of centuries, had not been able to reach out and lift Lindalórë from her slump.

Instead, hours later, out had come her nephew and niece, both looking tired but neither weeping or screaming or resentful. Eyes red-rimmed and swollen but not downcast in shame or vividly glowing in a glare, Lindalórë had looked better. Not substantially improved, but _better._

Anything at all was an improvement after two—almost three—full days without her niece speaking, washing or allowing anyone near, without so much as leaving her room and getting out of bed but to relieve herself. Even now, Anairë felt a wave of hot relief sweep over her skin like a bout of dizziness.

“Still,” she said in the face of her nephew’s humble response, “I am grateful for your intervention. Whatever it is that you have done… it helped greatly.”

Angaráto paused, looking at her with strange eyes. “I said I would be back…”

Immediately, Anairë nodded. “You can come back as often as you like, nephew. You know that you are welcome in this house.”

“I doubt Uncle Nolofinwë agrees with you, what with how prying I apparently am,” her nephew then said dryly, having read her husband’s ill mood like an open book and correctly interpreted the main source of his current annoyance and petulant behavior. Nolofinwë despised fussing and coddling, even when he so desperately needed it to soothe the aching pains in his spirit. “I appreciate your generosity, however, Aunt Anairë. I promised Lindalórë that I would stop by as often as I might manage. At least… at least until her husband returns, or until we find a way to get her into the care of his family.”

Both of them frowned at that. Getting Lindalórë out of the house, out of the city, and up into the mountains _without_ inciting any suspicion and _without_ being seen by anyone whose tongue might wag in the face of threat, bribery or plain dislike of the Fëanárioni and their ilk was going to be a massive undertaking, and a dangerous one should they be caught. Both she and her nephew were aware of the fact that, what with an accusation of _kidnapping,_ it would not be so simple as handing her straight over to Nelyafinwë and letting him carry her off in the back of his wagon like a stowaway. If Lindalórë was so much as _glimpsed_ anywhere about the city, she would be swarmed by those seeking monetary compensation for her return, or those who believed wholeheartedly (and foolishly) in Hendumaika’s pitiful worried father act, and no one would allow her a word in edgewise to explain that she very much _did not_ wish to be returned home to her not-so-loving family.

It was a mess. One none of the unfortunately involved souls were looking forward to mopping up. They would be lucky if it stayed only this sort of quiet and tangled mess, however, and did not escalate to something more dangerous.

_Much as I know this would probably never have happened if Curufinwë were not here, I am grateful that he is abroad for this._ Anairë shuddered, thinking of the nephew who most resembled in temperament and appearance her fierce and crazed brother-in-law, Fëanáro. _I would not have wanted to see what he did to Calmacil or to Hendumaika if he had gotten to them before he could be stopped or talked down from his rage. Or maybe I would have, but not the consequences of such bloody revenge._

Fëanáro had done much worse to more precious people for much smaller infractions. The man had left Nolofinwë and two thirds of the exiled Noldor to freeze and starve out of unfounded paranoia! What might his progeny do to a rapist and an abusive father of a Fëanáriel? The fifth son’s rage would be founded, even expected, for only a wildfire explosion of temper would befit the severity of the crime at hand. But not everyone—particularly those at Court—would see the inevitable violence that would follow, visited upon Hendumaika and upon Calmacil the rapist, as justified or befitting.

No, better that Curufinwë was away.

Bad enough that Nelyafinwë was going to be told. Bad enough that they would be dealing with the rage and horror of four Fëanárioni.

Anairë was not looking forward to the wreckage at the end of that discussion.

So, if there was even the smallest ray of sunshine peeking out of this entire dark and stormy nightmare, she was going to grasp it with both hands and hold on tight. If Angaráto visiting was what it took to help Lindalórë come out of her guilt-stricken and traumatized catatonia and amass the bravery to leave the isolation of her rooms, then so be it!

“I meant what I said,” she then told her nephew. “You are welcome here in this home. Having at least one of them feeling better is a boon on any day. My hands are full enough with my husband, and, as it is, I was beginning to think there was nothing to be done to assist Lindalórë in feeling better. So, when I thank you, please know that I do so sincerely, nephew.”

Dark gray eyes stared through her still. “Aunt Anairë, if you… if you need help with Uncle Nolofinwë…”

Caught off guard, she looked at her nephew in confusion. The man seemed to struggle with his words, wanting to say something but uncertain how to go about finding the right words. Until, finally, he averted his eyes and continued.

“If you ever find yourself in need of help, not understanding what you might do to assist in his recovery,” Angaráto murmured, “I might suggest that you go in search of a healer. Not one of the body, but one of the mind.”

“A healer of the mind?” Anairë had never heard of such a thing.

“It is something I encountered during visits to the Garden of Lórien,” he explained quietly. “My wife and I stayed there for a time, before I was well enough to sleep through a whole night unhindered. I know that the Valar have never been the most popular subject amongst the Noldor, especially the Exiles, but… I do not know that I could have recovered without their wisdom for guidance.”

Anairë was not privy to her nephew’s trauma, and she had no intention of learning more than she wished to know now. But she could not deny that the suggestion offered a great deal of temptation. Even a handful of days watching Nolofinwë closely to be certain he did not do himself harm, even a handful of nights listening to him toss and turn and groan and hoarsely cry through his nightmares, and she was already feeling worn and stretched.

If there was something that the Valar and their ilk could offer that would help…

“I will think of your words,” she said quietly, knowing already that convincing Nolofinwë to accept any sort of treatment at all would be the real impossible feat in this scenario. “My thanks, nephew.”

Angaráto’s smile was wane but sincere. “Then, I bid you goodnight, Aunt Anairë.” He leaned down and kissed her cheeks. “If you or Uncle Nolofinwë or Lindalórë have need of me, I will be staying at the palace as a guest of my father. Do not hesitate to call for me for any aid at any time of day. Truly.”

Though she could not say that she quite understood what it was that had her nephew so _eager_ to help, she still nodded in acceptance and smiled, feeling just a little warmer and just a little less adrift in a sea of uncertainty. “Of course.”

With a sharp nod, he escaped out onto the porch, pulling his cloak about his shoulders. For a few minutes, Anairë stood upon the steps, watching him go and thinking about what he had said just moments before.

_The Gardens of Lórien._ Her eyes fluttered briefly over the tiny front garden, glancing down the street in search of watchers, before she closed the door with a soft click.

_Perhaps this is the answer I was searching for,_ she thought, standing still and silent with her hand pressed up against the cool wood frame, lightly carved and familiar beneath her fingertips after so long living within these walls, so long brushing her palm over its bumps and dips each time she closed the door behind her.

_Perhaps, there could be a way…_

A way for her husband to heal. To be truly, undeniably better.

Heart in her throat, she turned away and headed back into the house. And, though she spoke of it not at all to her spouse that night, she could not drive the lingering thoughts from her mind.

The lingering… _Perhaps…_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:
> 
> Atar (Q) = Father  
> Fëanárioni (Q, p) = sons of Fëanáro  
> Finwioni (Q, p) = sons of Finwë (men of his House)  
> Anar (Q) = the Sun  
> Amillë (Q) = Mother  
> Fëanáriel (Q) = daughter of Fëanáro


	72. Of Hauntings by Unwanted Memory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two cousins bonding. And some unpleasant news.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: nightmares, semi-explicit description of being crushed, death by shock/drowning, guilt/blaming, unhealthy coping mechanisms, shock, some questionable life advice, Curufin's version of brotherly affection, mentions of rape/abuse, PTSD (flashback present, but we're seeing it happen from an outside POV), fantasies of inflicting violence
> 
> The first part of this is, of course, a continuation of the hunt sub-arc. The rest picks up where Chapter 49 left off. We have finally caught everyone but Carnistir, Aikanáro and Aikambalotsë (sort of) up to the main timeline. Wow. I was not expecting that to take twenty chapters. We're also seeing the first really hardcore signs of PTSD from Angband in Nelyo here, so read responsibly.
> 
> Maedhros = Maitimo = Nelyafinwë = Nelyo = Russandol  
> Maglor = Makalaurë = Kanafinwë = Káno  
> Celegorm = Tyelkormo = Tyelko = Turkafinwë = Turko  
> Caranthir = Carnistir = Morifinwë = Moryo  
> Curufin = Atarinkë = Curufinwë = Curvo  
> Amrod = Ambarussa = Pityafinwë = Pityo = Minyarussa  
> Amras = Umbarto = Telufinwë = Telvo = Atyarussa  
> Turgon = Turukáno  
> Fingon = Findekáno  
> Glorfindel = Laurefindil  
> Ecthelion = Ehtelion  
> Egalmoth = Aikambalotsë  
> Idril = Itarillë  
> Finarfin = Arafinwë  
> Fingolfin = Nolofinwë  
> Aredhel = Írissë

_Isilya, 57 Lairë (9 July)_

\---

Pale blue eyes itched and burned with the need to rest, like they were filled with dust and grit that could not be blinked away. Restlessly, he shifted in his makeshift bed on the cold hardness of the ground, ignoring the urge to rub at them, knowing it would do nothing to drive the sensation away.

If he were a braver man, he would have simply allowed them to droop. Would have given in to the call of sleep and let nature have her course. Instead, he resisted in fear, knowing that nothing pleasant or soothing or restful waited for him on the other side of the mirror of consciousness. Cowardly though it might be, he did not want to visit those dreams again, not when he felt them crowding up in the back of his subconscious like a long line of jeering faces, each waiting their turn to wield the cruel instruments of torture, each waiting for the chance to pounce upon him and leave him writhing and screaming in the night. Until, abruptly, he was inevitably thrown back into the waking world with his throat raw and his heart trying to leap from his mouth like a large and monstrous frog.

Stubbornness was part of his very blood, and pride a fundamental component of his make, but Turukáno knew he could not resist the call of rest forever. No more than Curufinwë could. At some point in the night, whilst listening to the sounds of even breathing and the quiet snicks of a hunting knife carving methodically at wood, he dropped into slumber.

_And there was cold._

_There was always cold. No matter where he went. It was always there._

_This was how it always started._

_And then the crack of ice beneath his feet, the feeling of the ground—not the ground, really, but a massive berg finally breaking away from its larger parent glacier and drifting on the frigid waters below until, with a deafening sound, it clashed with another massive chunk of ice and shivered from the blow like an earthquake—heaving and crunching and leaving his balance faulty. Tripping over his own toes, he stumbled and fell hard, felt the bite of ice and snow at his hands as they broke his fall and the jolt of pain in his wrists as they bent the wrong way beneath his weight, closed his eyes against the flakes flying up into his face and braced for the bruise he knew he was going to have when his head made contact with the ice. His chin came down hard upon the unyielding ground, and his teeth clacked and clattered as his jaw was snapped shut by the blow._

_In his ears, he could hear the raised voices, unsettled and surprised, through the ringing. And then another crack. And then another. And then another._

_And then screaming as someone fell between. His blood went cold._

_What with how the ocean currents sent the ice careening every which way, bashing into other bergs and smashing their jagged sides to bits, getting caught between was a gruesome method of meeting death. Turukáno had seen it before, watching with horrified eyes in the earlier days of the march across the Helcaraxë as a man slipped down into the crevice and tried desperately and futilely to claw his way back to safety above, unable to move out of the way as the thin opening of ice he had fallen into began to close. There had been a high-pitched shriek, the sound of ice upon ice and the squish of soft tissue between, and then the bergs slowly drifted apart again enough to_ see.

_Enough to see popped organs and splattered blood and the gleam of broken bone. It was a sight he could live an eternity without ever seeing a second time, let alone the dozens he had seen since._

_“Amillë! Amillë!” A familiar voice was screaming in his ears. “Emya!”_

_Shaking away the spots gathered before his eyes, he remembered looking up, searching for his wife and his daughter. They had been together, just a few feet ahead, safe beneath his watchful gaze. But, when he looked up, he could only see one golden head._

_Panic. He remembered the panic most after that._

_The feeling of helplessness as he crawled to the edge, putting himself in danger as he pulled his daughter back and shoved her into Ehtelion’s chest almost violently, watching the dark opening before his feet widen through his dizzying vertigo, shivering as the whole world tilted sideways and his stomach tried to turn itself inside out. He remembered Laurefindil there, shouting into his face and shaking his shoulders, but the words were gone with the wailing of the winter wind._

_And he remembered looking down into the abyss and seeing her clinging to the ice precariously, lower half in the water. Already, she was in danger of dying from the cold. Even those they managed to pull out of the water often perished, unable to reclaim inner warmth. They would die in unconsciousness just after their body ceased to shiver despite being icy to the touch._

_They had minutes if they wanted even a chance of saving her. Maybe less._

_But the minutes felt too short, as short as the gasping breaths that left his lungs as he stared at Elenwë’s terrified face, at her lips turning blue to match the wideness of her eyes. There was a scrambling effort to find rope long enough to throw down to her, to find something she could grab to tie at the end because her frozen hands and feet would not allow her to climb up the craggy wall of ice nor even hold onto the slender, smooth rope as they hoisted her out._

_“Stay calm!” he called to her, though he felt no calm himself at all, watching the minutes tick by with his heart racing._

_“Turukáno, I—”_

_And then everything went wrong._

_Everything always went wrong. No matter how many times he stood here, no matter how many times he looked down at her, no matter what words he thought to say._

_There was a crack as another chunk of ice broke away. The blood drained from his face so quickly that he was dizzy as he looked down at her, at the way her head spun to watch the huge, frigid wall closing in. Like all the others, there was nowhere for her to go, no way for her to climb out of the way, no time for her to even think of doing either even had she the ability to swim or climb through the violent shivering of her limbs._

_It crushed her. And Turukáno only knew the high-pitched scream of her agony. The smell of her freshly-spilled blood coating his tongue and making him gag. The color red was bright against the dark blue and the white. Her lower half—he could not be certain, but at least from the thighs down—was pinched between the two floating masses, undoubtedly crushed._

_Rebounding, the second chunk of ice slid back to reveal the full extent of the damage._

_And Turukáno used every trick he knew to avoid being sick at the sight of it. Instead, he looked around with pleading eyes, trying to find something—anything!—he could use to pull her out before she lost her grip and sank. “Where is that fucking rope? Laurefindil?”_

_Frantically, he looked back down at her. Just in time to see her consciousness slipping. Blue eyes blinked up at him twice more, glazed over with pain and shock, and then her fingers slipped from their hold._

_Elenwë went under water. With no legs to swim, unconscious from the sudden shock of being crushed, they all knew she would not be coming back up._

_“No,” he hissed out then, going forth, fully prepared to leap in after her._

_But hands held him back. No matter how he tore at their grip, clawing bloody marks into bare skin, they would not yield. “Let me go!” he screamed, voice raw. “She will drown! Let me go get her! Let me go!”_

_“There is nothing to be done,” a voice said in his ear._

_“Be quiet,” he hissed out, vision blurring. “Let me go…”_

_“Stop, Turukáno… Stop struggling…”_

_But he could not. Of course, he could not! His wife was drowning! And he was standing here, watching it happen, crying like an idiot!_

_“Let me go,” he moaned out._

_“Quit whining,” a new voice said. He turned to look, saw his cousin Curufinwë standing there with a sneer looking like a phantom doppelganger of Uncle Fëanáro with those same vicious mercury eyes. “Honestly, so pathetic…”_

_“If you had just been watching her,” a female voice butted in, “None of this would have happened. If you had been more careful, Amillë would still be alive!”_

_He wanted to argue. He wanted to argue with Itarillë whose face looked so like her mother’s. Itarillë who glared at him with a gaze as icy as any her father or grandfather could muster. He wanted to tell her that he had done all he could. He wanted to tell her it was not his fault. He wanted to tell her that her mother would have wanted them all to be safe. He wanted to tell her that Elenwë would have been on his side._

_“Do not lie,” Laurefindil hissed in his ear, looking irate, blue eyes dark. “She would never have agreed with this folly. With_ your _folly!”_

_“She was wise,” his daughter inserted, standing to one side and her uncle to the other. “Amillë would never have put her people at risk! And for what? For the sake of pride? She would be too ashamed to look at you as you are!”_

_“She would be horrified,” Laurefindil agreed._

_“You deserve her scorn,” Curufinwë added, and his smile was poison._

_“This is your fault,” Turukáno snarled at his Fëanárion cousin. Because it had to be_ someone’s _fault. It_ had _to be! Surely, Elenwë could not have brought such horror and pain down upon herself! Surely, she did not deserve such an end!_

 _It was all caused by_ them, _he told himself. And Curufinwë kept smiling like the fiend he was deep down in his evil spirit._

_“Keep lying all you like,” his cousin said, “But we both know the truth. We both know who is really at fault here. We both know who was not watching closely enough…”_

_“We all know,” Laurefindil said, and Itarillë nodded._

_“We all know,” a new voice echoed from behind. Spinning around, Turukáno’s face was slapped with the harsh gusting of the bitter winds of Helcaraxë, skin bare to the wild tormentor that seemed to instantly freeze the top two layers of flesh with but a brutal caress. And he looked into familiar green eyes. “Just like Elenwë, we know who is responsible for all those who suffered and died beneath the dragon-fire, upon the swords, driven from their homes and slaughtered in the streets.”_

No, _Turukáno wanted to say. To beg._ No, do not say it!

_“We all know that you did this,” the green-eyed fiend hissed, face close, filling up Turukáno’s vision with acidic verdant. “We all know that you are at fault.”_

_“No,” he said quietly. “I did not mean for this!”_

_To which the specter of Aikambalotsë scoffed. “What good does it do anyone for you to be sorry? What does it change, that you meant not the end result to which you led your loyal and trusting followers? None!”_

_“Please,” he choked out, “I am sorry. Please…”_

Please forgive me… I was a fool… Please, forgive my arrogance and pride…

_But Aikambalotsë just laughed in his face, and he felt hot flecks of spittle on his cheek, each like a brand for their red-hot touch. “I will never forgive you! There is nothing you could ever do, nothing you could ever say, to make me forgive you, Turukáno Nolofinwion! Nothing!”_

_Nothing!_

And then he sucked in a harsh breath and blinked his eyes.

And there was no snow. There was the hard ground beneath his back, the thin summer traveling blanket kicked down to tangle about his ankles, the stars overhead in a net of light and Isil at first quarter shining white and cold above. Sitting up, Turukáno felt his breathing slow, his heartrate dropping, the rushing in his blood calming.

That nightmare. Again.

The chill set in. Climbing over his skin, sinking down to his bones. Helplessly, he raised his hands and rubbed at his arms even knowing it would do naught to combat the phantom of cold that beset his body until he was shivering uncontrollably.

Mild shock. He knew that was what it was. He experienced it often enough. Especially these past few days. Last night, he had awoken three times to this same exact nightmare of Helcaraxë twisting into something _else._ And, even knowing that Aikambalotsë had probably traversed countless leagues beneath the stars already to put distance between them, he still waited on baited breath for the man to leap forward spitting insults and slurs like a diabolical specter out of the night. To ran down the blows until Turukáno, beneath that onslaught, finally cracked and bled from his unhealed spiritual wounds beneath the harsh verbal blows.

It never came, though, that cruelty. Turukáno almost might have preferred if it had. If some punishment were inflicted. If something was done in recompense for his crimes.

As if that would make any of it right.

With a sigh, he swiped a shaky hand over his eyes, wondering at their wetness. At least there was no one else to see, what with how Ehtelion was lingering on the far side of the fire, probably offering him a token amount of privacy to recover from his nightmares in solitude. They had been getting exponentially worse since beginning this journey—since long-term exposure to Aikambalotsë and the man’s malicious hatred raining down constantly like a caustic rain upon his spirit, keeping him always anxiously on his toes wondering if he would be the unfortunate victim of harsh words or, worse, a curved blade—but, since he had confronted the former Lord of Ondolindë…

“Are you going to sleep again?”

Unprepared for the familiar voice so close—practically from right behind his back—Turukáno could not have prevented the knee-jerk reflex of unsheathing the knife in his boot and brandishing it in the face of the sneaky bastard who thought to scare him half to death in the middle of the night. Wild-eyed, he zeroed in on his potential attacker, only to see Curufinwë Fëanárion crouching there looking wholly unimpressed with one sharp brow raised and his nose crinkled as if in disgust.

“So high strung,” his half-cousin complained.

“What are you _doing?”_ Turukáno snapped out, re-sheathing the knife with a shaky hand and trying not to quail or flush in mortification at being so startled by his crazed cousin, at paying so little attention to his surroundings in his state of lax trust that he was snuck up upon by a damned _Fëanárion._

“Nothing worthy of such suspicion,” his cousin answered with a half-smirk, “Or is it suddenly against the rules to demonstrate concern for one of my dear cousins?”

“You do not feel concern for anyone or anything,” Turukáno grumbled, “Rat.”

Curufinwë, far from being offended, simply rolled his eyes and flopped over upon his own makeshift nest on the ground. “Now, now, we both know that was very rude. Do you not think name-calling is a bit childish?”

To which Turukáno simply turned away with a huff, grumbling under his breath. And trying not to think about how the short interaction, strangely absent of hostility, had cleared the air after the nightmare. His skin now prickled with the heat of the nearby fire, no longer stricken with the chill of his panicked memory. Truthfully, he had not even noticed the shock slipping away until it was already vanished.

As he turned around, squirming to reorganize his body against the rough stones poking through his thin bedding, Turukáno heard his cousin sigh.

“You should not take to heart Aikambalotsë’s words so thoroughly,” the Fëanárion told him. “It will do you no good to linger on what he has said. Or to wait on his healing and forgiveness to begin moving on.”

At that moment, Turukáno did not really know what to think. Looking over his shoulder, he tried to gauge whether or not, in the sheen of the firelight, Curufinwë looked as though he were mocking or teasing or making a jest. Except, there was no knife-like smile on those pale, thin lips, and no diabolical glitter in the silvery eyes shining bright as Isil overhead. Just a curious and foreign sternness, akin to expressions Turukáno had, on rare occasion, seen upon cousin Nelyafinwë’s features. Long ago, in far-past days. It was so strange to see someone _other than Fëanáro_ in the face of Curufinwë Fëanárion that Turukáno felt almost disoriented. Staring, he could not, for long moments of awkward silence, think of what he ought to say.

“What do you even know about it?” he finally choked out hoarsely. “You and your demonic siblings… None of you feel guilt for anything you have done.”

Those lips twitched strangely, twisting. “Do not be stupid. Of course, we all have regrets and we all feel guilt. Maybe not for the things you people think we should feel guilt for—” That jab was directed straight into Turukáno’s heart, straight through that horrible memory of his wife shrieking in terror and being crushed between the jagged shards of ice. “—but we do feel it. Every bit as much as you do.”

“None of you can even relate,” Turukáno ground out, averting his eyes out of shame. “I killed an entire _city_ because I was being a fear-driven idiot.”

Curufinwë snorted disdainfully. “You could not have predicted what would happen. You could not say, even now, whether the outcome would have been better had your entire city been emptied, traveling vulnerable with untrained men, women and children across the orc-ridden countryside in the middle of wartime with no allies at your back and no friends to call upon for aid should you come under attack. Do you honestly think that, had you emptied Ondolindë and fled to the south, your people would have been any safer there than they were in your secret little pearl of paradise in the mountains?”

Biting his lip, the former King of Ondolindë shuddered. “There is a chance they could have been. And I let it slip me by because I was too much of a coward to listen to the warnings given and too neglectful a guardian to keep an eye on my own kinsmen.”

“And there is a chance that the Enemy might have been laying in wait for you right outside the mountain gates and would have slaughtered or enslaved you all, and then there would have been no eventual Eärendil to sail across the sea and convince the Valar of the folly of their exiling ways,” Curufinwë countered. And, though his voice was sarcastic and mocking, clearly brandishing as a whip his personal dislike and displeasure with the Valar over the situation like a salted, bitter downpour of blows, there was a note of truth to his words.

Turukáno resisted. He resisted the urge to let his cousin talk him into… into forgiving himself… into just…

“No, we were warned by Ulmo himself,” the former King insisted. _“I_ was _warned.”_

To which Curufinwë just sneered. “As if the Valar are omniscient and omnipotent. Just like the rest of us, those high and mighty beings in their distant white towers and deep underwater fortresses, watching it all unfold from a callous and sterile distance, make mistakes and misjudgments. Your trust in their wisdom is misplaced.”

 _That is not something I am willing to debate with a Fëanárion._ Even Turukáno was not stupid enough to try to tout and sell the virtues of the Valar to one of Fëanáro’s blood, for there were none amongst the Eruhíni more hateful and distrusting of the Ainur—especially their Lords and Queens—than those born of the Spirit of Fire.

Instead, he simply sighed. “But neither can it be said that things _would not_ have ended better had I emptied the city and fled south as I ought to have done.”

“It is far too late to make a different decision now,” Curufinwë pointed out. “Are you really going to let a single stupid decision define the rest of eternity for you? Begging forgiveness off bitter and unhealed, wounded subjects who just want someone to blame for the misfortune of war? That they thought you—or anyone else—could have protected them fully from the onslaught of death and destruction was already folly and foolishness. That they thought some mystical prophecy made by one of the Valar—who could not even be bothered to intervene in his own right when our people were captured and tortured and dying and yet claimed to _love_ us—would save them all is absolutely laughable and makes me want retch. People die in war, and no leader nor commander nor prince nor king could possibly save them all.”

Pensive was his cousin’s voice, those starry eyes flickering over the other sleeping figures scattered around, over the fire at the center of their clearing, and then up towards the wheeling of the stars.

“I could have saved them,” Turukáno countered weakly.

“No, you could not have,” his cousin immediately denied. Not harsh or insulting or mocking. Just a simple statement of fact. “No one could save them. Your daughter and son-in-law were lucky to have found their way to Valinórë, lucky to have been welcomed, but the rest were nothing but fodder for a greater purpose. All the other refugees of Ondolindë who stayed foolishly on the mainland at the Havens of Sirion were slaughtered by my brothers and their followers. And, even had we not come along, eventually Morgoth’s forces would have raised the rest of that wretched little hole of dying trade and darkening days to the ground.”

“Perhaps, had I been in my right mind, I would have thought to lead them to the Isle of Balar,” Turukáno insisted. “Perhaps, had I been thinking correctly—”

“And, perhaps, if my father had not been crazy none of us thrice-be-damned morons would ever have left Valinórë at all!” Curufinwë harshly interjected. “What idiocy! To recite ‘perhaps this’ and ‘perhaps that’ like it matters what one _could have done_ but _did not!_ You are here and now. You cannot go back. You cannot force your former followers to forgive you nor give your words but a moment’s notice. So, learn to live without their forgiveness.”

Turukáno felt his heart twist and ache. He thought of his daughter. How he had not spoken to her but once since his rebirth. How she had taken one look at his face, her eyes filling with tears and her lower lip trembling, and looked away, telling him to go and leave her be and never come back to bother her or Tuor again.

“I do not think I can,” he admitted.

There was some pity looking back at him from his cousin’s gaze. And some understanding. “You may have to.”

“Is that what you do, then?” Turukáno asked. “Just learn to live with all the lives you have destroyed with your own two hands?”

A smile was his answer, harsh and sharp and filling his belly with fluttering and writhing dread. “I do not really think our situations are comparable in that way, cousin. What I did was very purposeful and very intentional, and I did it because I felt there was no path that would lead to a better outcome for myself and my kin, and for no other reason than that. And I will not ever apologize for putting the wellbeing of my brothers first and foremost over the empty and meaningless lives of strangers.”

To hear the way the Fëanárion spoke of the Kinslaying at Menegroth was horrifying, and it made Turukáno feel a little ill. He imagined his face might be tinged green for the nausea tugging at the back of his tongue until he nearly gagged.

“I did what I thought best,” his cousin said, reaching out to pat his shoulder, as if the blasted monster did not realize that Turukáno was driven nearly to vomiting at such unforgivable and pitiless disregard for thousands of innocent lives lost. The Nolofinwion flinched from the touch, but Curufinwë pretended not to notice. “You did what you thought was best, cousin. There is nothing to forgive in that, because you did not do anything wrong. At least, you did not in my eyes. And, in the end, the results would have been the same.”

Shrugging when Turukáno could not muster any words to respond, the Fëanárion scooched back over to his makeshift bed. “Do try to sleep so you do not continue to slow us down with your brooding and pouting, cousin Turukáno,” was all he said.

And then he rolled over and seemingly went to sleep.

And Turukáno wondered how he was meant to feel in the wake of… _that._

 _I think… that a Fëanárion just made an attempt at honest to Eru_ comforting… _of a Nolofinwion…_ The thought was almost hysterical. Indeed, had he even so much as imagined a scenario such as this before this day, he might have laughed himself sick for the ridiculousness and stupidity of it, because no Fëanárion would ever hold such regard for a Nolofinwion, would ever go out of their way to be _kind,_ even in such a twisted and strange manner.

“Why?” was all he could think to ask.

Without turning around, Curufinwë let out a snort. “You are my cousin. As is Aikambalotsë my brother-in-law. And the pair of you were making each other intolerably miserable and obnoxious and annoying. I could not allow that.”

_You are my cousin._

Turukáno knew not whether to laugh or cry at being _claimed_ by a Fëanárion. Like a trinket or a toy or a follower or a pet. Or _something._ All of it was so strange that he wondered whether or not he had just dreamt this bizarre fantasy and only imagined waking up from a dream within the confines of another convoluted dream.

He pinched himself. Perhaps a hair too hard. Wincing, he knew that was going to leave a purple mark tomorrow.

“Now, go back to sleep. And quit having nightmares whilst you are at it. Bad enough that Laurefindil has them constantly, but at least his are bloody consistent.”

 _What even is this?_ Never in his life had anyone done such a backhanded and awkward job of trying to comfort and reassure him back into rest. Certainly, his mother had crooned to him as a child, sung lullabies when he had night-terrors or was frightened by storms or concerned about the dark shadows under the bed. But, otherwise, comforting had been the sole responsibility of his wife. And, in the long years without her by his side, he had simply gone without it.

It was almost, dare he think it… brotherly?

_Is this how they treat each other? The Fëanárioni?_

The thought crossed his mind as he bedded back down, still unsettled but not longer feeling either ill or cold or nearly so upset and riled as he had been before. Even when the thought of Aikambalotsë and his cruel words crossed the back of his mind, they flowed straight over the river of his thoughts as though lifted upon a bridge, never allowed to touch the current of his subconscious mind.

 _I will sleep and awaken to realize this has all been a figment of my overactive imagination,_ he thought indignantly, finally letting his eyes droop. _There is no reality in which this conversation truly happened._

Except, he was fairly certain that it had.

And he could not quite be certain what that really meant. For him, as the stinging agony in his heart abated in soothing waves (each time Curufinwë’s words repeated in his head), or for his cousin, who apparently no longer wanted to see him suffer like a pitiful slave to his emotions or to string him up by his throat like a dead deer. It seemed unbelievable.

But it felt… good. It felt good.

The tension dripped out of his muscles, left him lying viscous and syrupy and half-consciousness by the crackling fire, looking up at the stars and feeling very small.

And it was nice. To feel as though his choices, in the grand scheme of all Eä, may not have been that important after all. That, perhaps, they had not irrevocably altered the fate of the world. That, perhaps, he was just something small and simple from the view of eyes looking down from beyond the spiraling galaxies overhead.

He drifted off feeling okay. Not healed. Not fixed. But okay.

It was, at the very least, a start.

\---

And he did not have any more nightmares that night.

\---

When it finally came time to tell Maitimo of the missive she had received earlier that day, Istelindë struggled to broach the subject with any amount of delicacy.

Now was the time to do it, she knew. From across the room where he plucked halfheartedly at his harp whilst perched in the plush armchair before the fire, Makalaurë was eyeing her with no small amount of urgency, silently begging her to proceed with his flickering silver eyes. As they had discussed together earlier that afternoon, whilst a mud-covered Makalaurë dripped all over the front doormat and wrung water from his soaked hair, the eldest Fëanárion was most likely going to take the news from her lips better than he was reading it directly from parchment.

Still, knowing what she did of her husband and his past, about how protective he was of his little brothers and how far he was willing to go for the sake of his family, she knew it would not be easy news to swallow. Were it not for the fact that all the brothers present—including the twins—needed to know of the happenings in Tirion, she would have waited until she was abed with her husband to share the news. If she could have, she would have broken it to him gently in the dark sanctuary of their bedchambers where the stoic outer shell of his being could crack and fall away freely without concern that someone—like impressionable younger brothers relying on his strength of will and mental fortitude for guidance—might see.

They had not the luxury of such privacy for this, however.

So, when they were all settled in the main living area, gathered around the smoldering hearth keeping at bay any nighttime chill, she finally spoke. “I received a missive from Uncle Arafinwë today,” she announced quietly, feeling her husband’s body heat through her clothes as she was tucked up against his side quite snugly, allowing his bulk to shift beneath her weight such that his eyes could look down and meet hers.

“Another of your matchmaking plans?” he asked, lips quirking up at the corners. And it made her heart throb knowing that it was not something so simple or so sweet as all that, or she would have been near-jumping for joy and excitement

Even as he said the words, though, she could see the glint in his eyes that bespoke of suspicion. Not cold and hard suspicion as though of suspected wrongdoing, but it was clear that he sensed something was strange about her behavior this day, and there were questions in those silvery depths. Istelindë was not a particularly loud woman by nature, going about most of her day humming or in the quiet, walking on silent feet even upon the creaky old floorboards, only raising her voice when one of the boys was misbehaving and in need of scolding. Even so, she still liked to chat and share words of her day with her husband, still liked to fill the ears of her mate and his brothers with the highlights of her typically pleasant but uneventful adventures, explaining the newest addition to the herb gardens or chiding someone for getting mud stained on their clothes again or speaking of a new recipe she would like to try or asking for input on the colors for her next quilting project.

Tonight, she had been rather quiet and pensive instead. Thinking, inwardly directed, and not having the heart to make small pleasantries. The mood for simple joy was not there, and who could really blame her for that, knowing what her sister-in-law was going through? Knowing what their family was about to be going through?

“It was something a bit more serious than that,” she admitted with a bit of hesitance, fingers teasing over the firm muscle of his arm wrapped about her waist. “Uncle Arafinwë has summoned you and I to Tirion, but I think all of us should go. To present a united front.”

Now her husband’s mouth was downturned, and she hated how harsh he always looked when he was not smiling or relaxed. Displeasure sat on his face like an intimidating mask in the heaviness of his disgruntled frown and the sharp, cruel cant of his eyebrows. “What is he summoning us for?”

The other brothers were listening. Makalaurë with a knowing and resigned look. The twins trying to be surreptitious and failing miserably.

“The Lord of the House of Helyanwë has accused us of kidnapping his daughter,” Istelindë finally said, voice low and tremulous with nerves. “Lindalórë went missing in the night some three days ago, the same day brother Pityafinwë and I were in town running errands.”

At first, Maitimo simply gave an insulted and confused look, mostly on her behalf and on behalf of his baby brother, for Istelindë knew he would never believe such a thing of either her or of Pityafinwë. “That… that is absolutely ridiculous! For Eru’s sake, Curufinwë is not even here, and the rest of us would have no reason to so much as breathe in her direction! And they are wasting time now with summoning us forth like unruly dogs to be gawked at by the gossiping courtiers whilst a woman is _missing?_ Whilst a _member of our family_ is _missing?_ Does Uncle Arafinwë actually believe any of this nonsense?”

None of them could blame him for the raised voice, for the skeptical growls, for the look of upset on his features. Still, all but Istelindë were leaning slightly away, flinching back as if waiting for the true explosion of tornadic rage about to take place.

The worst, of course, was yet to come.

“No,” she said, reaching out to lay a calming hand upon her husband’s arm, to wrap another behind his head and cup the nape of his neck soothingly, holding him in place such that he was looking at her. Into her eyes as she perched half curled up in his lap. “No, he does not. Maitimo, vennonya, Arafinwë knows that we did not kidnap Lindalórë. Because she was not kidnapped at all. She has fled her family, and he knows exactly where she is. He is not accusing us of the deed. He simply wants to prove our innocence.”

“There is no need for us to be present for that. Someone will have seen you and Pityafinwë leaving without a third party stowing away in the wagon, and he could simply _send_ some poor idiot up here—or more than one, if it would make the Court ninnies happy—and determine that we are not, in fact, in possession of nor holding captive a missing woman anywhere on our rather small property. It is not like he needs to even—” Silver eyes narrowed, thoughts spiraling behind their glowing fire so fast that Istelindë wondered how her husband’s mind did not simply unravel and fall to pieces. “He wants us in Tirion. Uncle Arafinwë has summoned us because he wants us there.”

Slowly, Istelindë nodded. Of course, Maitimo was intelligent—to a frightening degree when he truly put his mind to it—and would have no trouble seeing straight through Arafinwë’s motives for “inviting” the couple for a “visit” at their earliest convenience. “He desires for us to discretely remove Lindalórë from the city and bring her here. To safety.”

“To safety,” he echoed. As though the idea of Lindalórë being truly _unsafe_ was too bizarre and unholy to even imagine.

This, of course, was the part Istelindë had been dreading.

“She ran away from home, Maitimo,” she said gently, noting that Makalaurë was averting his eyes but the twins were openly engaged in listening, not even trying to pretend that they were still more interested in the flickering hearth-fire than in this mysterious missive from King Arafinwë and the unfolding happenings in Tirion.

“Turkafinwë runs away from home constantly, as does Írissë. Back before the Darkening, Curufinwë would sneak Lindalórë out on some overtly romantic adventure or another at least three times a week right up until they married and moved into the cottage together,” the eldest said, struggling to find any way to justify the behavior of his sister-in-law that did not broach the possibility of severe parental abuse. “I thought it might just be that she needed time away from her parents, like Írissë’s recent foolish disappearing act. Lord Hendumaika is a greedy creature, egocentric to his very core and probably a nightmare to live with, but I did not think he would do anything to harm his daughter or allow it in his household!”

“Well,” Makalaurë interjected bitterly, entering the conversation and drawing Maitimo’s eyes to his sneering features, “You thought wrong, Nelyo.”

Such an expression was rare to see upon Makalaurë’s handsome face. The second brother was not as soft-hearted as people would have liked to believe, of course, but he was a generally soft-spoken and laidback individual, not prone to acts of impetuous violence or bouts of sudden and inexplicable temper as were the majority of his siblings. So, to see genuine rage hard and burning in those usually liquid and dark gray eyes, turning them almost ashy black, was something that Istelindë had experienced herself for the very first time today.

The expression had Maitimo grim-faced. “What happened to her?” And they could all feel the lick of his fiery spirit rising up from his core, bursting outwards to poke and prod in little stinging caresses, restrained for the moment but threatening, nonetheless. The potential for an uncensored burst of temper and violence hiding just under the surface was there, so close to rearing its ugly head that they could all feel it like ash in the backs of their throats.

Istelindë was familiar with this aspect of her mate, having seen it once before on the morning after Midsummer, having soothed it with gentle words until the red-hot heat was cooled back down, reminding Maitimo that she cared nothing for the bitter and judgmental words of unimportant folk disparaging her choice in spouse and that her love for and acceptance of him were so much more important. That morning, after the mind-rending and perfect night of their first joining, she had dived into the fiery embrace of his spirit and calmed the flames back down until he had been all but purring into her arms like a satisfied feline.

But, then, the offense had been but a trifling thing in comparison. Some half-drunken and idiotic nobleman spouting slurs and insults upon Istelindë’s person was such a trivial happening in comparison to _this._

And Istelindë was not certain of her ability to calm Maitimo when he knew the full extent of what had taken place.

Half of her was not certain she even wanted to try and mitigate the damage his fey fury might wreak upon the heads of those disgusting abusers. That part of her, firm in the belief that women should be safe in the keeping of their families and should be afforded the basic respect and love of their parents—that part of her which, ultimately, had rebelled violently against her own oppression and led her down the path that had resulted so surprisingly and wonderfully in a loving marriage with the most unexpected of men—wanted to see Hendumaika feel the flames and the blade of her husband’s wrath. A man who intentionally wanted to marry his daughter off for monetary gain to… to a _creature_ like this Calmacil was…

It made her stomach almost heave and spill right then and there.

Only the potential consequences of her husband rampaging and slaughtering the well and truly deserving monsters involved in Lindalórë’s captivity, near-assault and attempted forced marriage kept her stubbornly in his lap, running her fingers gently through his unbound russet curls, trying to calm him physically before sharing the worst of the news. For months, the couple had been working hard to integrate their family—Maitimo and all his little brothers—back _into_ society, which was very much not accepting of physical brutality or retaliation. The last thing they needed was more blood on their hands and another millennia or five of banishment to the forgotten edges of Valinórë to rot over the violent (if well-deserved) end of two horrible and abusive men.

They were not worth the setback. That was what she told herself, in any case.

“Lord Hendumaika tried to force her to negate her marriage to Curufinwë and marry another man of his choosing,” Istelindë murmured, still stroking her cool hands upon her husband’s fiery skin, watching as a stark red flush crept up towards his cheeks whilst his eyes turned whiter and whiter, “To this absolute _monster_ of a man who has physically assaulted and threatened her with… with unspeakable things.”

Maitimo’s lips were white, pulled tight in a snarl, and his body shifted, growing restless beneath her weight, sitting up from his lazy recline. “Why did not one inform us of this immediately? I would have gone there myself and plucked her straight from her father’s household if I had known, as is my right as the patriarch of her husband’s House.”

“Uncle Arafinwë said he contacted us as swiftly as he could without suspicion,” Istelindë explained, not wishing for her husband to turn his rage onto Arafinwë. “He said that Lindalórë was trying to wait out the situation until we received word of her predicament and came to take her away, but her father and this man—Calmacil—tried to force the issue.”

There was a deadly stillness about her mate. Istelindë felt the little hairs on her arms and the nape of her neck stand on end. “Force the issue _how?”_ he asked, voice dropped half an octave and shuddering through her bones.

At that, she bit the inside of her cheek. “I am told that they threatened to beat and… and sexually assault the female servants until Lindalórë agreed to… to take their place and let…”

She could not finish saying it. Not while knowing that it had almost happened to her sister-in-law and it was only by sheer dumb luck that Lindalórë had been rescued in time. Not while knowing that it _had_ happened to the maid in question, who had _not_ had the good fortune to be rescued. Not while knowing that at least one person in this room had experienced such cruel violation and helplessness.

And she was sitting in his lap, listening to him breathe, looking into his eyes as he processed her words.

“Did they carry out their threats?” he asked.

On her tongue, she tasted blood, having bit firmly into the flesh of her inner cheek. Slowly, unwilling to lie and unwilling to say _that word_ aloud, she nodded. “To one of the maids. Lindalórë was rescued before they could do anything to her, but she was there, hiding in the bathroom. She heard it happening.”

They all waited for Maitimo’s response. Makalaurë fidgeted nervously, fingers fluttering over his harp but not daring to so much as brush across a string and break the heavy silence. Pityafinwë looked like he might be ill, face pale and tinged faintly in green. And Telufinwë… Well, Istelindë had never seen anyone look so grimly disgusted as did the youngest of the Fëanárioni, whose hands were clenched into his fists and shaking where they were knotted in the fabric of his leggings.

Finally, her husband swallowed. Silver eyes, staring into hers, shone bright with half-remembered terror and the full force of Fëanárion wrath. “I will skin them both,” Maitimo finally hissed out, declared as seriously as he might a confession of love and as viciously as he had snarled on Midsummer morning in his fleeting fit of wild rage. Istelindë felt his hand upon her upper arm, clenched almost too tight and bruising her flesh. “Hendumaika, that traitor, and this Calmacil, as well. To think that someone could even _contemplate_ doing such a deed here, in the hallowed protection of Valinórë… Such actions are befitting only the _orqui,_ and to see them perpetrated amongst the _Eldar—!”_

“Maitimo,” she crooned, brushing her hands across his cheeks, trying to calm him as his voice began to grow loud and waver with his emotion.

But he pulled away from her touch, not allowing her to soothe him as his spirit fluttered and burned around her with a hurricane’s force. “We will go tomorrow. This cannot be allowed to stand! Not for a moment longer than it needs to!”

“We all want both their heads cleaved from their bodies,” Makalaurë interrupted then, drawing his brother’s gaze. And the second-born winced beneath its burn but did not turn away and flee from what he saw in those depths. “But, hanno, we have to get Lindalórë. Feeding Hendumaika his own intestines can wait. The most important thing is to get Lindalórë here safely without suspicion, to act in Curufinwë’s stead.”

“And you think that Curufinwë would not, if he heard this, be marching out the door this very second to ride like a madman down the mountainside and slaughter both Hendumaika and Calmacil in the cold blood this very night?” Maitimo asked, already moving Istelindë out of his lap, trying to deposit her onto the cushions of the loveseat such that he could stand. What he planned to do once he was on his feet, she did not know. But she knew that, once he started pacing like a caged beast, he would be doubly difficult to calm.

Stubbornly, she clung, keeping him down, even though she could feel his chest heaving at twice its normal speed beneath her palms. He was unwilling to tear her grip away from his body, but she could feel his muscles tremble like an earthquake beneath her weight, desperate to _stand_ and to _move_ and to _do something._ “Maitimo,” she interrupted, pulling his attention back, reconnecting their gazes. “Maitimo, Lindalórë is in Nolofinwë’s keeping at the moment. She desperately needs our help to get out of the city. Her father has asked for her return, and he has offered a substantial amount of money as compensation for anyone willing to return her. Whether she wishes to be returned or not.”

 _If I can get him to focus on what needs to be done,_ she thought just a touch desperately, _then, perhaps, we can get through this without bloodshed or anything worse._

“Nolofinwë?” Through the haze of his anger, Maitimo seemed to realize that there was something strange about _Lindalórë_ being in the care of _Nolofinwë._ That the second son of Finwë was caring for and protecting a daughter of _Fëanáro._ Willingly, even.

“He saved her,” Istelindë said softly, stroking at her husband’s cheeks, combing her fingers through his curls. “Nolofinwë saved her.”

“But not…” His eyebrow curved upwards, and she recognized the first hints of _distress_ showing through as the flash of fury began to cool, that anger leading to a dead end of unfulfillment now that Maitimo was pinned in place and denied the agency to go forth and right the problem immediately. The first hint of tears—born out of frustration at the lack of action and shame at being instinctively fearful—peeking through the whirlwind of white-hot rage (and half-hidden terror) in the widening of his pupils, darkening his bright eyes to a dim gray as they glistened wetly. The fingers braced around her arm were trembling. Moving her hand to brush against his neck, just at the base, she could feel his heart racing beneath the weight of her palm. And she felt her own working double-time in response, because she knew her husband, knew that something was not right, knew that he was struggling to keep from falling apart now that the immediate effects of the anger had mellowed and he was left shaking in their wake.

Neither of the twins seemed to sense anything wrong with their eldest brother, though Makalaurë seemed wary, eyes narrowed and knowing and concerned as he looked on, lip worried between his teeth and hands writhing fitfully over the smooth lines and soundless strings of his golden harp. Pityafinwë, though, leaned forward, mouth grimly twisted. “We will not let such a thing stand,” the elder of the twins stated as a fact rather than as a suggestion. “We will bring Lindalórë back here, back home to where we know she will be safe until Curufinwë returns to her side, and we will _ruin_ her attackers.”

At his side, Telufinwë gave a sharp nod of agreement. And his eyes spoke of things—acts of unspeakable violence and aggression—that Istelindë could scarcely even begin to formulate within her own mind. Instinctively, though, she could sense the danger. In the incisive, spear-tipped gaze of Pityafinwë. In the predatory snarl of Telufinwë.

And she could sense her husband teetering on the brink of sanity all the while. Just a hair’s breadth away, waiting to be triggered by an unwise word.

“We will,” Makalaurë agreed quietly, and his voice echoed with that soothing quality that slid like silk over the soul. “But let us all be calm first. We cannot rush off and do something foolish.” There was a pregnant pause, and then he spoke again, and the smoothness was broken by a jagged note. “Not _again.”_

The twins flinch back. Both of them. As if those words had carried with them a physical blow rendering each speechless and cowering.

And Istelindë was too focused on her half-panicking mate to want to contemplate what that meant, why there was a sharp jab of chastisement on the second brother’s voice that left the two youngest wincing back and looking away like scolded children caught with stolen sweets in their greedy little hands before dinner.

“Nelyo,” Makalaurë said then, voice gentling. “Are you well?”

 _Of course, he is not!_ Istelindë wanted to shout it in frustration, to yank her hands through her hair just to feel the sting break through the jittering in her limbs, or maybe to cry. Because Maitimo was shivering now beneath her, and his eyes were distant and not entirely here with her, and she was not quite certain what to do when murmuring against his ear and stroking her hands through his hair did nothing to bring him back into the present moment, did nothing to make the strange physiological responses cease.

Her husband swallowed. Again, and again. Like his tongue was too dry or too swollen to speak.

For the first time, the twins _noticed_ that something was _not right._

“Nelyo?” Pityafinwë took a step closer, a look of consternation undeniably shining through the look of scolded child. “What is going on?”

“Maybe…” Makalaurë stepped between the twins and the couple, and Istelindë, in that moment, could have wept out of gratefulness. “Maybe the two of you should leave us. Nelyafinwë is not feeling well, and I think he would prefer to have his privacy and not be gawked at.”

A mulish look came over Pityafinwë’s features. “Shove off, Káno,” the older twin snapped. “We are not infants to be sent away!”

“I said _go!”_

And, like two dogs with their tails tucked between their legs, the twins went, casting dark looks over their shoulders at Makalaurë all the while. Until the door shut and left the remaining second brother silently overlooking Istelindë trying (and failing) to calm her husband.

“Here,” he said gruffly, reaching past her to force Maitimo’s head up. “Nelyo?”

Nothing but short, shallow breaths met his words. Even a short, hard shake of the redhead’s shoulders yielded nothing.

“Makalaurë?” she asked, voice high-pitched with her own rising fear.

“I have not seen him like this in a… in a long while,” the second brother admitted. “I am going to trick him into slumber. It is easier than trying to coax him back out of this state. Trust me, I know. Unlike Findekáno, with his cursed rescuing habits and penchant to drown himself in drink whenever things do not go his way, I actually sat through the aftermath of Angamando at my brother’s bedside.”

The words carried a bitter tang. Nevertheless, they were not directed at Maitimo, who the second brother handled carefully, pulling into an embrace.

She did not hear what Makalaurë said against his brother’s pointed ear. But she did see her husband go limp. Carefully, he was lowered onto his side to rest in her lap, head cradled up against the softness of her belly. And her fingers could not help but trace his features, now lax and expressionless with the onslaught of sudden rest. Dark eyes were half-hooded, still far away, but not gleaming with the emotions of a cornered animal.

Sleeping. He was sleeping.

“He will not dream,” Makalaurë added. “Do you want to move to your bedchambers? I can carry him upstairs if you require it.”

“No,” she said softly, struggling now with her own bout of tears, prickling hot at the corners of her eyes. “No, I… I do not want to move.”

_I think I will be sick if I try to stand._

Carefully, the second brother reached out and grasped her hand. “Forgive me. I should have suspected something like this might happen. He has not had such an episode since his rebirth, and I had thought him healed beyond such sudden incidents. Clearly, I was being too optimistic with my assessment. I should have known not to speak so cavalierly of such topics in his presence.”

“You did not know.” She was too tired and too distraught to be angry. Even had she not felt as though she had aged a millennium in mere minutes, she would not have blamed well-meaning Makalaurë for this mess.

“You are too kind and forgiving,” the second brother countered. “I will leave you to your rest here, then, and find somewhere outside to make my bed.”

“Wait,” she said as he made to pull away. “Please, stay. Just for a few minutes.”

It was a strange request. But, at that moment, Istelindë was not certain she could stand to be alone. What if Maitimo awoke and she was unable to reach him with her voice? What if he needed Makalaurë again and the second brother was not there to help?

Perhaps sensing the direction of her thoughts, without comment, the second brother settled down on the floor beside the loveseat. The sound of his breathing was loud and deep and full, and she listened to its slow and steady rhythm through the crackling of the low, drying fire in the hearth. All the while, her fingers stroked over Maitimo’s face. Over his sharp cheeks covered in a meadow of freckles. Over the softness of his lips no longer pursed and white. Over the natural curve of his brow, neither downturned in rage nor upturned in fear. And his breathing, too, had grown slow and deep in concert with his brother’s. In turn, she felt as though the tightness about her lungs had released, that her own panic was receding, and everything was, while certainly not _good,_ no longer on the brink of disaster.

“Do you think…” She swallowed, trying to find the right words. “Do you think we should stay here and send you in our stead, brother Makalaurë?”

Deep gray eyes looked up at her. Fingers plucked thoughtfully at the harp’s strings, and the soft ringing resonated with warmth through her chilled bones. “Nelyafinwë will not like being shoved aside as such. He will view it as acknowledgment of his weakness, that he has been defeated by the obstacle of his own mind. And there is little he hates more than being weak and vulnerable and defeated. Than being _incapable.”_

Istelindë knew this. Many things had her husband admitted to her in the privacy of their bed in the velvety darkness of the night. Including the largest scar left behind by his tenure in Angamando. And that scar had little to do with being repulsed by his physical handlessness and everything to do with _how he had become_ handless.

Loss of control. He feared nothing more than loss of control. Spending decades in a cell, tortured at the whims of cruel enemies, freedom stolen out from under his feet, treated like a toy for the amusement of others, then hung by his wrist from a cliff to starve and slowly perish, he knew what it was like to be trapped. Even his death, he had explained to her once, had been ripped from his fingers by Findekáno, denied to him even when he had begged for an end. And he could not summit and overcome the hatred that bubbled still in his gut at the thought of Findekáno—one whom he had trusted and loved as his own brother—being _just like his captors and torturers._ Taking away his right to choose and holding him hostage, forcing him to continue with a life he had not felt—at the time—was worth living.

She understood.

But…

“He is not ready to face someone else’s hardship,” she concluded. “I worry that, even with the best intentions, things will not go well.”

“I cannot force him to stay here in the mountains,” Makalaurë finally answered, voice resigned. “I have never been able to force him to do anything he does not wish to do. And I can guarantee that he will not allow himself to be left behind.”

That much was true. Istelindë doubted she could talk her husband out of it either. Stubbornness was the fatal flaw of all the Fëanárioni. And, though she loved them all dearly—loved Maitimo as her husband and the others as her younger brothers—she knew that the blood of Fëanáro ran straight and true in each and every one of them. Once convinced of a course, swaying their minds was neigh on impossible.

“If that is so,” she said, “then it is so. But I still would hope that you would take a more active role if necessary. I know it is much to ask, but—”

“It is not too much to ask,” Makalaurë interrupted. “I have cared for Nelyafinwë for centuries on end when he could not care for himself, and I am not about to stop now just because he has gone and gotten himself a wife. Do not be silly.”

A tiny smile crossed her face. “My thanks.”

“It is not something to be thanked for.” With a soft harrumph, he leaned his head back against the side of the threadbare loveseat and strummed. “I would suggest you get some rest. The next few days will be long and hard.”

His cheeks were pink and flustered. And, even through the lingering mist of tears and the shudder of distress down her spine, she could not help but give a small smile.

“Still,” she said, “My thanks.”

And he did not answer.

\---

_Aldúya, 58 Lairë (10 July)_

\---

When the sun came up in her eyes, beaming through the open window, there was birdsong and the soft snuffle of her mate as he shifted in sleep. Sitting up, she yawned and stretched her legs, doing her best not to disturb her husband still spilled across her lap as she reached back to rub at the sore stiffness of her neck.

Blinking, she looked down and saw Makalaurë sleeping propped up right where she had left him on the floor. And, on either side of him, the twins had found their way into position, piled like puppies.

The harp lay sadly discarded on the floor a few feet away.

And Istelindë just looked at the small disaster that was her family. And she hoped that, in the end, everything would be well. And they would all come through this in one piece.

Nothing did she desire more than that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:
> 
> Amillë (Q) = Mother  
> Emya (Q) = Mama/Mommy  
> Isil (Q) = the Moon  
> Ondolindë (Q) = Gondolin  
> Eruhíni (Q, p) = children of Eru  
> Ainur (Q, p) = angelic beings/angels  
> Fëanárioni (Q, p) = sons of Fëanáro  
> vennonya (Q) = my husband  
> orqui (Q, p) = orcs  
> Eldar (Q, p) = people of the stars, high-elves  
> hanno (Q) = brother (informal)


	73. In the Dark, Reigniting the Fell Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A look into the current state of the investigation of Aikanáro Arafinwion...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: infiltration/espionage, politics, mentions of rape/mercy killing, attempted sexual assault (thwarted), off-screen sexual assaults, morally ambiguous decisions, blackish humor, objectification of women, coercion, forced prostitution, depression, gambling, racism, talking about sex (crudely)
> 
> Alright, this chapter is probably going to bother some people. Not because it's really got anything explicit in it, but because of what happens off-screen and how the character (Aegnor) reacts. Essentially, at this point, he's low-key acting as a spy and goes along with some pretty nasty behaviors (avoids it as much as he can, but...) and says some questionable things. He tries his best. Read responsibly.
> 
> Maedhros = Maitimo = Nelyafinwë = Nelyo = Russandol  
> Maglor = Makalaurë = Kanafinwë = Káno  
> Celegorm = Tyelkormo = Tyelko = Turkafinwë = Turko  
> Caranthir = Carnistir = Morifinwë = Moryo  
> Curufin = Atarinkë = Curufinwë = Curvo  
> Amrod = Ambarussa = Pityafinwë = Pityo = Minyarussa  
> Amras = Umbarto = Telufinwë = Telvo = Atyarussa  
> Aegnor = Aikanáro = Ambaráto  
> Finrod = Findaráto  
> Finarfin = Arafinwë  
> Angrod = Angaráto

_Isilya, 57 Lairë (9 July)_

\---

“Come in, my Prince,” he was greeted at the door by a vaguely familiar face.

Inclining his head with a cutting smile that left his welcomer wincing back, Aikanáro crossed the threshold into unfamiliar territory with firm steps and a dismissive air about his gaze as it slid across the lower noble without acknowledgement. As his host closed the door upon his tail, his eyes scanned the new environment. It was a townhouse in one of the nicer parts of Tirion, but, similarly to his own, small and made for a single occupant rather than a couple or family. Just the sort of place a bachelor would make his home before the inevitable fate of marriage.

The main difference, of course, was the decadence. The fourth son’s home was essentially an empty and undecorated residence, for he had felt no need (and had no motivation besides) to in any way decorate his own habitation. No matter how many times Findaráto commented on the bland, whitewashed walls (“Perhaps a painting or two would better suit the living room? Amarië knows an artist in Valmar…”) or his parents tried to cajole him into adding some color (“How about some nice green?” his mother asked, eyeing the old, sheer white curtains with distaste, running her hands over the singular desk that alighted the room, sighing at the half-empty bookshelves, “Or maybe something red?”) there just seemed to be no point in making such an effort to add beauty and creature comforts to his own living quarters. Certainly, he was not going to appreciate them, and he never had any guests besides to care whether his study or living room or bedchambers were sparsely furnished and empty of signs of life.

(And, he knew from painful experience, that, if he tried to look at a room and imagine what it ought to look like with vibrant color and artwork and other unnecessary but homely trinkets or vases of flowers, he would inevitably think back to Andreth. And wonder what she would have liked. And wish that he had had the chance to ask. Or that she was standing beside him to hum and haw over the sad state of things and give her advice.

The reality was that he did not even know if his love would have liked red more than green or green more than blue, or if she would have hated the tendency of the Noldor to decorate in bold and jewel-toned colors altogether and preferred neutral colors or pastels or something else entirely. And that realization was enough to make his whole torso feel as though it were being crushed beneath the combined weight of all the bookcases and the ridiculous, streamlined and otherwise unremarkable and empty desk.

Was that not just such a sad thing? That he had wanted so terribly to make her his wife, and yet, he could not even name her favorite color or shade? It had been such a short time he had known her before they had parted, and she remained, in some ways, still a stranger.

There was so much he had missed, so many questions he had never had the chance to ask. And, now, there was eternity stretching on forever before his eyes, empty of promise except that he would walk the path to the end alone and without the companionship of the one he loved. Because his spouse was not of his kin, was not of the Eldar, and they were doomed to be apart until the End of All Things. By then, would she even want him back? Would she have waited for eternity to be at his side as he waited for her?

He would never have asked it of her. He would never have expected it of her.

There was every chance that he would reach the End and remain alone, left behind in his gray existence while Andreth moved on. That she would be happy at the side of someone else. Someone of her own kin. Someone who could be there when she needed him.

And it was too much to bear. If he so much as hung a painting on the wall, he would sit before it, gazing at its colorful splash against the bland background of white and dark brown, and he would wonder if she would have approved. And he would wish that she were there again. And he would sink down into that feeling over and over, until it weighed so heavily upon his mind and body that he could not bring himself to even move for the iron weights attached to every muscle and every bone.

So, he never decorated.

He did not want to think about her.

He knew where that would end. One time standing still and lost in the awful drowning sensation of loss for a decade was enough. There might not be someone capable of pulling him out of the black abyss a second time.)

Clearly, his host was interested in appearing wealthy despite being a relatively unknown noble with comparably trifling wealth to his name. The floors were fine dark marble, the carpets expensive and undoubtedly hand-woven and hand-dyed to vibrant wine and ivory shades, and the furniture had golden accents and was overlaid with silken coverings and crystal baubles and other unnecessary stuffs and treasures that cost more money than they were worth sitting still and untouched on a decorative table.

If he were his old self—the playful and quirky fourth son of Arafinwë who delighted in playing tricks and causing a ruckus for the sake of his own amusement—he would have looked upon the large vase acting as a centerpiece, its lip blooming outwards and rippling like the petals of a flower, its glass all painted in an array of black, reds, oranges, purples and yellows that faded to white, and would have snorted in amusement at the thought of knocking it onto the floor just to spitefully see the host’s shocked face. Would the lesser noble, who was sneaking nervously about at his heel and watching with slightly widened eyes as the Prince surveyed his new surroundings, have been angry at its shattering into a million shards? Or would the man have _graciously_ brushed off the _accident_ without causing incident because his guest was an important man of royal blood?

_I should not break anything intentionally,_ Aikanáro scolded himself lightly through the ghost of amusement. _Even if it would be entertaining to see this man’s face go white as he stutters and stumbles over his words, trying to reassure me that it is fine._

And, it would have only exacerbated the man’s obvious unsettlement and anxiety at having a _new_ guest present. After all, these sorts of parties were reserved for a certain _sort_ and invitations were hard to procure. In fact, it was hard to even _learn_ about these sorts of gatherings in the first place unless one ran in the right circles and knew the right people.

And, of course, unless one was the unsavory sort of person who would enjoy attending such gatherings in the first place.

Portraying himself as _that sort_ was an incredibly repulsive task, and it left a sour taste on the back of his teeth whenever his tongue flicked against them in hidden disgust. But Aikanáro had no reputation to protect and was a relative unknown amongst the courtiers, having frequented the political game not at all since his rebirth. Too much effort. Too much drama. Yet, with no predetermined expectations laid upon his shoulders—not like Findaráto, who was known to be wise and honorable and all the things these men despised and avoided—he could morph into whoever he wanted to pretend to be. Pasting a wicked smirk upon his features, he had approached his mission with the dismissive attitude of an entitled and spoiled Prince and the cold and callous behavior of a misogynistic bastard, and it had worked like a charm.

\---

_It was, he could not help but think, disturbing how easy it was to find one of_ those sorts _of men, caught in the midst of late-night hunting, just by loitering in the back hallways in the shadows and biding his time._

_Aikanáro could not help but feel a little dirty for doing even that much without immediate intervention. Watching as a very inebriated female stumbled down the hallway, feet everywhere and clearly being held up by her very_ sober _male companion, who removed one of his hands from where they had been not-so-innocently plastered, one on her breasts and one at her bottom, to reach for a door at the end of the hall and let himself in, dragging the young woman behind despite her unintelligible mumbling and half-hooded, dazed gaze flickering nonsensically about her surroundings. The first instinct that rose like boiling water in Aikanáro’s gut was to dart across the hall, slam open the door, storm into the midst of whatever unspeakable assault was bound to be going on inside, and tear the man’s arms out of his sockets one by one. Slowly. Just to hear that rotten piece of refuse shriek and cry._

_Rather than allow the violent assault that trembled silently through his limbs to rush forth, potential left untapped and burning through his shaking muscles when he failed to act upon his immediate urge, the Prince steeled himself for what would undoubtedly be the debut act establishing himself as the exact same sort of disreputable and dishonorable male character as the man who had just vanished behind that door with a poor, drunken girl in tow._

_Instead of sweeping inside with the screaming violence of a hurricane and raining down his fury upon the man within as fire and brimstone come down from the heavens to smite the trash where he stood, Aikanáro quietly let himself into the room, settled himself down on the couch and pretended to have been there the entire time, watching as said man had his female companion pressed up against the wall. Her skirts were pulled up far enough that the man’s entire hand had disappeared beneath the ruffles and folds, and her cheeks flushed bright red as fingers likely started teasing in places they ought not to be._

_Except, instead of arousal as one might have suspected by the color of the girl’s face, he could see nothing but confusion and the beginning of fear in her gaze. Too intoxicated to put up a fight, she only squirmed as she was pinned in place, and her slurred words of protest could not be strung together into anything even remotely resembling a coherent sentence. Even then, only an idiot would not have understood that the way she pulled at her wrists where they were pinned together in a larger hand and the way she tried to shimmy away as she was groped beneath her skirts both signified her reluctance to go through with the intimate encounter. And then she glanced over and saw Aikanáro sitting there._

_Her eyes widened, tears gathering. And there was something pleading in their gray depths, bright and panicky beneath the haze of drink._

_The Prince coughed lightly._

_And watched with a small amount of petty satisfaction, his faint amusement quirking at his lips, as the aggressor jumped near out of his skin, spinning around to stare at the golden-haired Prince with wide and horrified eyes. The man’s face, formerly lightly-flushed with enjoyment, now drained of blood and went starkly white. “M-my Prince!” he exclaimed, tripping over his own tongue. “I— It— This is not at all what it appears as, my Prince! Truly!”_

_“I am certain,” Aikanáro agreed sarcastically, standing to his full height and looking at the pale and sweating courtier down his nose with a hard and cold smirk._

_They both knew better, of course. And they both knew that, should Aikanáro decide to speak to someone—such as his father—about what he had just seen, said courtier would be banished from the city without so much as a moment’s hesitation, shunned viciously and cruelly by society for his crimes. The nobility had a tendency to stand behind one of their own, but only to a point, and that line was drawn well before supporting rapists as reported from the tongue of a witness of great authority. Taking pleasure in the pure panic and despair that crossed the man’s face, the Prince was in no hurry to cast reassurance over the stricken man’s countenance._

_“Please,” the piece of filth then begged, leaving the unsteady girl to slide down the wall without support, crumbling into a lump of excessive skirts and confusion on the floor, her bare legs exposed all the way up past her shaking knees, “Please, my Prince, please tell no one! I will do whatever you ask!”_

_“Whatever I ask?” Aikanáro raised a brow. “That is a hefty promise, meldo.”_

_The longer the Prince went without exploding into a fit of fury and disgust, the calmer his cornered new “friend” seemed to become, sensing that he was not, in fact, about to be publicly shamed as a rapist or abuser of vulnerable young women. There was that first appearance of curiosity and (disgustingly) thankfulness in those eyes as they blinked and took in the Prince’s relaxed stance and half-smirk. “M-my Prince?”_

_“Fine,” Aikanáro agreed. “Leave the girl here with me and get your own woman and your own room. This one is mine. And do_ try _to take more care. Next time, you may stumble into one of my brothers or cousins instead. And they will not be so forgiving.”_

_The man swallowed sharply, and the fearful tension went out of his spine. “Thank you, my Prince, for your consideration and advice!” And he was bowing deeply._

_As those eyes were averted towards the floor, the fourth son rolled his own and held back a curse. “Just get out. I do not wish to be disturbed further. I think your pretty little pet here will keep me plenty entertained for a while.”_

_There was just a hint of reluctance to give up his prey to a greater predator, but the filthy man simply bowed his head and accepted his Prince’s word as law. “My thanks, again!”_

_And, with a last calculating glance, half-hidden under a tidal wave of relief at not being outed for his undoubtedly criminal behavior, the man was gone._

_And Aikanáro had a drunken girl alone with him, unprotected. She was swaying where she sat on the floor, so vulnerable that he could have done_ anything _to her, and no one would interrupt or hear or come to her rescue. Just like that, he could have assaulted her, and she would not even have been capable of defending herself. As she was, he doubted she could fight off a friendly mouse. And procuring her had required no work at all on his part, just throwing a bit of weight around. Ultimately, he had even managed to take the first steps in establishing himself as the sort who_ allowed _such things to happen under his watch and even participated in them given the opportunity._

_Part of him would have liked nothing more than to march the girl straight back out and into the arms of her parents. And he would also have liked to keep an eye on the man who had just fled like a frightened dog from his gaze, knowing that sort of scum would just go and look for another young woman to prey upon. Well, in truth, he would have preferred to find the man and take him out back into an ally to unman and skin like an animal being butchered, but that would have been detrimental to his plans. At the very least, the night was more than half-gone, and he doubted such a fellow, lacking in charm or decency, would manage to ply a second woman with enough drink to get her_ this _inebriated before the gathering came to its close and the guests retreated either to their homes or to their guest quarters._

_Which left Aikanáro stuck here for at least the rest of the night._

_He stayed with the poor girl, picking her up from the floor with ease and moving her over to the small sofa nearer to the unlit hearth, taking some time to rearrange her skirts such that they were back to appropriately covering her bare legs. Opening the window allowed in a cool nighttime breeze and the soft sound of crickets, and the beams of silvery moonlight cast across the floor when the curtains were pulled back helped him calm himself as he wondered what he was supposed to do with her from here._

_Wake her up? By now, she was probably unconscious for the rest of the night. Barely had she even squirmed or stirred when he had picked her up, and there had been no recognition in her eyes as they rolled up to squint at his face momentarily._

_Pretend to assault her? He supposed he could linger in here with the door locked for a few hours—there were books on the shelves in the tiny little sitting room, though none looked particularly riveting and all were slightly dusty, obviously having been untouched since they ha taken up their posts upon these shelves—and then slip away before she awoke._

_With a sound of annoyance, he plucked what appeared to be some sort of cheesy romantic novella from a shelf and situated himself across from her, a coffee table set with a crystal vase full of multicolored freesia and little else between them, and tried not to think about the fact that, somewhere out there, a man believed he was in here doing unspeakable things to the girl snoozing peacefully just a few feet away. It took a herculean effort to concentrate on the words set before his eyes, to not think about the reputation he had just laid the very foundation for, to not think about how close this woman had come to being a very unfortunate victim, to not imagine her being one of those girls that Findaráto had been interviewing for the past few days._

_Eventually, unable to stand any more ridiculous dialogue and romantic scenes in the moonlight, Aikanáro leaned back in his chair and turned his eyes up towards the ceiling._

_And waited._

_And, at first light, he slipped away._

\---

Word spread quickly through _those circles_ of the Arafinwion willing to look the other way, who very blatantly participated in the same sort of corrupt and unsavory behaviors. A comrade and enabler they could trust, a powerful future ally if they could lure him into their debauched inner circle and make him a friend.

And Aikanáro did, in the next few days, sometimes look the other way. Because he had to be what they wanted him to be if he wanted this plan to _work._

_He crossed his arms and watched, felt his intestines seemingly writhing about unpleasantly in his gut, as two men slipped past him with sharp and eager grins, wiggling their eyebrows in his direction as though they were coconspirators in some sort of dastardly plot._

_Knowing it would look suspicious if he headed off two men with two women and tried to take both for himself, he resisted the urge to give chase. To do something other than bite his lip and mentally note down their names. The men, because he wanted to see them skinned and burned, thoroughly and utterly destroyed, in retaliation for their acts of cruel abuse. The women, because they would be added to the long list of girls who would be receiving visits from Findaráto in the coming days._

Do not throw up, _he ordered himself, taking a sip of his wine._

He still felt the urge to vomit thinking about it days later.

_You cannot save them all,_ he rationally told himself both then and now, quoting words he had heard before straight from Angaráto’s mouth. Because he was only able to intervene on behalf of a handful of women and “salvage them for himself” without rousing undue suspicion from his new group of “friends” who were cautiously tiptoeing around him and trying to gauge his trustworthiness. It was important to maintain his façade as they felt out his personality, trying to cast judgment as to whether he was the right sort of man to bring into their social circle. He needed to be the right sort of man if he wanted to gather information that could, eventually, bring the lives of every single one of these rapists crashing down.

So, he made himself the right sort of man.

That did not mean he did not hate it.

That did not mean he did not go home and stare at the wall and wonder what Andreth would think if she were here to see.

That did not mean he did not go out onto the balcony in the night and empty his stomach where no one would see or hear.

And that did not mean he did not hate himself in the aftermath.

_Is this how Angaráto felt as a prisoner in Angamando?_ He had known his older brother had faced difficult decisions in the Enemy’s keep, though Aikanáro could admit that he did not truly desire to know the full details. He had known that his brother had stayed silent and let others be tortured and killed in his stead. He had known even that his brother had killed a few of his fellow prisoners in acts of what the third son of Arafinwë would describe as mercy. _Did he feel this sense of guilty helplessness? The sense of wrongness in just standing by and letting evil happen before his eyes?_

At least, now, he could understand what his brother had always meant, speaking of how the lines of right and wrong blurred, of how no man could be expected to always choose a virtuous and righteous path because no such path existed. Was it right to sacrifice a few to save the many, to help along a greater cause? Conversely, was it right to sacrifice the safety of hundreds or thousands of women in the future by jeopardizing his mission now for the salvation of one or two? Could either path be justified?

Suffice to say, sleeplessness was becoming an unwelcome and unwanted companion as these thoughts spun themselves into knots within his mind and kept his eyes wide open and aching. He knew what choice needed to be made, every time, but making it…

_In the end, the sacrifice will have been a noble one, will give us the evidence we need to stop this horrid cycle in its tracks,_ he reminded himself flatly for those first few nights. Not that they seemed to mitigate the guilt in the wake of smiling and chatting and mingling as though nothing were wrong, as he was beginning to recognize familiar faces and see the recognition and trust, in turn, in familiar eyes. New names were whispered into his ears—so-and-so introducing him to so-and-so until he had a whole slew of men, unmarried and (usually) unattached, named on the long list in the back of his mind that would fatefully make its way to the desk of his father. And, one day, every woman in the entirety of Valinórë would know _exactly_ what sort of people these men were. As would ever angry and vengeance father or brother.

Until that day, though…

_Patience,_ he reminded himself, turning to look at his host. _Patience._

“This way, my Prince,” he was instructed, and he followed the other man through the small hallway to a larger gathering room. The door was cracked open, leaking golden lantern-light onto the darkened marble floors, and they gleamed and glowed as though liquid gold were spilled upon their surface. From inside was the suffocating stink of cloying incense and the distinctive taste of alcohol and the sound of male voices raised in boisterous chaos. Every now and again, there was also a distinctly female giggle or squeak as well, and his heart pounded to think of what he might be about to see.

Not letting even an ounce of his unease show on his face, he got his first glimpse of the gathering of men who all ought to have their genitals cut off and stuffed down their own throats for good measure.

It did not even appear, at first glance, all that terrible or suspicious.

There was wine flowing like water, of course, which would have surprised no one attending a small and private party celebrating bachelordom such as this. Nor would the cards or the money scattered across the tabletop have been a surprise. The upper echelons of society liked to pretend they did not take part in such _distasteful_ pastimes as gambling—Aikanáro knew it happened all the time at inns and the like, and he had been part of an army during wartime, and sometimes there was little else to do in the evening but pull out a deck of cards, half-bent and smudged with dirt, and bet rations and bedding arrangements for amusement—but they were just as prone to it as the common folk when they thought no one was looking.

There were five women about, all apparently serving drinks and sweets on trays. Not that their apparent status as _maidservants_ and not _concubines_ stopped men from reaching out to touch them in places that were not so appropriate. Aikanáro put on his most charming smile, even though his stomach bubbled with acidic displeasure and would have preferred to upend his dinner all over the betting pool at the center of the long table.

At his appearance, the room fell silent. Eyes watched and waited for his reaction, as if they all expected him to suddenly turn upon them and explode in fits of rage at their immoral behavior. One would have thought, after several days of playing along with their song and dance, they would have had more faith.

After all, they had invited him along.

\---

_They approached with almost shocking speed._

_Not physical speed, of course, for the pair, in actuality, crossed the room with diffident steps, eyes wary of any onlookers who might be suspicious of their motives, approaching someone of Aikanáro’s status so brazenly in public. Rather, they came to him swiftly in terms of time, ready to push the limits of his tolerance—and, indeed, test what sort of man he truly was and how much questionable activity he might truly be open to allowing within his presence—already after only a handful of days of friendly (but not too friendly) mingling, of quiet conversations in darkened corners discussing the beauty and naivety of different young and oblivious women beneath their watchful eyes, and of time spent in the back hallways sharing the spoils of a long night’s work._

_Aikanáro had yet to hunt and procure his own prey, often preferring to steal from another like a particularly vicious golden vulture, too lazy to bother with getting a woman intoxicated and vulnerable on his own despite the fact that there was no shortage of ladies eager to spend time with the handsome and unattached Arafinwion. There was no sign, yet, that anyone suspected he did anything with the girls he took to private rooms (once, even to his own guest chambers) except exactly what these imbeciles_ thought _he ought to be doing with them._

_Truthfully, he was surprised that they trusted him so_ quickly. _Then again, he had gone out of his way to be as repulsively predatory and derogatory towards the young females as possible, biting the inside of his cheek until it bled several times a night against the cutting slurs and harsh criticisms he would rather rain down upon these desperate males. Instead, he distinctly remembered just last night spending a good two hours pointing out which of the newer women in Court—all attending the small party at some notable councilor’s residence in a quieter and more intimate affair—he found to be the most alluring, and which he suspected were the most vulnerable to being tricked with excessive drink and lured into a dark corner._

_Naturally, he found most of them dreadfully dull and would much rather not think about doing anything with them (let alone mating with them) because they were all_ wrong. _They were all too young and too empty-headed and too…_

_Too_ not Andreth.

_But he played along and played along well. And it paid off. They wanted his friendship. Rather desperately, if the speed with which they allowed him into their fold was as telling as it seemed._

_“My Prince,” he was greeted by a man he could not quite remember the name of, and whose companion seemed a little white around his pursed lips, “I would like to extend an invitation to you for a private gathering later tonight. If you have interest in such things. Just a few men, some drink and some conversation. Maybe a woman or two.”_

_“Just conversation and drinks, hm?” He leaned in closer, and his charming smile seemed to set the pair of men at ease. Cautiously, they accepted that he was sill not about to go running off to report to his father that shady dealings were going on right under the noses of Court._

_“It will be quite enjoyable, I assure you,” the man said, winking. “Say, around ten o’clock in the evening, my Prince?”_

_“That would be acceptable,” Aikanáro agreed, wondering quietly in the back of his mind what exactly it was that he was going to be walking into. Just a gathering of drunken fools? Some sort of illegal activities? An orgy full of drunken women?_

_With no idea, truly, exactly what such a gathering entailed, he steeled himself for the worst. His to-be host gifted him with an address and a firm, brotherly grip on his forearm before departing. And Aikanáro, looking across the crowd, met the eyes of his older brother, Findaráto, who tilted his head questioningly._

_Aikanáro offered a tight smile that could not possibly have reached anywhere close to his darkened eyes and then pulled back from the shared moment stolen from across the room, heading for the doorway leading from the open ballroom to the quieter, darker places beyond. He had some labyrinthine back hallways to haunt for at least another hour until it was time for him to slip away._

_And Findaráto, with a half-despairing look about his gaze as they parted, left the younger Arafinwion to his duties without interruption. They both knew what their separate missions entailed. And neither was going to jeopardize the other._

_This task was an unpleasant but necessary duty. And they were both ready to do what needed to be done._

_With a bitter burn in the back of his throat, Aikanáro slipped into the shadows._

\---

The silence rang like bells through his ears. The stares burned on his bare skin.

And Aikanáro simply offered his best condescending smirk. “Meldor, there is no need to cease your activities in my presence. Here, I am but a friend, not your Prince.”

Hesitantly, and perhaps without the same level of uncontained enthusiasm as before, the conversations began to rise again from their silent graves, all the men about the table pretending that they were not glancing at the newest “guest” from the corners of their nervous eyes every few seconds, and the women not even trying to hide the curiosity in their gazes as they took his measure and approached.

Lazily, Aikanáro seated himself at the center of the table, draping his body over a cushioned chair. Without so much as blinking, he tossed a handful of gold coins onto the table, more than enough to capture the interest of the other betting parties, who did not bother to hide the look of greed and longing as they took in the pile of wealth being added to their potential winnings. “Deal me in,” Aikanáro demanded, not harshly but without any room for disobedience.

“Of course, my…” The man across from him trailed off, looking a bit flustered and uncertain of how to address a member of royalty at the table.

“Aikanáro is fine out of the public eye,” the Prince encouraged, taking his hand and trying not to scoff at how awful it was. This was going to be an excessively long and disappointing night if all they did was gossip and play cards.

“Mína,” the host said, capturing attention from around the table, most particularly the attention of one of the few females in the room.

“My lord,” the maidservant in question responded with a short curtsy.

“Entertain our newest guest for the night. His first time at such a gathering ought to be something special.” It was said in that way that almost had Aikanáro shuddering, implying that this woman was meant to service him not only in matters of fetching food and water and keeping him company whilst he gambled and conversed and generally behaved frivolously, but that she ought to service him sexually as well, if he so desired it.

And, judging by the round of snickers and compliments (if one could call comments on the generally loveliness of her breasts and her prowess with her mouth compliments), every man in the room expected him to take advantage.

The woman in question, Mína, did not seem to find any of this surprising. And that, more than anything else, had Aikanáro’s heart sinking.

These women were clearly _not_ just here to pass about food and drink and act as beautiful but mostly untouchable items of sexual temptation. If this sort of behavior did not raise even a single eyebrow about the table—instead, someone leaned in and patted his shoulder in congratulations at procuring such a good bedmate for the night, as if he had had anything to do with the matter at all—then he could only presume that it was _normal._

_Is she a prostitute?_ He could not be certain, but the nonchalant manner in which she set aside her tray and went to him suggested that this sort of _request_ was nothing new.

As she approached, he took her in, eyes clinical but traveling over her body in a way that an observer might assume was appreciative. Like most women of the Noldor, she was dark-haired, tall and slender. Her eyes were a rather unremarkable shade of blue. It was not that she was not pretty to look at, because she was more than lovely in face and form—and her bosom was nothing to scoff at, displayed as it was by her low-cut attire and the tight cinch of a corset pushing her breasts even further up—but he did not feel much of anything looking at her except pity for her circumstances.

That did not stop him from allowing her into his lap. To which the men catcalled and jeered. As though she did not even hear their ugly words, she offered him what she must have thought appeared to be a coy smile—to him, she just looked rather like she was in pain making such a spectacle of herself before an audience—and wrapped her arms around his neck, clinging like some sort of limpet.

_Do men really enjoy such behavior and attentions from strange women?_ It felt unseemly and uncomfortable to have her body pressed all up against his side, to have her lips at his throat in an airy kiss. He did not even know her but for her name!

Still, at least one of the other women in the room had a similar perch, curled up in a man’s lap, murmuring into his ear and brushing her lips over his cheek and, occasionally, mouth. And he was obviously affected by her attentions, going red in the cheeks, eyes distracted from his own hand of cards and drawn down to her rather exposed cleavage.

_Am I meant to act like a moron over this as well?_ Aikanáro did not think he could bring himself to do such a thing, falling all over himself pretending to be attracted to a woman who did not even begin to appeal to him to the same extent as Andreth had. Instead, he wrapped an arm around his female companion for the night to hold her in place but otherwise denied her his attention. As though returning her gestures was beneath him and his notice, for he was a Prince and she was, to the best of his knowledge, little more than a maidservant playing whore either for the money or out of fear of her employer. The other men seemed to think nothing ill of his callous dismissal of the lovely Mína.

With a smirk, he reached out to snag himself a glass of wine as another lady went by, making certain that everyone could see the (falsely) appreciative look he gave her bottom.

Seeing his “normal” behavior, the men about him began to loosen up, and conversation returned to its previous level of enthusiasm and volume, no longer stunted by the anxiousness or awkward silence previously afflicting the entirety of the room.

“How does she compare to mortal women?” someone was quick to ask, leaning in and pretending to ask the question quietly. But everyone heard, and laughter abounded around the table, as though the very _idea_ of being with a _mortal woman_ were hilarious. “They sing your epic romance with that mortal girl into song so often we are all sick of hearing about it. To put up with someone like that, she must have been _good.”_

As in a good sexual companion, not as in a good person.

In any other situation, Aikanáro would have probably broken the arm (and, potentially, cut out the tongue) of any man who dared to imply such things about Andreth, who had been kind and beautiful and strong and who did not need the immortal and never-fading beauty of the Eldar to make her amazing and worthy of his love and devotion. It took several seconds of biting his tongue, and then several more of fighting against the dry rage in his mouth, before he could muster the impetus to speak ill of his departed lover.

“She was,” he said coolly, “For how long it lasted.”

The words felt like sludge on his tongue, left him feeling dirty down to his spirit, covered in something foul and corrupted and rank.

“Right, mortal women do not last long,” another commented. “What, twenty years, thirty at most before they wither like rotting flowers. Can you imagine the wrinkles and the wiry, thinning hair? Disgusting!”

_You are far more disgusting,_ Aikanáro thought, and his hand tightening in its hold upon the hip of Mína—who turned to look up at his grim face with widened eyes—was the only indicator of his fury and disdain. Never did he stop smiling, leaning back with mock relaxation as though the conversation did not have his blood boiling and his muscles trembling with the hunger to rip and tear apart those who would shame and disrespect his lover so.

Andreth, after all, had been beautiful from the first moment he met her until the day that she had died. Even when she was wrinkled and old and gray with veins in her hands, she had been more beautiful than any elven woman Aikanáro had ever seen. To hear anyone suggest otherwise only left him with the urge to beat them half to death for their slight and then make them apologize for their ignorance on their hands and knees like a beggar while they bled out in the dirt. Nothing less would they deserve for their slight!

He held onto his composure. Barely. And only for the sake of his duty to carry out this investigation to the fullest. He could not afford to jeopardize it now.

“Well, it certainly is nothing so lovely as this…” He caressed a hand over Mína’s upturned face, tracing the line of her cheek and down her throat to tease just above her breasts across the bare skin of her chest.

And she was looking into his eyes the entire time.

He wondered what she was seeing there.

“But the Atani are more uncouth, less stringent in their modesty and less rigid in their morality,” he told them, thinking of how common it had been for women to be offered as payment by their men—sometimes even their fathers or brothers—for good deeds done, of how many times he had visited small mortal settlements only to find that, besides the inn and the butcher and the tavern, there was almost inevitably a brothel, of the brigands and highwaymen who were just as happy to kidnap and use women they encountered on the road as they were to steal the goods and food of the back of hardworking people just trying to take their wares to trade. For all that Andreth’s people had not been of that lot, an honorable and noble clan of Atani, there was certainly something to be said about the cruel and crude treatment of women by the vast majority of the mortal men he had encountered abroad. “It has its advantages,” he added.

More laughter around the table. Clearly, they were all thinking of Andreth and her like as vixens, experienced and eager and easy. Aikanáro shuddered.

“Well, Mína certainly has enough experience to challenge any mortal slut,” the host commented, giving Aikanáro a broad grin.

“Is that a guarantee?” he teased in return, tucking Mína in closer.

“She will have you screaming,” his host countered, self-assured. Or, at least, assured in the talent of his maid’s mouth and hands. It took everything Aikanáro had not to snort out loud, or to comment on how Mína was sitting _right here in his lap_ as they were talking about her having sex with him in a semi-public forum, as though she were not even there.

And she was not even batting an eyelash.

“Ten gold pieces says she will not,” Aikanáro bet.

“Fine, ten,” his host agreed. “Do not think you can cheat me out of it! Someone will be around listening!”

_And they will not hear a damn thing,_ the Prince thought to himself, already planning to make his coin purse ten gold pieces heavier, _because I will not be touching this woman in any sexual way whatsoever, nor will she be touching me._

Even the thought of that made his skin itch with discomfort.

_This,_ he could not help but think morosely, folding his hand and waiting for a better one to try and cheat his way into winning at cards, _is going to be an awful night._

\---

_Aldúya, 58 Lairë (10 July)_

\---

It was four hours and a great deal of cheating (and subsequent winning) later that had Aikanáro slipping off to find a room to stay the night in, dragging Mína behind him all the way. With a round of drunken laughter, the pair had been sent off to scavenge a guest room such that the Prince could “have a taste of a true elven woman of skill” and compare her then to his experiences with mortal women. And Aikanáro had gone, pretending at half-hidden eagerness, because he did not want to look as suspiciously unenthusiastic as he felt in the cold, dead core of his spirit.

So, he found them a room quickly. When he pulled her into a room alighted with a modest but welcoming bed, she almost immediately tried to wrap her arms about his neck and pull his head down to kiss his lips.

He pushed her away.

“My Prince?” she asked, visibly confused at his rejection, trembling faintly as though wondering what it was that she had done to displease him so.

“It is Aikanáro,” he corrected, stripping off his boots and the bejeweled outer tunic that was beginning to get too heavy, too warm and too itchy for comfort. He dropped it onto the top of a nearby dresser without ceremony or regard for its continued wrinkleless state and began to braid his golden hair back from his face in hard, brisk movements that demonstrated without his even speaking exactly how unpleasant his current mood truly was. It left Mína hovering off to the side of the room, hands curled in her skirts, looking as though she were waiting for him to give her instructions. It made his teeth grind to think that she was probably used to being pawed at and mauled by men so much so that she was floundering now when she was _not_ treated by a piece of meat to be slathered over by one of her employer’s associates.

“Sit on the bed,” he ordered her, watching as she went.

“Do you… do you want me out of my clothes?” she asked hesitantly even as she lowered herself to perch at the end of the bed.

“No,” he said sharply, “though, you should remove layers if it would make you more comfortable. It is awfully warm for all those skirts. And, besides, that bloody corset must be bothering you by now. My sister used to forever disdain the corset. Said it was a worthless torture device that aught be burned.”

He kept his back to her as she hesitantly went about removing the unnecessarily voluminous skirts and the outer embroidered layer and corset of her gown, leaving her in something sheer and silky beneath. Briefly did his eyes airbrush across her bared lower legs and shoulders, but, where she must have expected to see lust, she received nothing but distant coolness.

Unmoved by her willowy and graceful beauty, he went to tip himself over into the bed and pulled out the ridiculous novella he had stolen from the party a few days back, opening it up to a dogeared page showcasing the main couple flirting outrageously in overly flowery dialogue filled with far too many metaphors for sexual interactions. Wide-eyed, almost insulted by his dismissal, Mína watched.

“I thought—” she began.

Only for him to interrupt. “I have no intention of being with you in any capacity, lady Mína. If you would like to rest, feel free to use the covers.”

“But your bet!” she exclaimed. “Is it— Am I not good enough because I am not some untried young lady of Court? Is that it?”

Feeling tired at even having such a ludicrous argument with a woman, who clearly was basing her worth in his eyes upon whether or not he wished to have intercourse with her when he would have thought she would be grateful that he did not want to force her into coupling in the first place, he peered over the top of the book’s cover to meet her gaze. “I could not care less how many or how few men you have slept with, my lady. You are not Andreth and, therefore, I have little interest in lying abed with you as a man lies with his wife.”

Her mouth popped open, shocked. “But… but you… Why are you here then?”

“It is a matter, one might say, of information gathering,” he commented lightly, setting his book down open upon his chest, facedown. “I have a proposition for you, my lady.”

“I thought…”

“Not that kind of proposition,” he scoffed, ever so slightly impatient with her now, though he tried not to be cruel about his annoyance. It was not her fault that he had been forced to spend far too many hours socializing with the worst of society tonight. “If I pay you, will you keep quiet about the fact that our night was chaste and answer my questions.”

The amount of gold he put down on the comforter was easily enough to feed a small family for several months. Her face went just a little pale.

“Okay,” she murmured.

“Make yourself comfortable then,” he said, setting his novella aside. For now.

Still leery of the strange male, Mína clambered onto the bed and tucked herself under the heavy comforter, pulling it up to her waist as she leaned back into the mountain of pillows at the head of the bed. It did nothing to cover her bosom, nipples more than visible through her chemise, but if her aim was to seduce it failed miserably. Aikanáro did not even glance below her face as she squirmed and wriggled into a comfy position.

“What do you want to know then, my Prince?” she asked.

“Call me Aikanáro,” he corrected. “I want to know why you are doing this at all. Surely, this is not part of your duties as a servant. Unless, indeed, you are a prostitute.”

At his bluntness, her cheeks reddened. Which he thought was rather strange and funny given that, just minutes ago, she had been ready to throw off her clothes and wildly copulate with him without so much as a verbal exchange. “I was hired as a maid and cook, not…”

He wondered if she saw the slight softening of his features, the loosening of the frown alighting his lips, for her anger dissipated swiftly into something resigned.

“So, then, how did all of this come about?”

Her hands twisted and turned in the bedding as she looked down. “It just started as a bit of flirting, a bit of handsy behavior. And then it became a little bit more. And a little bit more. Until I was in his bed and then in the beds of his friends as well. It was just something to deal with because I wanted to keep my employment. Being released from a position, especially without a good reference is… It would make life very difficult. I do not have family to go back to if I cannot work for pay.”

_And, of course, your employer took advantage, knowing your circumstances._

Aikanáro suspected that this same story was going to prove not in the least bit unique. If he asked the other women present tonight the same question, how many would have similar tales of misfortune to share? “Did he threaten you with termination if you did not take part in these sorts of parties and the like, is that it?”

“More or less,” she admitted, still looking downcast and nervous and even a bit desperate, as though she could not bear for him to think she was being _assaulted_ and not doing this somehow of her own free will. As if that made it _better_ in her eyes. “But, truly, it is not all that terrible. When not in the company of each other, the men are less… They are not so crass or so rough when on their own. Most of them just act as such to impress the other guests.”

It took everything he had not to chide her for making excuses for such filth. They did not deserve even the slightest bit of her pity, not when they were taking advantage of her being _coerced_ into handing out sexual favors in order to maintain her employment. He did not particularly care if they treated her well or if she enjoyed the attention or anything else about the circumstances except that she could not truly say “no” even had she desired to (as she probably, secretly, did). It was still something which should not be taking place.

Yet another facet of this whole mess that none of them had anticipated. How many servants were thusly taken advantage of, formerly and currently, by people in positions of power? This was perhaps not the violent beating and rape that had appeared in the happenings surrounding Lindalórë and the maid who took her place, but he did not consider it to be all that terribly different either.

Blank-faced, he regarded her. “Truly, do you want to be doing such things? If you had a choice in the matter?”

“Well…” Her shame was palpable, thick on his tongue, and sharp with salt. “Well, no. Of course… of course, no, I do not. It is a shameful thing. I doubt I could ever go on to have a family what with… all this. No one would have me.”

He would have liked to reassure her that such a thing was not so—if a man truly loved her, he would not have cared for her past or what she had had to do to survive it, but only for her as a precious being who held his heart in her palm—but he doubted she would listen to anything he, a brusque and cold-eyed stranger in the midst of her life, had to say. Besides, he was hardly one to preach about feelings when he either felt far too much (and was frozen in place at the overwhelming onslaught, unable to forge ahead with his life) or far too little (and carried no motivation to build something of his life with nothing and no one to look forward to, as it was empty of both sorrow and joy) and remained in a static and removed existence. So, he said nothing of such things to her, instead reaching down to retrieve his book.

“My thanks,” he said, holding it back up and tracing the lines with his eyes until he found the point at which he had left off, “for answering my questions without a fuss. I would greatly appreciate a good review about my prowess in bed, but you can spread word that I am a terrible lay if you think it would be more amusing.”

“And you do not care if all the men think you are awful in bed?” she asked, a tiny smile crossing her otherwise darkened features.

“I care not in the least,” he replied, only half-paying attention to the ongoing flirtations spread obscenely across the new page as he casually flipped it over. “They do not like me nor desire to make friendly with me for any reason but that I have familial connections to powerful people that could protect them in the future and money in my coffers to bet at their parties. They would not dare mock me for it even if they thought it the truth and risk my taking offense and using their dirty activities as blackmail against them.”

She snorted a little in laughter. “Very well, Aikanáro. I shall tell all the men how incredibly unsatisfactory you are in comparison, and all the ladies that you are by far the best I have bedded down with, and we shall watch the confusion descend when all the girls fight over who gets your lap at the next party.”

_The next one,_ he thought wryly, feeling exhausted just thinking about attending another one of these nightmarish bits of rubbish and hedonism.

“At least it might be entertaining,” he commented dryly. And then held up his novella. “I can read aloud if you would like to mock and disdain the horrid flirting between the two main characters. I do believe they are going to kiss for the first time soon.”

“You are very strange,” she answered, looking surprised that he had even asked, “But alright. If we are not going to do anything intimate, I suppose…”

“Eventually, I am certain there will be a love scene described in very vague and flowery detail,” he added in a monotone just to see her smile widen a little bit at the undertone of playfulness. “We can mock the inaccuracies of the anatomical descriptions and the lack of realism if you like, in lieu of taking part in the act ourselves.”

“There are worse ways to spend an evening,” she agreed.

And that was how Aikanáro ended up spending the rest of the night reading out bad romantic dialogue and ridiculous scenes of intercourse to his impromptu bed partner. And whatever poor idiot was standing outside the door listening to hear whether or not he screamed during lovemaking with the lovely Mína was probably sorely disappointed to hear nothing but her laughter at the most hilariously stupid parts.

\---

The next morning, his host owed him those ten gold pieces.

And Aikanáro, who had gotten no sleep but spent a perfectly pleasant night with a relatively enjoyable female companion—a woman who believed her only real worth to be between the bedsheets because of this _pig_ of a man, but who had a fairly pleasant laugh and a decent sense of humor, who admitted that she would have liked to become more than a mere cook for a lesser noble but was blocked because males tended to dominate those sorts of positions at larger estates and restaurants, who bid him a good morning, kissed him on the cheek, and thanked him for the wonderful night (as though what they had done was anything special or worth being thanked for) before she left—decided he was going to personally ruin this rat’s life. Sometime, somewhere in the future, he would see this monstrous being’s entire world, wealth and status and reputation, come crashing down like a tower of cards and then set the rubble aflame in the aftermath for good measure.

And he would enjoy the entire thing. Immensely and with copious amounts of satisfaction.

Because Mína, and others alike to her who he would assuredly meet over the course of this unpleasant dip into the darker shade of Tirion, deserved better than to be trapped in a life like this. And the man who put her there and kept her there for the sake of his own lust and greed deserved to rot like the useless carcass he truly was.

And, if no one else was going to see it through, Aikanáro would.

It would be his pleasure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:
> 
> Eldar (Q, p) = people of the stars, high-elves  
> meldo (Q) = friend  
> meldor (Q, p) = friends  
> Atani (Q, p) = Men (people of the race of Men)


	74. Dealing With The Harsh Reality

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More on what happens when Aikambalotsë arrives home and where everything goes from there...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: talk of abuse/rape (not explicit), politics, scheming/manipulation, sexual harassment, threats of assault, fantasies of violence, guilt, remembering past rape/assault, PTSD, violence (broken bone is the worst of it)
> 
> Mostly, my only note is to read responsibly. Parts of this chapter are written from the POV of a victim of assault and, while she doesn't think about it _extremely_ explicitly, it's definitely there.
> 
> Maedhros = Maitimo = Nelyafinwë = Nelyo = Russandol  
> Maglor = Makalaurë = Kanafinwë = Káno  
> Celegorm = Tyelkormo = Tyelko = Turkafinwë = Turko  
> Caranthir = Carnistir = Morifinwë = Moryo  
> Curufin = Atarinkë = Curufinwë = Curvo  
> Amrod = Ambarussa = Pityafinwë = Pityo = Minyarussa  
> Amras = Umbarto = Telufinwë = Telvo = Atyarussa  
> Egalmoth = Aikambalotsë  
> Turgon = Turukáno  
> Fingolfin = Nolofinwë  
> Aredhel = Írissë

_Isilya, 57 Lairë (9 July)_

\---

It had been countless years since he had dared to enter his mother’s private chambers, but he was being invited inside now. It smelled sweetly of rose oil and soap despite the bathroom door being closed, he noted, seeing it from the corner of his eye. It was still where he remembered, off to one side and decorated with stained, frosted glass windows, light shining through from the other side to indicate the lanterns had not be extinguished when his mother had been roused from her bath to greet his late-night arrival. That little bit of light cast rainbow flickers off everything in the room, leaving it glimmering and burning like its own night sky full of stars in the evening dark, so familiar it hit him in the gut like a harsh kick. It was a bit nostalgic to see it all again, to reveal how _little_ it had changed despite thousands of years having passed.

When he was very, very young, he could recall being in this room, running his hands over the satiny softness of his mother’s bedspread while she smiled wane and pale in his direction and indulged his inquisitiveness. The younger Aikambalotsë had climbed onto the end of her bed because it was the only way he could get high up enough to see over the edge of her small carven and jewel-laden tables and take in her expansive collection of jewelry, decorated with every color stone imaginable. Naïve, not understanding the full extent of the wealth that his father wielded and rained upon his mother (in empty gestures of false affection), he had marvelled at _how many_ gemstones she had alighting the tables in her room, shining like a thousand multicolored stars in the afternoon sunlight, just like they did now. And he had sat still and asked her to name them one by one, and she had held him gingerly in her lap and humored him until, tired, he had dozed off on her small mountain of pillows. Now, though, he was tall enough to see over the top and look down at the vast shimmering collection.

Now, he was a grown man in a woman’s room.

His mother invited him to sit down at the vanity, ignoring his uncomfortable shifting and fidgeting at being inside his mother’s private bedchambers as an adult, a place a son ought never be. At his quizzical gaze—asking silently why they were having this meeting _here_ —she simply said, “We are unlikely to be interrupted here.”

_By Atar,_ he could not help but think, worry coming to life in his mind, which ran in circles trying to think of exactly _what_ could have happened in the short time he was away to trigger _this_ sort of strange, subversive behavior in his mother and in the servants. Even now, Víressë, his mother’s personal handmaiden, was staring at him as though he were a viper that might spring forth and bury his poisonous teeth into her flesh. She tiptoed around his position at a distance to stand on the other side of the bed, as close to his mother as she could whilst still staying far away from his physical space as possible.

“What is going on?” he asked, looking into his mother’s eyes.

For long moments, Eressëa seemed not to know what to say. The cool and distant mask that she donned constantly over her lovely features as a shield now seemed to crack, her eyes glowing bright instead of remaining dull and dark. “Aikambalotsë… I do not really know where to start. I suppose that you should know… Your sister, she has left the family. For good.”

“What?” It made no sense to him. No sense at all! “But, Curufinwë is still out in the middle of nowhere chasing his brother’s tail like some sort of deranged foxhound! Why would she just suddenly take leave of her family when her husband is abroad and she has nowhere to go? We are not particularly close, certainly, but—”

“It is… It is for the best,” his mother interrupted. “Your father… he did not want her to return to her previous marriage with Curufinwë. He would have preferred she marry someone else. Someone who could be politically advantageous, or, at the very least, did not carry the same sort of taint as the name of the House of Fëanáro. It has been, he told me, a strain on business, for many of the Teleri and the Vanyar—even some of the more stringent Noldor—will not do business at all with someone so closely tied to the House of Kinslayers. When everyone believed the marriage ended, it was not an ideal situation but it was not so terrible a thing either, just a previous alliance abandoned. But now that Lindalórë has been seen openly consorting with her husband again, there was concern that it would be detrimental in the extreme to allow such a thing to continue. If she could be convinced to marry someone else…”

“That is a ridiculous expectation, that she would willing leave her husband,” he answered, shaking his head, halfway between shocked and outraged. “We all knew she was going to take back that crafty Kinslayer. The moment they saw each other again she was by his side, and she came back first thing in the morning after dancing Midsummer night away in his arms! It was obvious! Unquestionable!”

“That is just it,” his mother said quietly. “Your father was very adamant that he was not going to allow it. So, he waited until Curufinwë was gone. When he realized that you were going to take Lindalórë’s side should it come to an argument, he waited until you were gone as well. To make his move.”

Aikambalotsë wanted to believe the best of his family. Truly, he did. But he knew what kind of a man his father was, deep down, though he would have liked to deny it even now as his heart dived down towards the floor and his fingers clenched into fists at his sides until they jolted with pain. He knew what kind of a businessman and what kind of a person his father was, indeed. He knew that Hendumaika was happy to step over and upon as many metaphorical bodies as it took to get what he wanted at the end of the day. Rarely did the Lord of the House of Helyanwë outright lie—though it happened on occasion when the man knew he would not be caught—but he was tricky and intelligent and would always find a way to get what he wanted, sometimes even at great personal cost to others. It was the man’s intrinsic nature.

It was simply that Aikambalotsë had never imagined having it _turned on him and his sister_ in such a manner. It should not have been so surprising, though, as it felt.

“What did he do?” The anger was not yet there, too tangled up in a net of unwanted heartache and disappointment and shock. “What did he do behind our backs?”

“He chose a husband for her,” his mother explained quietly, and he could see Víressë flinch from the corner of his eye, “And a truly vile man at that. The first day they went out and she came home shaking with bruises on her neck, and I… I did my best to stall his plans for as long as I could, but… they forced our hand. Lindalórë had to go.”

_Bruises… on her neck?_

It was hard to think around the image of his baby sister crying and hurt, alone in her room, having been attacked by a man who their father intended for her to _marry._ And _there it was,_ the rush of blinding white-hot fury that left his heart leaping up into his throat like particularly active frog. Alongside that was the crushing blow of guilt slamming into his sternum like a fist, that someone had hurt Lindalórë and he, her brother and protector, was gallivanting off through the forest throwing a hissy fit over Turukáno being pathetic and annoying! Trying to swallow it all back down before he choked, he managed to force out his next words. Because all he could think of, in that moment, was finding a way—any way, as bloody as necessary given the crime—to make this _better._

In war, such problems were solved with blades. And, for centuries, Aikambalotsë had lived in a world torn apart by war. A peaceful resolution was not his first instinct. Instead…

“Who?” he asked sharply. “Who is he?”

“Aikambalotsë…” his mother began, and it was clear she meant to calm him.

But he wanted not to be calmed or soothed like an unruly child by his mother. He wanted not for his rage to dim and die, for the burning to abate and leave the ashes as guilt clogging his lungs that felt too tight. He wanted not to accept that this was _another instance_ in which he had _failed an important duty_ and those he should have protected suffered for his _incompetence._ Instead, he wanted everything to _burn._

He wanted the man who dared to hurt his baby sister to _burn with it!_

“No,” he snapped. “Tell me. Who did Atar choose? Who came into this house thinking he could _put marks upon my sister_ and that he was not going to receive the curve of my blade across his throat in retaliation? I want to know!”

“You cannot do anything,” she insisted. “Really, it would be foolish to act so rashly! I know that you are angry—”

_“Angry_ does not even _begin_ to—”

“But!” she insisted, raising her voice, though her eyes flashed nervously, “But we need to be careful, yondonya. I… I am not sure it is a good idea for you to reveal that you know.”

“Why should I not?” he snarled out. “Why should I not march over to Atar’s study right this second and _demand_ to know what in the _name of Morgoth Bauglir_ he was thinking, choosing such lowlife scum for my sister? Never mind that, but perhaps what he was thinking even trying to make the decision for her in the first place!”

“Because your father admitted that he was also…” She looked down at her hands, nervously fidgeting in the folds of her robe, and he hated to see her so unraveled when, by nature, she was always so quiet and poised. “He admitted to me that he was displeased with you, yondonya. That he sought to replace you eventually. Calmacil was chosen because he thought the man would be good for, potentially, participating in furthering the business. More the _sort of man_ your father thought would be successful if properly trained.”

_Well,_ Aikambalotsë thought, his rage continuing to grow, _I cannot believe it has come to this! And yet, I am sadly unsurprised!_

“He may have indicated subtly that he was displeased with me. Before I left,” Aikambalotsë admitted harshly, arms crossing over his chest. “My demeanor is different, I fear, than it was before I left Valinórë. Being the Lord of a House—being responsible for the lives and wellbeing of hundreds of people—it gives one a new perspective upon the treatment of others. Different from that of running a successful business. Perhaps, he was displeased with the reality that I might, perchance, have some empathy for the suffering of the lower peons nowadays. Especially given that status and breeding and lordship mean _nothing_ when one is traipsing through the wilderness, hovering over a huddle of civilian refugees, armed with far too warriors to defend them all and doing their best not to _starve_ or _die_ at the same time. In such a situation as that, all are equal in their pitiful desperation and mortality, regardless of birth.”

Bitterness, his dear and beloved friend, tasted sharp on the back of his tongue. With the anger, it was a cocktail that could lead to foolish decisions if he decided to march out the door of his mother’s chambers and down the hallway to pound his fist against his father’s study door until the man came forth.

There had been many moments when he was out and about in the wilds in which he would have enjoyed nothing more than to pummel Turukáno into the ground. But _none_ of those moments held so much as a _candle_ to the feeling that flushed hot through his veins now!

Too much did it resemble the high of battle, the lust for blood immediately proceeding the kill, the anticipation for the smell of spilled blood and the pitiful squeals of the victim beneath his blade. The potential satisfaction of removing a threat, of knowing Lindalórë would be safe, of knowing he would _not fail to protect her,_ was almost too much to _resist—_

A gentle hand upon his arm had him tumbling back into the moment, jarringly as though he had been slammed face-first into the cold floor. It dragged him down into the smell of roses and the coolness of skin upon skin. His breaths had been coming fast and shallow, but they slowed and deepened as he met his mother’s gaze head-on, green to gray, and saw that, through her firm and calm façade, she was terrified. The fingers resting on his arm trembled where they rested, like little butterfly wings against his skin.

Reaching out, he grasped her hand. “Sorry,” he breathed, wondering if she was frightened for him or of him. And he hated both ideas passionately and in equal measures. “I let my emotions get away from me. Sorry.”

“You do not need to apologize for being upset, yondonya,” she said in return. “It is understandable, for such unwelcome news would unsettle anyone. Just… try to control your anger. The rest is not pleasant, but you should know that your sister is safe. And that is what matters most.”

It was a little comfort. Little comfort to know she had needed him, and he had not been there for her. Little comfort to know that someone else had taken his place and covered for his slack. But it was, too, still the relief of knowing that, at the very least, she was not here. Wherever she was, she was not being hurt.

“Is she with them, then?” he asked, wondering how long a time he ought spend on his hands and knees thanking them for doing what he could not if it were true, “The Fëanárioni?”

“No, not yet,” his mother told him gently, her fingers now firmer where they grasped at his own. “She is with Nolofinwë and Anairë now, waiting—it was Nolofinwë who came here and stole her away in the night—though no one about the city is aware of her whereabouts. The common folk are aware of her dire circumstances for many of them have been watching out for her when she is out of the house, particularly those who followed her husband or his brothers, but Hendumaika made his move at Court before anyone could intervene. It is common knowledge amongst the elite that Lindalórë _vanished into thin air_ and my husband has accused the Fëanárioni of kidnapping her to prevent her marriage to Calmacil. As if she needs someone to kidnap her to run away from marrying _him.”_

It sounded just like his father to strike fast while the iron was hot, not allowing anyone else to determine the flow and pace of the situation, he noted grimly. By acting first, his father had the whole of Court pandering to his whims, believing him to be an aggrieved father with a missing daughter potentially in danger. It would be difficult now to convince them that, in fact, Hendumaika was a cruel man out to marry his daughter to an abusive bastard.

In fact, he thought white-lipped and tight-throated, it would be hard to convince them that Calmacil was abusive at all. People did not like to believe such things happened. Especially here, in Valinórë. Aikambalotsë would have been happier thinking they did not.

But he trusted his mother’s word, that she would never have lied about Lindalórë being harmed. For all that they were not so close, he and his mother, it would take something miraculously head-turning to convince her to stray from her place of safety at his father’s side, and a man _hurting Lindalórë_ and his father doing nothing to stop it might just be enough to do it. It was shocking enough that she was even here, speaking out against him in secret, going behind his father’s back, when she had been nothing more or less than an obedient and faithful wife for the entirety of the time that his parents had been married.

He did not think for even a moment that she was lying about, overstating or embellishing the situation.

“It is my understanding that the royal family will care for her from here,” his mother said softly, reassuringly. “It is our job to pretend at ignorance.”

Aikambalotsë’s lips pursed tightly. He hated the idea of what his mother suggested even before giving it deep thought. Sitting about, doing nothing? Saying nothing? Pretending that he _believed_ his father’s nonsense about being heartbroken over his missing daughter? It was going to be like to rubbing himself down with thorns and blessing their blood-covered points in the painful wake, sitting in the same room as his father, pretending everything was _fine_ when he knew damn well that the man would stab him in the back at a moment’s notice if he suspected that Aikambalotsë might jeopardize his plans.

“I hate that you are right,” he admitted. “So, what do we do from here?”

“Calmacil is still staying in the house,” his mother admitted quietly. “No doubt you will meet him at breakfast. I have been trying to keep him away from the female servants. As much as I possibly can manage without rousing suspicion.”

“Has he hurt others besides Lindalórë?” Aikambalotsë asked, then, hating the idea of even _pretending_ to be _fine_ with being in the same room as such a creature. Someone who put even most orqui to shame.

When his mother hesitated to answer, he pressed. “Amillë?”

Her eyes flickered. Away, then back, then away, then back. And he knew, before she even parted her lips, that what he was about to hear was going to be unpleasant. “The night your sister left, your father had decided that he was going to force Lindalórë’s hand. He threatened to have the maidservants beaten and… and raped… until she agreed to the marriage.”

It left Aikambalotsë shuddering, fury momentarily doused. Even his _toes_ felt cold as the northern winds of Helcaraxë. Hendumaika was, without a doubt, a ruthless man, but to think that he would go _that far…_

“Did they…?”

His mother looked genuinely as though she might cry. “To two girls. Yavannië and Míriel. We have been doing the best we can for them, but your father has banned the servants from speaking of the incident to anyone or seeking help outside the household. None of them can afford to lose their employment with a bad reference.”

“I cannot believe…” Even though his father was a cold, compassionless man, to allow such a thing within his own house, to be arrogant enough to believe that no one would spread word of such doings, to believe he was powerful enough to silence anyone daring enough to try and implicate him in abetting such a crime… It stunk of pride, of hubris, of conceit. And a tower of moments of stupidity wrapped up in a silken veil of pride could topple and bring a man down to the lowest of the low. It had happened before—Turukáno Nolofinwion came to mind, though the tower there had not been metaphorical—and Aikambalotsë felt like a tingle in his blood that it could very well happen again.

And it would bring anyone associated with Hendumaika down with it.

“We will have to do something,” he said quickly, squeezing his mother’s hand.

“Aikambalotsë?” Her voice was questioning, hesitant.

He licked at his suddenly dry lips. “We could go. Depart. It would be safer for both of us, but especially for you. I have enough to see us cared for until I can find myself work. It is clear to me that this house is not safe, and, as soon as Atar realizes that you were involved in Lindalórë’s disappearance…”

Far from worried was Aikambalotsë about his own opinions being known, for his father must already have had an inkling as to the truth of his son’s position on the matter. But his mother would be a sitting target, unprotected and helpless in the face of her husband’s wrath, should Hendumaika decide to rain it down upon her. _When_ he discovered her deceit, for Aikambalotsë did not doubt that the man _would_ discover the truth eventually, he would be infuriated beyond belief. And his father was the sort to make double-crossers and betrayers _pay._

Yet, he could see already the reluctance in his mother’s eyes. There was some desire there to flee, to pack up all her important worldly possessions and run alongside her remaining child. But there was also a stubborn set to her jaw and the burning light in her eyes, a look on her face that reminded him sharply and cripplingly of Lindalórë at her most recalcitrant.

_This is where she gets it from,_ he could not help but think with no small amount of dread running like cold sludge through his veins.

“I cannot go,” his mother said quietly. “Yavannië, Míriel, Víressë… If I go, who will be here to watch over them? If I go, who will be here to distract and thwart Calmacil if he decides that he wishes to…?”

_If he decides he wishes to attack them again, who would stop him?_

No one, of course, was the answer. They were servants of this House, and, if the Lord of the House would not protect them and the Lady of the House was departed, they would be helpless. It was a horrid position to be trapped in, and a dangerous one, most especially for the female servants. Selfishly—almost, one might think it, as ruthlessly as his father would have wanted him to be—he wanted to tell his mother to leave them to their fates. That she should protect herself first, take the wise route to safety, and flee.

Because he could not let another important person in his life be harmed. Even the thought of her staying here in harm’s way…

But he knew before he even tried to argue his position that he would fail to change her mind. Eressëa was not going to be departing this House. Not unless he knocked her unconscious, hoisted her limp body over his shoulder, and carried her out on his back.

“Alright,” he agreed breathlessly, doing his best to hide his distaste. “Alright. For now, we shall stay. But later…”

“If it becomes necessary, I will willingly flee, and take my women with me if I can,” his mother agreed. “But only if it becomes necessary. Besides, I would not want you to give up your potential future and birthright for the sake of your mother, not like this. To ask that you leave all that you have worked for and built behind for my sake would not be fair.”

_I would do it, though,_ he found himself thinking, _in a heartbeat. For you. For Lindalórë._

Just as he would, once, have done for his people. Just as he _had,_ once, for his people. Not that it had done him any good in the end.

“We need to plan carefully, then,” he said, mind beginning to work again now that his rage had dulled down to a faint boiling simmer somewhere under his skin. “Slowly and carefully, nothing hasty. We can act, hopefully, without being noticed. To start, I think we should distance ourselves from Atar and his plans. To make it clear to the right people that we are not his allies in such matters.”

A tiny smile came across his mother’s lips. “I have already begun in that direction. Quietly, of course. Víressë and I have been caring for the girls best we can. And it was I who went to speak to Nolofinwë and Anairë about Lindalórë’s plight to begin with, and they know my feelings on the matter.”

It was a start, certainly. But not enough.

“I have some ideas as well,” he murmured. And he _did._ Now that the need to storm off, find Calmacil or his father or _both,_ and violently slash open their throats and watch them bleed to death into the expensive hand-woven carpets was fading, the sly and calculating man born and bred, lying in wait underneath the tidal wave of fury, was showing through in the stead of the vicious and cold-blooded killer who had once stalked the battlefields of Beleriand. “The followers of Fëanáro are aware of the truth of the matter, you said?”

“One of them caught Calmacil assaulting Lindalórë in an alleyway outside his shop, so she said to me,” his mother told him, “And they were meant to be sending on a message that she needed aid, to find a way to deliver it either to King Arafinwë or to the Fëanárioni so that they would know of her plight. It was common knowledge amongst the followers, so they will be suspect of any rumors of her being _kidnapped_ by her own _brothers-in-law_ who she was trying desperately to get into contact with prior to her disappearance. No matter what rumors are spreading down from Court to the common folk, there is already knowledge to the contrary spreading amongst them as well.”

_That would explain why they were so unfriendly._ No reason had the common folk to believe that Aikambalotsë was not entirely in support of his father and potential brother-in-law Calmacil and their tyrannical attempts to gain control over the situation through assault and cruelty perpetrated on helpless, innocent womenfolk. He had been away for days, of course, but he was still the heir to the House, and the House was now associated with the allowance of abuse and rape of women. It was a shameful and distasteful reputation, cultivated out of arrogance and lack of care, out of the assumption that the local people would keep their noses out of the business of the elite, knowing that meddling in such deeds was dangerous to their person livelihoods.

And they might have, too, were it not for the fact that Lindalórë’s husband apparently inspired steadfast loyalty in his former followers. Knowing what he did of Curufinwë now—that the acerbic and biting temperament of the Fëanárion covered up a man who constantly tried to protect and soothe those he considered to be _one of his own_ —Aikambalotsë found himself not nearly so surprised as he would have been before the hunting expedition. Before he had had a chance to experience Curufinwë’s ways for himself. Before the man had seen how miserable he was and had chased him off home knowing that being near Turukáno was still too raw and grating upon his nerves, knowing that he would feel unsteady upon his feet and unstable in his mind so long as he was near his former sovereign. The Fëanárion had picked a fight and given him an excuse to take flight without looking the coward.

Aikambalotsë would be lying if he said he was not grateful. Not that he would admit that to anyone outside the realm of his own private mind.

But he could see it now. Why Curufinwë’s followers might be so terrifyingly loyal. Why they might see the man’s wife in trouble and step in protectively. Why they might look upon a potential enemy of their Lord and Lady and watch him walk down the street with the promise of bloodstained knives in their gazes.

_“Deadweight ally”_ had Curufinwë called him with his voice. But _“I am trying to protect you, brother”_ had he said with his eyes. Claimed the heir of Helyanwë as one of his own without saying so much as a word.

And Aikambalotsë understood.

The next few days, he sensed, were going to be most unpleasant. Undoubtedly, most were going to believe quite readily that he did not object to his father’s behavior—no matter that he most definitely _did_ —and he was going to have to work hard to convince them otherwise. But he would suffer through it, bearing the weight of those stares. In order for him to affect any change in this situation, he needed leverage and allies. Right now, he had only his mother and what little weight his title of heir afforded. And that, he knew, was not nearly enough to make his father pay for putting Lindalórë in harm’s way.

But he _would_ make the man pay.

No one was allowed to hurt his sister or mother or anyone else under his protection. Not even his own traitorous flesh and blood.

\---

_Aldúya, 58 Lairë (10 July)_

\---

The night was long and sleepless, and Aikambalotsë spent most of it in his room, eyes closed, trying not to seethe. Rest would not come.

In the morning, he rose and dressed and went downstairs to surprise his father.

As his mother had told him, there was a new face at the breakfast table waiting. Unceremoniously did he shove open the doors to the small dining room, seeing first his father at the head of the table, and then his mother at his father’s side to the left, and a stranger at his father’s side to the right. Had he not already known that his father planned to replace him—unspoken though his mother had left those words, he knew what it was that she meant when she spoke of his father’s displeasure and of his father’s choosing a man “for the sake of the business” well enough—this would have been enough to make that message clear as daylight.

The sight of him clearly startled his father. Enough that Hendumaika, for a few long and telling moments, seemed speechless upon seeing his stony-faced eldest child. Until, finally, he greeted, “Aikambalotsë, yondonya, what a surprise! I had thought you were still abroad with Curufinwë and Turukáno.”

“Can one blame me for being sick of the unpleasant company of a mad Fëanárion and a pathetic Nolofinwion?” he asked blandly, stalking around the table to where the silent third party sat, staring at him slightly wide-eyed as though he were a phantom risen from a grave. Rudely, he kicked the leg of the chair upon which the man was perched. “Get out of my seat. The heir to the House has returned and belongs at his father’s side.”

Calmacil—this man must be he—did not look like anything particularly special. Not ugly nor spectacularly attractive. Not short nor deformed nor anything else that would indicate the wickedness that apparently nestled deep within his spirit like a parasitic worm. In fact, he seemed startled and maybe even a little fearful of the ill-tempered green-eyed heir, wordlessly scooting aside when Hendumaika did not negate or protest his own son’s blunt words. Watching as the man went like a scolded dog, Aikambalotsë scoffed loudly, derisively, and sat himself down into his usual chair across from his mother, only briefly meeting her eyes as he threw his arms and legs akimbo, taking up the space there as though he had the right to it uncontested.

For now, in any case, it was uncontested.

There was a soft cough and a clearing of the throat. “And how were your travels otherwise, yondonya? Successful?”

“Not in the slightest, which should surprise no one,” he answered, filling his plate with food and acting for all the world as if there was nothing out of the ordinary about finding a new face sitting at the breakfast table with his parents. “I will likely report briefly to Prince Nolofinwë as such. Princess Írissë and her Fëanárion companion are slippery and are giving the hunting party quite the merry chase. I lost patience with such time-wasting and, as such, decided to abandon the hopeless task and return home.”

“Ah,” his father replied, taking a thoughtful bite of his own breakfast.

“I see you have been busy in my absence.” Aikambalotsë turned his verdant eyes upon Calmacil, who did his level best not to flinch back from the fiery wall of hate staring him down unpleasantly from green slits. “Who is this?”

“A business associate,” his father said, voice not even hinting at more. “He expressed interest in marriage with your sister. Before her disappearance, of course.”

_A test._

Aikambalotsë should not have been aware of Lindalórë’s disappearance. Pausing with his fork halfway raised to his lips, he swiveled his gaze to look at his father, playing at confusion. Not frantic brotherly concern or panicked worry, but cool and rational surprise and learning new, unsung information. Well enough did he play along that he was not suspect, he doubted that, but well enough that it could not be proven that he _was_ suspect either. “Her disappearance?”

“She was taken,” Calmacil interrupted harshly, “By those bloody Fëanárioni!”

Slowly, the heir lowered his fork to clink quietly against his plate. “The Fëanárioni have no reason to take Lindalórë. None of them have any interest in her beyond Curufinwë’s unfortunate infatuation. Are you really going to attempt to convince me that Nelyafinwë Fëanárion would waste time on something so trivial and meaningless as this farce? He may be a cold-blooded murderer, but such a stilted and awkward move is not in his nature.”

The idiot Calmacil opened his mouth to argue but was soundly routed by a sharp gesture from Hendumaika. “What my associate meant to say was that we have… _suggested…_ to Court that the Fëanárioni are responsible. Before her departure, Lindalórë was being particularly stubborn about the possibility of an advantageous marriage. We believe she decided to simply run off in protest. And it seemed likely that she would run straight into the arms of her former brothers-in-law like the little fool that she is.”

At being so corrected—and chastised lightly by the irritation in Hendumaika’s eyes for trying to lie straight to the face of a potential ally (or, at the very least, his father would like him to believe he was a potential ally) whom the older man _knew_ would never buy their ridiculous kidnapping tale farce—Calmacil flushed darkly and almost growled down at his half-empty plate, shuffling his food about with his fork.

“I think more tea is in order. To calm our nerves,” the Head of the House said calmly, turning his head to look at the singular servant hiding in the corner of the room, obediently waiting for orders. “Send for some.”

“Have it brought by that girl, Yavannië,” Calmacil added. “She is such a sweet thing, and I enjoy her service.”

Across from him, Aikambalotsë could see no reaction from his mother—not in her face or her body—at the almost crude comment towards the younger female servant. Nor did his father so much as bat an eyelash, nonplussed. “Yes, have Yavannië serve us. That will do quite well, thank you.”

The servant bowed at the waist, just a hair short of the proper depth to show respect and reverence to his Lord, and then vanished. But not before the look of utter disgust flashed like a shadow across his face, a dark cloud passing before the moon in a flurry, to grace Hendumaika’s turned back.

Minutes of quiet eating later, said girl appeared.

The first thing Aikambalotsë noticed was that her face was bruised and her hands were visibly shaking there they held a steaming teapot. For all that she set about pouring tea cup by cup, beginning with the Lord of the House as per protocol, she looped around to serve the Lady of the House before the heir. It was grounds for a scolding—she should have known better—but Aikambalotsë pretended to be too engrossed in his breakfast to notice the mistake. When she came back around, her hands were quaking so hard she almost missed his cup, and he fought with the urge to steady them with his own, knowing it would not be welcome.

Her hands carried bruises as well, and several fingernails that looked to have been recently broken and filed down, shorter than the others. Her wrists were black and purple and ugly yellow where they had been grabbed and squeezed almost hard enough to break. Only an idiot would miss such signs of something untoward going on right underneath their noses.

Hendumaika said nothing, though there was not a chance in the Void that he saw not what was right before his gaze, solidifying Aikambalotsë’s conclusion that his father was happy to allow the regrettable and repulsive behavior of Calmacil and did not care how it might traumatize or harm the innocent girl in question. So long as it served its purpose in the long run, Yavannië’s suffering was a trivial sacrifice to the merciless businessman. Green eyes flickered in Aikambalotsë’s direction, knowing that he would notice, searching for his reaction, likely pondering whether or not the heir to the House would ask difficult questions.

When he remained silent, his father seemed to relax just a bit, sipping his tea as little swirls of steam rose from his cup to wrap and twine about his fingers and cheeks.

And Yavannië moved on to serve Calmacil. The shaking in her hands was so bad now that she definitely splattered a little tea onto the table, but no one said anything about it. Slowly, she managed to fill the cup without spilling any more, though they could all see how torturous she found those long moments leaning over into Calmacil’s personal space, well within reach of his hands should he decide to touch her without warning.

Which he did. Aikambalotsë had but a moment to brace himself for what followed.

Because, of course, the moment the man’s hand came into contact with her rear end and squeezed, Yavannië let out a sound akin to that of a dying animal and the teapot slipped right between her fingers, smashing all over the tabletop. A loud swear echoed through the room as the boiling hot liquid splashed all over the plates of the two nearest people—Aikambalotsë and Calmacil—and then ran like a river over the edge of the table and into their laps. Within moments, Calmacil was knocking the shaking girl back into the wall with more force than necessary, scalded as the burning liquid seeped through his clothing. Gritting his teeth, Aikambalotsë barely flinched, observing the stained mess of his legs with resigned eyes and then watching the spectacle of his would-be brother-in-law dancing about like he had been set aflame or some such nonsense. Really, it was but hot tea! Dragon-fire was ever so much crueler.

“Bloody girl,” Calmacil snapped, and he reached out to grab at Yavannië’s arm and drag her forth as she cried, shaking her almost violently until her teeth rattled in her skull from the force. “Look what you and your clumsiness did! My clothes are _ruined!_ These cost more than several months of your wages! Now I shall have to repurchase all of this, you stupid bint!”

_He is a miser,_ Aikambalotsë added to his already extensive list of reasons he wished he could set Calmacil on fire in truth. _Nothing he is wearing could not be washed gently to remove stains from a bit of light tea, and it certainly needs not be thrown away and rebought. So, he is simply too incompetent or too lazy to have the work done or to do it on his own._

Washing clothes was a servant’s job here, of course. But warriors abroad washed their own clothing in the wake of battle—they did not bring women along to the fields of death and horror to carry out their daily chores, after all—and blood was infinitely harder to get out of clothes than mere tea. Never mind some of the other awful things that came out of disemboweled bodies. Seeing a grown man throw a tantrum over something so unimportant, being so tactlessly rude and taking it out on the poor, crying maidservant, it was almost too pathetic to watch. The embarrassment of even witnessing such behavior had Aikambalotsë cringing far more than the scalds left behind by the boiling hot tea.

_This is the way of Court,_ he reminded himself blandly. _These people have never had to scrub orco blood and excrement from their clothing and skin and boots and hair for hours in the icy snow-melt rivers until their hands and feet are numb with cold and their clothes come out pristine white._

“Quit whining, lout! It is just tea,” he finally interrupted when his patience with the petulant tantrum wore thin and then cracked, ending Calmacil’s tirade and watching nonchalantly as the man’s cheeks heated beneath his stare. “Girl, you will wash our clothes until all the stains have been removed, or their cost will come from your pay. Now, get thee gone. You have interrupted our breakfast enough.”

Looking somewhere between absolutely terrified at being so castigated and so relieved she might drop dead of gratitude, Yavannië fled the room, her dark braid flying in her wake.

Slowly, beneath Aikambalotsë’s unwavering stare, Calmacil sat back down, grumbling about incompetent servants and trying not to look directly into the burning green eyes. Ignoring the imbecile, the heir turned back to his breakfast and continued to eat, uncaring for the faint stains of brown upon his own clothing now that the liquid had cooled. The dampness clinging to his skin was annoying, but hardly enough to get him to leave his breakfast to become cold whilst he wasted time changing.

And, because he did not halt breakfast to change, Calmacil did not dare demand that they do so for him to depart and rid himself of his half-stained and wet clothes. Petty satisfaction was a trifling thing, but a sprinkle of water upon the inner firestorm of rage that Aikambalotsë struggled to contain beneath his icy veneer, but it was still enough to almost bring a vicious curve to his lips.

Instead of spilling blood—as he longed to do in that moment so much so that his fingertips itched with the need to grasp a blade and kill—he finished his breakfast stoically and wondered how long it would take for him to drive Calmacil from this house entirely by less violent means.

Not too long, he would wager. And he was looking forward to the opportunity to make the process as painful and humiliating as possible.

Such did the piece of filth deserve.

Taking another bite of his eggs, Aikambalotsë offered a grim smile to the table.

This was going to be a long, hard road. But the end would be sweet enough to leave his teeth aching and his tongue recoiling in disgusted delight.

For he was going to see Calmacil _burn._

\---

_“Now, get thee gone. You have interrupted our breakfast enough.”_

The words rang through her ears even an hour later, vibrating through her skull over and over until her vision felt fuzzy and tilted. The look on that face, undeniably handsome but twisted into a snarl, she could not forget, for it had shaken her to her core. The white flash of teeth like a rabid dog’s grimace and the blinding flash of emerald eyes, narrowed harshly with fury both haunted her spirit. So far as she knew, it was the first time that man had ever addressed her directly. Not much had Yavannië ever had to do with the heir of the House of Helyanwë, for he was often gone on his own business even after his rebirth, and she was but a mere maidservant beneath his notice. At most, she might sometimes make up his bed and wash his sheets. Not certain was she whether he had ever even _looked at her face_ before today!

Certainly, he had now. And, standing outside his room, hand hovering over the door, she wondered that her legs had not turned to water and spilled her down over the rug in convulsive fits of anxiety. Even though he had done nothing more to her than raise his voice—even though it had been his words which had (intentionally or not) gotten her away from Calmacil as she was being shaken and squeezed until her whole arm ached from being grabbed, his words which had, in a way despite their cruel chill, _saved_ her from wetting herself right there in the middle of the dining room out of terror at being thusly manhandled and abused by the man who had harmed her in body and spirit—he was still…

He was still a man. And Yavannië could scarcely stand to be in the same room as men. Not since… Not after…

_You need to fetch his ruined clothes._ The instructions were very clear. She was to wash out the stains resulting from her clumsiness (from being shocked at having her bottom groped by Calmacil, who had been looking at her in that way that made her unable to sleep at night for the fear pounding in her throat that he might unlock her door and force her again to bed with him violently) and return the clothes unsullied or pay for them with her own money.

Still, she could not help but imagine what might happen if she knocked on that door. That the heir might come to the door, throw it open and yell at her for being a clumsy fool and making a mess. Or hit her and kick her as punishment for her mistake. Or even grab her and throw her against the wall, and—

And she had no reason to think that Lord Aikambalotsë would do something like that to her. In all her time serving this household—since she was very young—he had never shown any violent tendencies towards any of the women, servant or no. Not once! And yet, irrationally, she could not help but remember the way his eyes had glowed like exploding stars with his rage, how his voice had been deep and rolling like thunder over the plains as he interrupted Calmacil’s tirade, how it had brokered no questioning and demanded only obedience. As though he might beat into the ground anyone who dared to disobey his orders and annoy him further.

_Deep breaths,_ she said to herself. _Lord Aikambalotsë would not physically harm any servant of this household, no matter his mood. Knock!_

Before she could work up the courage, the door down the hall opened abruptly, slamming against the wall. Almost instinctively, she shuffled towards Lord Aikambalotsë’s closed door, pressing her back up against the wall beside the cool wood, feeling the edge of the doorframe beneath her fluttering fingertips as her wide eyes looked to the (terrifyingly) familiar tall figure that stomped out into the hallway. Calmacil was dressed in fresh clothing with the stained remains of this morning’s tunic and leggings bundled messily in his hands, all the while wearing a sour face as he sneered down at the damp, wrinkled fabric. The man nearly stormed past, and Yavannië prayed he would simply _not notice_ that she was there.

Of course, he did.

Paused, he turned his head to regard her, eyes flickering up and down her body in a way that had her shuddering and cowering back against the wall. “You,” he said, as though she were a flea-ridden mongrel in an alleyway begging for scraps.

Yet, it was not disgust in his gaze as it settled on her breasts, completely covered but nonetheless there. Memory of hands—of _his hands_ —around them, squeezing too hard as his body crowded up against her from behind, as she felt the leather of his boots on her bare legs and the feeling pain arching up—

A whimper left her lips before she could silence herself. Never in her life had she so desperately wished for the ability to disappear into thin air, to vanish into the mist and melt away as a puff of breath upon the wind. In that moment, she would have gladly bargained with the Black Enemy himself if it could have given her the power to fade away and disappear from sight, to escape as the man took damning steps closer and pressed her back against the wall, arms bracketing her body, penning her in like a lamb for slaughter.

“I think you owe me more than a simple clothes washing,” he growled, leaning in close enough that she felt his breath on her face, smelled his scent (as if she could ever forget the way he smelled, the reek of his sweat and musk choking her as thoroughly as his hands wrapped about her neck) and felt herself helplessly gag. “If I ordered you to come to my rooms tonight and offer me a more substantial payment, you would have to comply with my wishes, girl. I could have you banished from this house and out on the streets with nothing but the clothes on your back if you did not.”

What could she even say to that?

“I think you owe me that much, do you not? Some pleasure to make up for the burns?” he asked her, smirking. “Tonight? Let us say, eleven o’clock?”

Part of her was too petrified to even move or breathe. Black crept in at the edges of her vision as she stood there, a rabbit knowing it was caught, that death closed in. That she might faint then and there was almost a relief, except she knew not what he might do with her body when she was helpless and unconscious, that she would not wake up in his quarters sans her clothing or, worse, with him _there with her,_ and—

“I should warn you,” a new voice interrupted, “That I do not appreciate your propositioning the help. Have you nothing better to do than make yourself a nuisance? It is no wonder my sister would rather run off than bed down with someone so useless.”

The words were said in such a sarcastically caustic tone that it might as well have burned Calmacil’s bare flesh for how red it became. As though shocked by a tiny thread of lightning, the man near leapt away from Yavannië, backing up almost to the opposite wall in a flash. “Why should you care what I do with the help? What do unimportant serving girls matter to the heir of the House of Helyanwë?” he snapped.

Still shaking, Yavannië turned her head and saw the heir to the House standing there, door open and green eyes glaring out of the shadows like a monster’s flashing gaze through the night.

“Or is it that you wish to keep her for yourself?” Calmacil asked then, reaching out to drag Yavannië away from the wall by her arm. The grasp of his hand on her breast had her trying to twist away, but he had his arms tangled around her before she could even struggle. “If so, you should know, I have already had this one. She was not the best lay, but with a little work—”

The words were interrupted by the sound of a harsh crack and a half-stifled shriek. Yavannië found herself shoved aside in a spiral of color, cheek smacking against the wall hard enough to send a shock of pain up through her eye socket and across the line of her jaw. But a mere bruise on her cheekbone was a small price to pay to be out of _that man’s_ grasp. Snapping her head about, she saw Lord Aikambalotsë’s hand wrapped about Calmacil’s wrist, so tightly that that his knuckles were white. The lesser nobleman found himself pressed face-first against the wallpaper, and the captured wrist was twisted and pulled behind his back at an angle which could not possibly be comfortable.

“What in the name of Eru? Let me go, fiend!” Calmacil demanded, trying uselessly to glare over his shoulder but failing to anything more than squirm around pathetically like a mouse caught in a trap unable to get free.

To which Lord Aikambalotsë just laughed, a cold and high-pitched sort of sound that left Yavannië with the hairs upon her arms standing on end. “That you would even speak aloud the name of the One makes me feel ill. Listen here, wretch! I made myself quite clear before, but let me elaborate for you, since you are clearly too stupid to understand that _you are a powerless guest in this household_ and you are _testing my patience._ If I catch you with your hands upon a servant of _my house,_ a broken wrist will be the least of your troubles. I will pluck your fingernails off one by one and _feed them to you_ if I hear even a _whisper_ of such things taking place behind my back, and that is just the start. I could make your entire world pain, and I will if you push. I will not warn you again.”

“I doubt your father would be too impressed,” Calmacil ground out. But even an idiot could have heard the whine of fear in his voice, could have smelled the stink of it upon the air. “Assaulting a guest in your home? What will the people at Court think of that?”

“They will think that you seek to slander our House because we have denied you marriage to a daughter of our blood and you are moaning about not getting your way. That is what they will think.” With that, Lord Aikambalotsë peeled the man off the wall and gave him a hearty shove in the direction of the stairs. “Do not annoy me further with your petty words and pitiful manipulations. I grow tired of listening to your whining and whimpering.”

With a last hate-filled backwards glance, Calmacil skulked away. Not before sending one last spine-tingling leer in Yavannië’s direction.

As soon as the man slipped around the corner, Aikambalotsë rounded upon her with the agility of a hunting cat. And the maid found herself wondering, wide-eyed and breathless—not a good way, at that—whether she had been wrong to assume that the heir of the House was so against harming the help after all! There was nothing else she could think to call the red-flushed skin of his cheeks and the clenching of his fists and the audible grind of his teeth besides an expression of outright fury!

“M-my lord?” she inquired helplessly, eyes burning with the oncoming tide of tears.

“What were you thinking?” he asked her aloud, voice quiet but no less horribly chastising for it, “Coming up here alone and unattended?”

“I… what?” For long moments, she could not process his words. His anger indicated that she had done something horrible to upset him so thoroughly, but the words she thought she heard sounded more like he was concerned for her safety. And, surely, that could not be so!

“If I had not interrupted, he could have done _anything_ to you,” the man hissed out, and his hands reached towards her as if he wanted to shake her but withdrew at the last second and clenched into tight balls. One smacked against the wall, and she could not help but jerk in response. “For Eru’s sake, woman, are you going about asking for trouble on purpose?”

“N-n-no!” she stammered out. “No, of course not! I just— You said I should—”

_You asked me to come and wash your clothes,_ she wanted to cry out, feeling the tears gathering in her eyes once again now spilling over in a boiling mess as scalding upon her skin as the tea had been that morning. _I was just trying to do as you ordered!_

_I just do not want… I do not want to be in trouble… I do not want to attract attention… I do not want anyone to look at me…_

And, just like that, she was crying loudly and wetly like a pathetic little girl in front of her employer’s grown and ornery son. The little bit of makeup she wore about her eyes was going to smudge—she could see the black streaks on her skin as she wiped furiously at her face and tried to withhold her hiccupping sobs—and she would look a mess, red-nosed and red-eyed and sad, like a child instead of a grown women. It was as side of her that she never wanted _anyone_ to see if she could help it—though, the other women of the house had already witnessed her breakdowns several times in these past few days—and certainly not a man who could not possibly understand, who could not possibly care about her insignificant problems!

Perhaps it was the tears. Or perhaps he was just tired. Or perhaps it was something else entirely that she could not comprehend. But Lord Aikambalotsë let out a long-winded sigh, and all the rage seemed to wash straight out of his body, tensed muscles falling limp and hands uncurling at his sides. As suddenly as it had been birthed, the whirlwind of anger was gone, replaced by a resigned sort of calm.

“Just… next time send up a manservant for the damn clothes instead of endangering yourself,” he grumbled. And she watched, still unable to make her feet move, as he leaned down and plucked up the dirty bundle of clothes lying abandoned in the middle of the hallway in the wake of his tussle with Calmacil. He eyed them with a look of utter disgust, as though they might carry a particularly foul odor or affliction within their weave, and he handed them over along with his own swiftly. “I will escort you downstairs with these, and you will send them back up with a manservant when they are washed.”

“M-my lord, you need not do something like that! Truly, I—”

“If you think that Calmacil is not waiting for you at the bottom of the stairs, planning to harass you where he thinks I will not see, you are stupider than I thought,” the heir commented sharply, already setting off down the hallway at a brisk pace that forced her to trot to keep up. His legs were just so _long_ and his strides so _swift,_ and she almost tripped as he rounded a corner in a sharp and smooth movement without even slowing.

His words had her shivering. Because she knew, in all likelihood, he was correct. And that there was little she could do to hide from her tormentor. Little she could do, as a mere maidservant, to make Calmacil, a lesser noble, cease in his attentions.

In any case, Lord Aikambalotsë was not about to change his mind. The man had already reached the stairs, leaving her almost running to keep up as he bolted down towards the lower levels, rarely graced with the presence of any of the members of the House of Helyanwë. At the bottom of the first flight, there was a flash of color in the corner of her eye—a man-shaped shadow darted back out of the room through one of the nearby doorways, and she resisted the urge to reach out and cling to the heir of the House like a vining weed when she realized he had been right and Calmacil had been waiting for her to come down alone and unprotected—and then continued right down into the servant’s domain. The heir did not so much as bat an eyelash at being in the cramped and narrow halls of below, undecorated in comparison with the lavish decadence of the upstairs.

In fact, he did not pause until they reached the washing room. Two other maids there, doing the laundry already, looked up with wide eyes at his appearance.

Unceremoniously, Yavannië found herself turned by her shoulders to face the heir, and her head craned back as he lifted her chin. Their gazes met, her watery blue eyes almost squeezing shut in response to the vivid green staring blindingly back.

“If he bothers you or anyone else again, you tell me immediately,” the heir said, and his fingers were firm but not painful upon her chin. “If he so much as leers in your direction, I would know about it. I have only been home half a day and have already had enough of that rotten, infantile toad of a man, and I would not have him bothering anyone in the house. Including the help. Is that clear?”

Slowly, she nodded, still stunned into silence.

“And remember to send up someone else with the clothes when they are clean, for Eru’s sake,” the man added, shaking his head, “Ridiculous girl!”

With that, he stepped around her and made his way back towards the stairs. Leaving Yavannië trembling in her shoes, carrying a small bundle of tea-stained clothing in her arms, wondering what in all of Eä had just taken place before her eyes.

A gentle hand touched her elbow, startling her. With a yelp, she spun around. But it was just another of the maids.

“Are you well?” she was asked. For probably the thousandth time in the last few days.

Slowly, she nodded. “Yes.” The word was whispered, hesitant. “My lord was only escorting me back downstairs. There was an incident at breakfast this morning, and some clothes of his and C-Calmacil’s needed washing.”

“You give those to me.” The woman was taking them out of her hands before she could even protest that it was _she_ who had messed them up and _she_ who was meant to scrub them clean as punishment. Even as she opened her mouth, though, the other maid gave her a stern look and pushed her in the direction of the sleeping quarters. “Go and rest. We will wake you if the Lady summons you for bathing duty again tonight.”

Swallowing, feeling as though she might cry again, Yavannië could do little more than nod and be thankful. Still trembling all over, she retreated to the safety of her bedchambers and nearly collapsed at the foot of her bed.

Exhausted, she barely had time or thought to ponder on the strangely protective behavior of Lord Aikambalotsë. Instead, she curled up, taking the time only to kick off her shoes, and buried herself fully-clothed beneath her familiar blanket. And it helped her feel just the tiniest bit warmer through the chill seeping down into her bones and her soul.

There was the echo of hands on her shoulders, squeezing tight, and fingers upon her chin, gentle and firm. Not threatening. Not harsh. Not _hurting._

And then the relief. Like a summer storm, swift to come upon her and wreak havoc.

Lying still, she wept against her pillow, grateful that this morning’s fiasco was over. And that Lord Aikambalotsë had been there in her time of need.

If not…

She did not want to think about what might have happened.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:
> 
> Atar (Q) = Father  
> yondonya (Q) = my son (formal)  
> Fëanárioni (Q, p) = sons of Fëanáro  
> orqui (Q, p) = orcs  
> Amillë (Q) = Mother  
> orco (Q, s) = orc


	75. Revealed, the Sins of Fathers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two sons contemplating the mistakes of (and their internal resentment, well-deserved or not, towards) their fathers. With some sweet sibling reunion squished between to make a nice sandwich...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: lies of omission, the road to hell is paved in good intentions, discussion of sexual abuse/rape (non-explicit), guilt, insomnia, PTSD, paranoia, stress starvation, scheming/politics, fantasies of violence, anger/bitterness as coping mechanism, unhealthy coping mechanisms
> 
> Yes, finally, I got this one cranked out! It's a bit later than usual, but I got the editing done! *sighs* Most of the usual warnings in the AN apply, but most of it is pretty vague, so this chapter is overall pretty "safe". More characters developing without my consent behind my back and springing it on me at the last moment. The usual works.
> 
> Maedhros = Maitimo = Nelyafinwë = Nelyo = Russandol  
> Maglor = Makalaurë = Kanafinwë = Káno  
> Celegorm = Tyelkormo = Tyelko = Turkafinwë = Turko  
> Caranthir = Carnistir = Morifinwë = Moryo  
> Curufin = Atarinkë = Curufinwë = Curvo  
> Amrod = Ambarussa = Pityafinwë = Pityo = Minyarussa  
> Amras = Umbarto = Telufinwë = Telvo = Atyarussa  
> Finrod = Findaráto  
> Finarfin = Arafinwë  
> Fingolfin = Nolofinwë  
> Angrod = Angaráto  
> Egalmoth = Aikambalotsë = Lotsë  
> Lindalórë = Lórë  
> Turgon = Turukáno

_Aldúya, 58 Lairë (10 July)_

\---

“Why is this the first I am hearing of the situation?”

Truly, Findaráto did not mean to sound so irate at being left in the dark, but he could not block the words before they rolled swift off his tongue. Flabbergasted, he stared at his father from across the desk, blinking in the King’s image smattered with the dapples of morning sunlight shimmering through the open window, highlighting every shade and dip of that familiar face. Arafinwë, far from appearing his normal regal and unruffled self—smirking down at his morning tea like a satisfied cat—instead just looked rather tired, lips pursing in the face of his son’s outburst, eyes shadowed and lined underneath with dark smudges of fatigue.

The King reached down and delicately grasped his teacup in his long-fingered, manicured hand, taking a sip of the sludgy black brew within the pristine white china. “I thought you had enough to worry about without dealing with this mess, too.”

“I am your heir,” Findaráto answered, trying not to let his upset show through in his face or his voice when he knew his father had meant well, even if his good intentions left the eldest son with a bitter taste on the back of his tongue. Judging by the exhausted look he was given, he failed entirely to keep his outrage from shining through. “Is it not my duty to stand by your side and lighten your burden? All things that the King holds upon his shoulders, should not his heir also bear some of the weight?”

“Perhaps you are right, and I was wrong to withhold this from you,” Arafinwë said with a gentle sigh into his cup, “But it matters little now. I have told you, of course, for a reason.”

_Of course, he did._

Findaráto fought back a sigh of his own, caught somewhere between exasperation, resignation and disappointment, leaning abruptly back in his seat across the desk from his parent. “How is it that I can be of service to you, Atar?”

A frown crossed Arafinwë’s face, deepening as those blue eyes rolled up to stare at Findaráto, eye-to-eye, unflinchingly. “You have been tasked with investigating crimes against the daughters of the nobility in these matters. It seems fitting that you should speak to Lindalórë of her trials before she is out of reach. And Nolofinwë as well, if you can get him to cooperate. I would have thought about asking Angaráto, but I do not want…”

 _Angaráto is not nearly so fragile as you think he is,_ Findaráto would have liked to say, eyes narrowing in the most minute expression of annoyance. _He has probably heard the entirety of the matter from Lindalórë’s lips already if he was abroad at Nolofinwë’s house for an entire day._

But he did not attempt to counter his father’s decision, no matter that Arafinwë infantilizing another of his brothers was annoying. Truly awful things, certainly, had happened to Angaráto in the pits of Angamando, and no one was going to try to deny that fact. Even now, Findaráto felt guilt over letting his brother out of his sight, over not protecting and, later, rescuing his sibling. He had believed his brother dead and left Angaráto to a terrible fate unknowingly. But, out of the whole lot of brothers and cousins of the House of Finwë, his little brother had somehow gone from being catastrophically destroyed—burst apart into a million pieces of his old self scattered to the four winds and, seemingly, lost forever—to being rebuilt and sane where the rest of them continued to melt and crumble like old, unkept statuary and brick. His younger brother, miraculously, had looked him in the eye and _reassured him_ that everything would be well in the end, that he should not let guilt hurt his heart.

 _“I did not want you to know. In fact, I took steps to be certain you would never know,”_ his little brother told him unflinchingly. _“I feared what the Dark Lord would do with knowledge of my identity. To you and to the others. So, you see, you should not blame yourself. I am_ glad _that you were not subject to such manipulation. Like Kanafinwë had been when Nelyafinwë was a prisoner of the Enemy.”_

Long hours of speaking, of Angaráto explaining and soothing and rationalizing away with that blithe smile upon his face, had given Findaráto enough peace to sleep soundly for almost an entire week. How his brother did it, he was not quite certain, but he suspected there was some very subtle voice magics involved.

In any case, Angaráto would be a great asset in this battle, but he would not foist his responsibilities off upon his younger brother. Instead, as the Crown Prince, he would learn to deal with this matter with the help of his wife. The situation at hand was a delicate one, but it fell under his current jurisdiction, and he could not pass by the opportunity to gather evidence against a powerful man of Court.

Until this morning, Findaráto had been unaware that everything spouting from Lord Hendumaika’s lips was a blatant falsity, not as he knew it to be now, after the briefing by his father and the unpleasant surprise that knowledge was being withheld “for his own good”. Perhaps, he had not been so certain that Lindalórë had been _kidnapped by his cousins,_ for he could honestly imagine none of them doing such a foolhardy thing with a woman to whom they were not married, especially if they were all so strangely charming and genuine as cousin Carnistir had turned out to be. But he had certainly believed that Lindalórë had up and vanished from her parents’ home, leaving behind a worried family with no idea as to her current whereabouts or safety.

 _It goes to show,_ he thought grimly, _how talented of an actor Hendumaika of the House of Helyanwë truly is when he puts his mind to it._

Having been told now that that was all, indeed, a farce, Findaráto felt a little raw and a little cheated, as though he had been gullible about the whole incident. And, if he was so easily convinced by Hendumaika’s act, what other acts had had him convinced in the past? What other falsities might he have overlooked because his eyes _saw_ something that looked suspicious or questionable, but his brain _did not want to see_ anything out of order?

It was at times like this that he wished the world were not so complicated, that he wished he could trust the words of his fellow men, that he wished what was presented on the surface of a matter was truth that he could drink down with the knowledge that he was not being tricked. Of course, he knew that that was not the case—it had not been the case abroad, for all that he had remained blind to the ill intentions of his cousins in Nargothrond for too long and had been ousted from his own kingdom as a result—but he had hoped that Valinórë would be different. Sincere. Genuine. He had _wanted desperately_ for Valinórë to be different, and he had ignored anything that indicated to the contrary out of sheer force of will.

But no longer.

“I will, of course, speak to her,” he agreed instantly. And then, shortly, “If there is nothing else…”

Tension vibrated between them, the unspoken ring of Findaráto’s distrust like a high-pitched whining cry in the silence. Arafinwë set his teacup down more abruptly than usual, and it clattered loudly in the awkward silence. “I was only trying to help,” his father said, “As your father and not as your King.”

“I know,” Findaráto said patiently, even kindly, but without give and without mercy, for the coddling had long since gotten stale, “But I am not a little boy in need of hiding away from the ills of this world. Knowing that you keep information from me—even if you think you are doing me a favor and keeping me safe—will do nothing except contribute to my inability to sleep at night. Atar, I have run an entire kingdom singlehandedly on my own, and I am not a child. None of us—myself or any of my brothers—are children in need of protecting.”

At this, of course, his father looked mildly displeased, as if his mouth wanted to pop open such that he could spew a counterargument to his offspring’s straightforward complaint. Except, they both knew that Findaráto was in the right in this regard. None of the children of Arafinwë were young, indefensible youngsters in need of parental oversight for the rest of eternity, as they had all functioned on their own in Exile, unattended and, in many cases, unassisted in the face of great misery and strife. And they had all come back starkly different from the naïvely optimistic sons that Arafinwë had inadvertently sent off into Exile all those many centuries ago. Occasionally foolish in their swiftness to trust of believe the best in others, they might still be, but they were not helpless, and they required guidance rather than protection, independence rather than locking away out of sight.

Findaráto was not certain he could truly understand how his father might feel about that reality. He was not, after all, a father himself. Not yet. But he _did_ know that he would be looking forward to several sleepless nights pondering the hundreds or thousands of things his father might be keeping from him “for his own good” rather than involving him intricately in the political web surrounding the throne he was, one day, meant to sit upon.

At his words, his father seemed to deflate slightly. “That is all that I was holding back from you, yonya. Nothing else.”

“And how am I meant to trust that that is the truth of the matter?” Findaráto asked simply. The words were not pointed or even slightly caustic, for the flash of fury over the withheld information was already come and gone through the shadows of Findaráto’s spirit in the blink of an eye, far overshadowed by the sinking feeling in his gut. His father still minutely flinched. As if a small but painful blow had been dealt where it hurt the very most.

Maybe it _was_ the disappointment heavily laden within the low tones of his voice which had the older man wilting after all.

“I suppose you simply will,” his father answered, “For lack of a better response. There is no proof I can offer you as such.”

Obviously, that would be the case. Nevertheless, Findaráto found himself further disappointed that there was nothing more to be said. That there was no solution to be found nor reassurance to be given. “Very well. I shall take my leave, then, Atar. You said she was with Uncle Nolofinwë?”

“Yes, I did—”

“I shall go with you.” From the doorway, he could see Angaráto, leaning upon the doorframe, dark eyes narrow and smile tight. And he felt (guilty) relief shine like sunlight upon his stricken heart, for he wanted (in no small part like a child) to flee his father’s presence and be away from the man for a time. And here was an interruption that could get him out of this meeting swiftly and decisively. “I was going to visit again today to speak with Lindalórë in any case, so you might as well come with. And we should bring your wife along. She could use some female company that is not Aunt Anairë’s smothering and awkward attempts at comforting.”

Well had Findaráto learned the value of Amarië as a partner in battle these past few days, so he was not about to deny the wisdom of those words. Standing, he offered his father what he hoped was a mildly reassuring smile. “We shall be off then.”

To which Arafinwë tried to smile back, but it was halfhearted at best and did not light up his darker-than-usual blue eyes. The King sipped his tea and plucked a biscuit from the accompanying plate, examining it so as to not-so-subtly avoid looking too long into his eldest son’s eyes. “I appreciate your assistance, yonya. Go forth! I am sure you know what you are doing and need me not to interfere further.”

Whether that was a jab at Findaráto’s earlier insistence upon independence or not, the sentiment was accepted at face value. Arafinwë had never been the greatest at sarcasm, so it was doubtful that the words were meant in scorn or malice besides. “I shall return, Atar.”

Turning his back, he left, younger brother on his tail, to find his waiting wife.

There was no point in taunting and tormenting himself over pointless family quarreling. Not whilst there was work to be done, busyness to overshadow the ache of lost trust that bloomed poisonous in his chest and refused to be quelled or crushed beneath his metaphorical heel. So many times in the past, his trust had been tarnished.

_From the Fëanárioni, shattered trust is almost expected. But from Atar…_

He would let it pass him by, as often he did. But, for all that he would forgive his father’s well-meaning actions for now, he would not forget them in the least bit.

Findaráto did not forget.

But he did put it away on a shelf in his mind and focus upon more important things. Stepping out into a nearby parlor, his wife smiled up at his face and left his heart melting a little bit, shedding the frosty layer it had gained during the last few unpleasant minutes of conversation, leaving him feeling better. Supported. Reassured.

 _We have a cousin to visit,_ he thought. And it was not such a taxing thought as it had felt just a few minutes before.

 _At least,_ he could not help but think, _I will always have Amarië by my side. And she, I can trust with everything, for she will never lead me astray._

\---

Lindalórë came down to breakfast to find three more people than expected at the table.

Well, perhaps Angaráto had been a little bit expected, though she had thought he might come along later in the day to talk again rather than first thing in the morning barely an hour after dawn had begun alighting the streets of Tirion, sending golden light creeping across the floor as it shone bright through the opened curtains. Guiltily, she acknowledged that she would have liked some time with him to herself, just to talk in private rather than at the public forum of the breakfast table. There was still much she wanted to tell him, to ask him. About her dreams last night, filled with more hazy reflections of _the incident_ and its aftermath. About what she was supposed to do to make them cease. About the still-panging agony of what had happened that followed her everywhere she went.

But, instead, she had a whole table of vaguely related cousins to treat with. And she was not so certain she was up to the task.

She fidgeted with her napkin in discomfort, twiddling it between her fingers, and then folding and unfolding it before it was placed limply upon her lap.

Even sitting at the table, under the scrutiny of so many eyes, was difficult. Anairë’s, because she could always see the _pity_ staring back at her. Nolofinwë’s, because she could always see his _understanding,_ too raw and too garish. For all that the older couple had taken her in and protected her—and she had no words to describe how grateful she was for that, how it left her skin buzzing with warmth and her eyes misting with tears—she still felt awkward and stilted in conversation with either one of them, though she had attempted to speak with each last night and this morning at Angaráto’s behest.

 _“Give them a chance,”_ he had told her kindly, gently, _“And they might surprise you. I think both of them need a fresh face around the house more than either is willing to admit.”_

She was not entirely certain how she was supposed to help, but she would try.

And, now, there were two new faces as well. Findaráto, the Crown Prince, and his golden-headed wife, Amarië. The former with his chin raised and his eyes sunken into deep, sleepless furrows that she recognized from her own visage after countless nights of giant heaps of worry and very, very little rest, the latter smiling on gently with her hand resting softly upon her husband’s arm, quietly supportive, squeezing to let him know that she was _there._

The silent intimacy was lovely, and it made Lindalórë’s chest constrict, her heart longing painfully for her husband’s arms. What she would not give to have Curufinwë here with her, at her side in her time of greatest need! To feel his hand upon her arm just in the same way! To taste his scent on the back of her tongue and lean her head sideways to bump against the firm strength of his shoulder!

_When is he coming back?_

Biting the inside of her lip, she slowly put a single piece of toast on her plate, along with a spoonful of eggs, doing her best not to let her wistful jealousy show. Looking to Angaráto, who was watching her far too observantly from across the table with his slightly narrowed gray eyes, she raised a questioning brow and glanced in the direction of his older brother and sister-in-law, wondering what had brought the couple to this household.

 _Did they know I was here?_ Her gaze slid back to the Crown Prince and his wife. _Were they supposed to know? Neither seemed surprised…_

“Forgive the intrusion,” Findaráto began, his voice smooth and genial and just a hair higher in pitch than his younger brother’s. He must have seen her staring and questioning his presence. “Atar told me where you were staying and asked that I come here and speak with you about what happened. My wife and I have been gathering information on criminal activities of this sort from other women of Court.”

“I… Right now?” Nervously, she looked towards Anairë, who seemed to be staring fixedly at her plate, and Nolofinwë, whose gaze met her own and then flickered away.

Really, she did not feel comfortable talking about what had happened with either of them present. Anairë because the woman did not seem as though she could relate to Lindalórë’s troubled mind, and Nolofinwë because he related far, far too much. Even the brief glimpse of a memory of her crying silently with her face burned in his chest, her forehead pressed firmly to his sternum and his large hands on her arms and back, had her flushing with mortification. That anyone but her husband had seen her _so vulnerable,_ let alone _another man…_

Well, at least they both knew and understood that the situation was impossibly awkward. Hardly was she going to try and hold Nolofinwë’s gaze and force him to acknowledge their shared, horrible experience.

And she _certainly_ did not want to talk about it with him in the room.

“Naturally, we will be talking to Uncle Nolofinwë as well, but not now. After some food, I should think,” the Crown Prince said kindly, easily recognizing her distress for what it was and effortlessly bleeding sympathy into his voice.

 _As if I could eat a hearty meal, knowing what is to come…_ She buttered her toast without thought, barely seeing the movement of her own hands holding the knife and spreading the thick, creamy yellow across the thin slice of burnished brown bread. Even though Findaráto had not broached the subject with any amount of explicit questioning—not yet, anyway—she could not help but imagine what he might ask, imagine what she might say…

Would he ask what she had heard? Would he ask if she could tell what sorts of horrors were being inflicted upon the woman on the other side of the door? Would he ask her to describe it all in detail, the way Yavannië shrieked and cried? Would he want her to say how each noise felt like a needle stabbing into her skin, shots of pain sinking down into the muscle like the sting of a bee, but everywhere and all at once, again and again until she wanted to scream? Would he want her to tell him how _sorry_ she was that she had sat there, frozen in Nolofinwë’s arms, comforted and protected and _doing nothing_ whilst a woman was raped just a few feet and a thin shield of wood away?

Would he want to know about afterwards? About Nolofinwë’s truthful but cruel advice? About how she remembered so little of the journey through the rain? About how the rest of that night was vague impressions of cold wetness in her eyes and in her hair and on her cheeks? About how she had been unable to sleep for the feeling of nausea bubbling like acid in her gut?

And what about before? Was he going to ask her about her father? About her mother and her brother? About Calmacil?

 _Eru,_ but she wished (in vain, she knew) that she could just forget all about _that man,_ that she could forget all about _that night!_

Of course, she could not.

Managing a nibble at the corner of a single piece of toast, she felt her stomach cramp. It was a sharp twist, like the blade of a knife in her core, and she quickly set the bread down. Glancing sideways and across the table, she saw that Nolofinwë was doing no better. For all that his plate looked disturbed from the way he combed through his eggs and greens with his fork, she watched him for more than a minute and never saw him lift even a single morsel to his lips. His eyes flickered towards her across the table and then away again in a flash of silver.

Lindalórë looked down at her own plate. And then glanced at the Arafinwioni. Angaráto seemed undisturbed, taking a hearty bite from his breakfast and shooting her an encouraging look along with a crooked smile. Of course, he could sense her unease.

Findaráto seemed almost as picky this morning as the two interviewees. But his lack of hunger seemed less of the white-faced, sick-to-the-stomach, dreading-what-comes sort of loss of appetite. Instead, he just seemed a little tired and a little stretched thin and a little half-hearted as he picked at his breakfast with the prongs of his fork, as though he just could not quite muster the strength of will to force himself to down more than a few bites. Morose, his mouth was twisted strangely, his jaw set firmly until his teeth clenched.

Amarië offered her a smile across the table, appearing less bothered than her husband and more welcoming. Normally, Lindalórë disdained that sort of bright and cheery woman—she, herself, was as far from enthusiastic, welcoming and optimistic as a woman could get, preferring a persona of bitterness, sarcasm and snark, a perfect compliment to her highly intelligent and highly temperamental spouse with the added bonus of being everything a lovely young lady of Court _was not meant to be_ yet still managing to be desirable in the eyes of a handsome man regardless—but she found herself oddly grateful for it now. It was not Anairë’s feeble and hesitant pity, but something more genuine, something that reminded her of the taste of citrus fruit sweet upon her tongue and the color of the sky at midday.

It made her feel just a little bit better. She managed another nibble of her toast without feeling as though she would immediately throw it back up.

Not that she would ever admit that she needed the comfort. After three days straight of crying alone on her bed and then bawling her heart out all over Angaráto in a snot-filled mess yesterday, she was quite ready to be done with the tears. With the lying still and doing nothing whilst guilt consumed her spirit.

It did not mean the guilt went away, naturally. It did not mean she did not feel sick at heart, still. But, having someone—more than someone, maybe, eventually—sitting beside her, just listening and just understanding, reassuring her that she had not made the wrong choice in protecting herself first and foremost… It helped. More than she could explain in mere words.

Working up the courage, glaring down at her plate, she sized up her greens. Just a mouthful or two. Angaráto had encouraged her to eat, and, even though she did not feel particularly hungry or interested in the bland taste on her tongue, she was determined not to let herself waste away.

 _“Starving yourself, keeping yourself awake all night, none of that will help you, and none of that will help anyone else,”_ the third son had told her yesterday, offering her a bit of jerky from one of his pockets and watching closely as she bit hesitantly at the end. _“Trust me, I know.”_

Poking her fork through a leaf, she raised it to her lips—

And heard the sound of the door chime, ringing like a sweet-voiced child’s laughter through the house, floating high upon the air. Yet, for all that the noise was cheery, it had all of them frozen over their plates, forks hovering.

Slowly, Lindalórë looked up at the host and hostess. Nolofinwë’s mouth was set in a grim line, eyes flashing almost white for their pallor, and Anairë looked the same shade as spilled milk. Clearly, no other guests had been on the list to join them this morning for the breaking of fast.

Which begged the question, why would someone be calling so early?

“Were we expecting to have anyone else join us for this discussion of yours, Findaráto?” Nolofinwë asked, standing from his chair—which screeched slightly as it slid across the hardwood floor—and circling the table to make for the front door.

“No,” Findaráto answered, looking just as suspicious as his uncle.

The pair went into the front hall, and the others all collectively stood, circling tentatively around to the doorway, peeking out into the hall to see the pair—golden-headed nephew and dark-haired uncle—sizing up the door as though it were a great foe in battle, shoulders wiggling and feet treading at the rug. Without speaking, Findaráto took up a position around the side of the door such that his sight would be blocked by the wooden pane itself as it swung inwards, just in case they needed to ambush their surprise visitor.

And then Nolofinwë opened the door a crack.

“I know that Lindalórë is there,” a familiar voice said immediately, just loud enough that she heard it and felt her heart jump up into her throat.

“For Eru’s sake, man, are you trying to announce it to the whole of the neighborhood?” Nolofinwë swiftly opened the door and let the visitor in, almost slamming it shut in the tall, dark-haired man’s wake. Heavy suspicion alighted the faces of both Nolofinwë and Findaráto as they approached their visitor and hovered, trying to gauge whether the announcement of knowledge of Lindalórë’s whereabouts was a threat to her safety.

But she knew that it was not.

The mixture of relief, resentment and longing in her breast was enough to make her almost dizzy, to have her heart leaping up into her throat and tears burning at the corners of her eyes, as she stepped out into the hall to get a better look at the man. Familiar in face and form to her father, with those same glowing green eyes, but the lines were softer where her mother shone through. In the curve of the upper lip. In the softness of the brow.

“Lotsë,” she gasped out, feeling as though it was a struggle to push the air from her lungs to even create that smallest of sounds.

Even more so when, in two large strides (heedless of the aborted protective maneuvering of every man within and without the room watching), her older brother crossed the empty space between them and had her crushed into the fold of his arms. And she hated _how much_ of a relief it was to be held, to smell the familiar sharpness of his skin, something cold and stark on her tongue, mixed with the scent of wilderness and grass and sunlight. His skin was a few shades darker, and his eyes were a few shades wilder.

“Aiya, Lórë, I am sorry,” he muttered against her temple, “I am _so sorry_ that I went. I should have stayed home. I should have known…”

Her fingers coiled in his hair, tangling in the dark strands. And, perhaps, they were not the strands which she longed to grasp and cling to the most, but they were comfort enough to help calm the instinctive wave of guilt that washed over her spirit in a stinging tide and threatened to bring forth yet more tears. Instead, she closed her eyes and pressed her nose against his warm skin, and his height and breadth wrapped all around her felt _safe._

For the first time in what felt like forever, she truly felt like everyone would be well. The she would truly come out of this situation unscathed.

_Aikambalotsë would die before he lets harm come to me. I would trust him with my life without hesitation._

“Do not be sorry,” she whispered into his skin. “It was as much my fault as yours.”

After all, he had gone at her behest to guard her husband’s back. It was not as though he had abandoned her knowing what would come. He could not be faulted for what he had failed to predict. Certainly, she had not seen such ill fortune headed her own way, so how could she expect him to have such prescience?

“I should have been wary of Atar.” Aikambalotsë pulled away all too soon, hands moving to bracket her face and lift it to the scrutiny of his verdant eyes. Like this, she could see the open relief, plain as day, that had all his irate features gentling into something he rarely showed even in the company of only his family members, soft and loving and everything the man had been raised to keep private. Lindalórë felt her cheeks heating faintly at having such an intimate reunion with her sibling before so many watching eyes, especially given how the gazes of their watchers softened and turned liquid at the sight of the loving siblings, at the sight of her hand reaching out to catch her brother’s to squeeze and cling. “Are you well? I mean, of course, you are not entirely well, not after Atar’s depraved plans came to fruition. But unharmed, at the very least? Calmacil did not manage to…?”

“I made sure of it myself,” Nolofinwë interrupted, drawing eyes away from the siblings. And, for that, Lindalórë was silently grateful. “I made certain that disgusting man laid not so much as a finger upon your sister when she was under my protection. But the maid…”

Lindalórë felt her heart sink.

“Amillë has been looking after Yavannië and Míriel, the girls who were attacked, as best she can behind Atar’s back.” The hand in her own squeezed, but it did nothing to negate the fact that, upon hearing _two_ names rather than one, she realized that there had not been a single victim. And nothing could have made her feel worse than that revelation, sitting in her belly like a lead weight, swaying back and forth, growing heavier and heavier, until she swayed with it upon her feet and her knees threatened to collapse.

“Two?” she asked.

“Ah, nettë,” her brother sighed out, “Try not to worry about it too much. Worry about yourself. Worry about getting better. Worry about finding a way to safety. Amillë and I will worry about what goes on in our father’s house.”

As if it were so easy as saying those words. As if it were so easy to banish her guilt.

 _“Try not to linger upon it,”_ Angaráto had told her, lifting her chin and giving her a half-smile that lit up his gray eyes. _“There will come a time when you can do something to help. But, first, you must see to yourself, to your own safety and security, and then to the safety and security of others second. It may seem selfish, but, if you are secure, it will make it that much easier to go forth and assist those who are less blessed than you in this life.”_

She wanted to help. She wanted to atone. She wanted to get on her hands and knees and say sorry a thousand times again and again for a week straight to each girl who had taken her place in Calmacil’s sadistic games.

But she knew, in the end, no matter what her irrational heart screamed as it writhed in the cage of her ribs, rattling the bars to be set free, that Angaráto was correct. There would be a time for her to step forward, to reach out and take an active role in helping those girls, but it was not now. Not when she, herself, was a fugitive hiding in plain sight with a bounty on her head issued by her insane and heartless father. For now, all she could do was speak to Findaráto and try to give as much evidence against her father and Calmacil as she could recall.

“Take care of them,” she murmured. “Take care of them where I cannot.”

“Of course,” her brother promised without hesitation.

“On that note,” a new voice, soft and light as the perfume of lilac in a summer breeze, “I think it appropriate to interject here. I wanted to make it known…”

It was, shockingly, Amarië who had spoken from her place at Findaráto’s side.

“Your two maids, if they need somewhere to go, they are more than welcome within our household.” Amarië reached out to entangle her hand with her husband’s, pushing herself in close to his side with a soft smile that lightened the hearts of all who bore witness to its sunny resplendence. “It cannot be easy, staying in that house after what happened there, nor safe. Please, do let them know that, if they need somewhere to go, they can come to us.”

And the golden Prince reached out to brush his wife’s curls back behind her cheek. The look on his face as he stared at her was impossibly fond. Obviously, no objection to that offer did he have, though it was not clear whether he had even known his wife was about to offer such sanctuary within their home.

Lindalóre looked back to her brother’s face. To the mild relief half-hidden beneath an attempt at a cool exterior. To the others, it might not have shown through, but she could see the sudden weight removed from his shoulders, the sudden lightness now that some of the worry creasing his brow had evaporated. “Of course, I shall tell them both. You may find yourself with two extra staff on rather short notice.”

“I suppose we might,” Amarië agreed, “But we do not mind. Truly. We are here to help in any way that we can.”

“My thanks,” Aikambalotsë said, offering a bow that was, perchance, a little deeper than he might usually sketch even for royalty.

“Now, I think that we should return to our breakfast, though it will certainly now be rather chilly,” Amarië said, breaking through the last bit of tension. “After that, we can worry about talking more.”

Still clinging (embarrassingly) to her brother’s hand, Lindalórë pulled him along behind her and into the small dining room, shuffling him over to sit beside her. There was a bit of a commotion procuring him a plate, switching the remaining muffins onto the platter of toast in exchange for two cooling slices dropped unceremoniously onto Aikambalotsë’s spread, followed by a pile of eggs that were just on the wrong side of lukewarm. Not that the man complained as he took a bite and swallowed.

And, as for Lindalórë, having him close enough to touch…

Well, it was not so hard to swallow down her greens now. Especially when he caught her eyes with a smile and, silently, said, _“I am happy to see that you are recovering well.”_

And she did not want to see his relief disappear. She did not want to make him worry by denying herself food or rest. She did not want to contribute to the stress lines at the corners of his eyes and mouth, nor the worry that she could still see lingering as a haze behind the shining green of his gaze.

 _“Sometimes,”_ Angaráto had told her, _“You may have to do these things for someone else’s sake and not for your own. Keep yourself healthy to keep your loved ones happy. Sleep because they would worry if you did not. Eat because seeing you grow thin and wane would bring them pain. Eventually, you will find more reasons to go through the motions. And, eventually, you will find a way to make the guilt fade, and you will recover. You will. But to start…”_

To start, she could do it for her brother. And for Angaráto. And for her husband. And so that, someday, she had a chance to apologize to those girls and find some way to atone.

For now, she would just be grateful to have this little bit of comfort.

And her greens tasted not so bland as she had suspected upon her palate. 

She might even go so far as to say they tasted exactly as they should. And that that normalcy was a surprise. And a blessing.

\---

“Shall we speak in private?” Prince Findaráto asked his sister quietly when the breakfast spread was depleted and everyone was full and sated of their hunger.

It was Aikambalotsë’s first protective instinct to demand that he be allowed to accompany her for emotional support. Even though Lindalórë had not been overwrought, not to the extent that he had feared in his mind’s eye—with the flood of tears and the terrifying wailing crying and the suffocating clinging—and he found himself pleasantly surprised by that fact, he did not want her to feel as though she could not call upon his support in her time of need. The idea of sitting through a description (again) of what had taken place in his father’s house in his absence made his stomach churn unpleasantly and his skin grow hot with the first prickles of fury, but he would do it for his sister.

Lindalórë did not look up from her plate for several long seconds. And then, when she did, she simply looked tired. “Yes, that would be for the best. Let us have it over with.”

Then she looked over in his direction, offering a wane smile as if to reassure. _Is my concern truly so obvious?_

The trio—Findaráto, his wife, and Lindalórë—rose from the table and departed to a nearby room. Before they even vacated the dining room, though, Amarië was beside his sister, arm-in-arm, alighting the taller, darker-haired woman with that smile that could melt anyone’s bones in absolute mush. If it had just been Findaráto conducting these interviews, Aikambalotsë would have insisted upon going with, but with Amarië there—

“They will be fine,” Angaráto Arafinwion said from across the table, near-startling the heir to the House of Helyanwë out of his own skin. Spinning his head back around, he met a steadfast gray gaze. “Lindalórë is strong, and Amarië is gentle and sweet enough to balance out Findaráto’s awkwardness. There is no need to worry.”

“I was not worrying.” Aikambalotsë scoffed, crossing his arms.

And he hated how entirely _unconvinced_ Angaráto’s face remained. There was a knowing, slightly teasing smile adorning the Prince’s mouth. “Of course, not. Silly me for my presumptions.”

It was far more playful than the snark he had been dealing with for the last few days from Curufinwë at the very least. It was nice not to have to parry blows from a sharp, cruel tongue.

“Tell me,” he said, shifting the topic away from his own comfort, “Is there yet a plan for Lindalórë to leave the city? The longer she stays here, the more likely it is that Atar will grow suspicious or find someone who may have witnessed something telling. As things stand, if he comes knocking, not only will your reputation suffer, but you will have no right to deny him access to his daughter.”

“There _is_ a plan, tentative though it might be,” Angaráto announced, drawing all eyes. “We are, of course, waiting on the Fëanárioni to arrive. They have been called to Court by Atar for questioning. A mere formality, as there is no proof of their involvement. But it does allow us a window of opportunity.”

 _To sneak Lindalórë out of the city with them,_ Aikambalotsë thought.

Much as part of him would like to have her close where he could keep watch over her with his own two eyes, he knew he could not guard her on his own and was not arrogant enough to try. In fact, to even come back to Nolofinwë’s abode a second time to visit her again would be highly suspicious, and he could not risk such behavior. Once was bad enough.

No, better that Lindalórë find a haven with her husband’s brothers until Curufinwë returned from his ill-fated adventuring through the wilds (with Turukáno, an unenviable fate indeed) and could use his rights as her lawful husband to protect her from her father. Better that she be far away from this bloody city and this bloody Court and bloody Hendumaika. No matter how it would ache to see his sister go, he would rather see her safe and secure elsewhere than nearby but endangered by his own selfishness.

“We have thought to involve some of the followers—former followers of Fëanáro, that is—in smuggling her out of the city gates,” the Arafinwion explained to his small audience, “And then have her exchange hands outside of prying gazes that might be spying upon the city’s inner happenings or the forests just beyond the walls. The Fëanárioni will probably be required to stay within the city for at least a few days—three, perhaps, or four—so Lindalórë will remain here until such a time when she can be safely removed, but we are hoping to have her free of this place within a weeks’ time.”

It was longer than Aikambalotsë would have liked. But they really could not be particularly picky about this. Timing was everything.

“You, however, should be involved as little as possible,” the Prince continued. “If you get caught up in this mess, it could implicate both you and your mother. While I do not doubt that you could take care of yourself if it came down to a fight with fists or blades…”

None of them wanted to spill blood openly. It would _look bad._ And, potentially, lead to unpleasant consequences. Such as banishment.

Nevertheless, Aikambalotsë could not allow this opportunity to slide.

“I need to be involved,” he insisted.

To which he received skeptical looks from Angaráto and from Nolofinwë. The older of which said, “That is pure foolishness!”

“No, it is mere manipulation,” he replied swiftly. “Right now, the public believes that I am siding with my father—walking down the streets, it is obvious what they all think of men of the House of Helyanwë—and I cannot let that sort of reputation sit and fester when I will need all the allies I can get. I need it to be known that myself and my mother are not in accord with my father in this matter. As swiftly as possible.”

“You do not plan to disown your family, then,” Angaráto said shrewdly.

A wiser, less hot-blooded man might have run. It would have been the wise thing to do, to drop his family name and cut ties, especially once the two servant girls were vacated of the house and no longer in need of the protection and interference of himself and his well-meaning mother. But there would always be more maidservants to abuse, more help of which to take advantage, more cruelty to inflict in the name of gaining wealth and power. And no one was in a better position to cut off that vicious cycle of abuse—to remove Hendumaika and, by extension, Calmacil from power both within and without the House of Helyanwë—than the heir himself. If Aikambalotsë forsook his birthright and fled, he would lose that opportunity.

There were many things in his past that he regretted. But failing to protect those under his care was the singular thing that haunted him each and every day, that kept him awake each and every night, that fueled his bitter rage and blocked off all avenues of forgiveness with a rain of toxic ash. Whether they be the people serving under his House abroad or the people serving under his House here in Valinórë, those people—servants though they were, mere common folk—were his responsibility, his to look out for, and his to protect.

He could not fail again. _He could not._

“No,” he answered. “I plan to take what is rightfully mine. And I plan to give my father a taste of his own medicine.”

After all, his father was dishonorable enough to break that unspoken rule, to fail to protect those under his jurisdiction in the name of personal gain. It was worse, even, then what had been perpetrated by Turukáno, who had, at the very least, not _intended_ to harm the people of Ondolindë with his foolish disregard of all the warning signs screaming that they needed to leave the city and flee. The former King had been arrogant and conceited and selfish, but he was far from matching the depravity which Hendumaika had committed. What was done to the maids, what was done to Lindalórë, it was _purposeful,_ it was _meant to cause harm and trauma,_ and it was…

It was unforgivable. More so than anything bloody Turukáno had ever done.

Aikambalotsë did not have words to describe how wrong that was. Nor words to describe how hard it was to say nothing, to do nothing, to not give away his true thoughts on the matter. At least, with Turukáno, he could snap and snarl and harshly berate the man all he liked, and no one would be able to make him cease. But, now, he could not even scream in his father’s face about how _disgusting_ he found this behavior, this disregard for the servants, this overwhelming desire to gain wealth to the point of betraying one’s people and family to their faces. Now that the shock of the entire matter had faded—now that he had sat at the breakfast table and had seen the bruises on Yavannië’s face and arms, now that he knew his father most definitely and absolutely knew what was happening in his own household and _allowed it to take place_ because the man had to have seen those same marks, too—there was nothing left behind except the growing undercurrent of rage.

It was not enough to walk away and abandon his traitorous blood kin.

He wanted to see his father _in ruins._ It was nothing more or less than the man deserved.

And, as for Calmacil, once the man was driven out of the protective custody of Hendumaika and the House of Helyanwë—once he was out on his own and vulnerable—perhaps Aikambalotsë would obtain some new allies to make certain that the man never had the opportunity to ever harm a woman again. The desire to or the ability to.

 _Violence is not the answer to the overall problem,_ his mind whispered, slightly chiding, even as he fought back a sharp grin at the bloodstained fantasy that flashed before his eyes, _but it will certainly remove Calmacil from the playing field._

That part of his plan, he did not share. It was unfortunate that he would not be able to do much more personally than break the man’s wrist without implicating himself in any criminal activity—far too obvious were his motives for attacking and maiming the man, and it would be _asking_ to be caught and punished to take matters into his own hands—but perhaps hearing about it secondhand would be enough.

 _Gather allies first,_ he reminded himself, _and drive Calmacil from the protection of the House of Helyanwë. One step at a time._

“As I said, I need allies,” he announced, looking around the table, “A network through which to spread and gather information, and access to the Mansions of Aulë. Forging ties with the followers of Fëanáro will be a first step to accomplishing those necessities.”

“You might find that they will not even speak with you,” Nolofinwë pointed out then. “Hardly are they going to give you the time of day if they believe you to be complicit in the crimes of Calmacil and your father. It would be dangerous—if not outright stupid—to approach any one of them expecting anything other than hostility with a strong possibility of violent deflection.”

“That is not necessarily so.” Angaráto cupped his chin in his hand, thumb drifting thoughtfully across his lower lip. “I could vouch for him.”

“You?” Nolofinwë asked skeptically. Aikambalotsë understood the man’s confusion, for he could not quite understand how the Arafinwion could possibly have such power within the inner circles of the followers of Fëanáro such that he could _vouch_ for an unknown party and have his word trusted. He was, after all, of Arafinwë’s blood, a distant quarter Vanyarin and a full half Telerin, and a natural-born enemy of his half-uncle Fëanáro.

Yet, the man just let out a small laugh at their skeptical looks.

“I have some _friends_ amongst the followers. Well, one friend, really,” Angaráto admitted. “He would trust my word. Just as I trust his. Ultimately, his interference is the only reason I am even here.”

Something about the way those words were said made Aikambalotsë shiver. On the surface, they meant that this “friend” of Angaráto’s had fetched the golden Prince from whatever dreamy countryside paradise he had been hiding within all this time since rebirth, but the heir of the House of Helyanwë had a feeling the man was referring to something else. A dark quirk came upon those lips, something that was not quite a smile and not quite a grimace.

“I will give you information—where to go, who to ask for, those sorts of details—and you can take your scheming and plotting to his doorstep. If you are anything alike to your father, I am certain you have ideas on how to proceed that need not be shared at the table,” Angaráto said then. “When you go to him, simply tell him that it was I who sent you along. He was one of Nelyafinwë’s men, rather high up in the ranks, and he should be able to contact whomever you wish to speak to short of the infamous brothers themselves.”

Aikambalotsë’s mind was already working quickly and efficiently, creating and discarding plan after plan. There was much to be done yet, but the first thing was to get Lindalórë out of Tirion and the second thing was to make certain that rumor of his father’s ill doings reached ears abroad. And knowledge of his son’s and wife’s quiet disapproval as well.

 _There will be no keeping it secret soon enough,_ the heir thought grimly, glancing down at his fingers gripping harshly upon the edge of the table. His fingertips ached and turned white from the strength of his grip.

But there was nothing for that. It was an eventuality that their dissent would become known, the secret more and more likely to be spilled as more and more people became aware. If one wanted to make progress, one needed to make sacrifices. Give to gain. That was the way of such politics. His father had taught him that from infancy, raised him to be a leader and a businessman and a hard worker and a schemer.

Now it was time to put that knowledge to the test.

“Give me your man’s name,” he confirmed, “And I shall go to him today. But not until I have spoken to Lindalórë again.”

_Not until I say goodbye._

“Of course, not,” Angaráto agreed, “There is no rush. Findaráto will likely wish to speak to you as well, and I am certain your sister would hear of her husband’s doings. You will not have the chance to talk face-to-face again for some time after this.”

Aikambalotsë ignored the sharp pang in his breast and almost shuffled it down into the pits of his spirit, almost drowned it in the churning, boiling waters of his fury lingering just beneath the calm and cold-minded exterior. He was good at ignoring emotional pain. Worse at ignoring the harsh burn of his fury. That was why it worked so well as a barrier between him and all those things he wished to ignore or forget.

But he let himself feel the sting of loss this time. Just this once.

“I just want this whole nightmare to be over,” he admitted, “As quickly and as painlessly as possible.”

“As do we all,” Angaráto agreed. “As do we all.”

The three fell into silence. And they waited.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:
> 
> Atar (Q) = Father  
> yonya (Q) = my son (informal)  
> Fëanárioni (Q, p) = sons of Fëanáro  
> Arafinwioni (Q, p) = sons of Arafinwë  
> Amillë (Q) = Mother  
> nettë (Q) = sister (informal)  
> Ondolindë (Q) = Gondolin


	76. What Demons Creep Through the Soul

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Fëanárioni have finally come to Tirion...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: unhealthy coping mechanisms, jealousy/overprotectiveness, mention of murder, insanity, PTSD, heavily implied use of rape as torture, fear of loss of control, dissociation, allusions to self-harm, society being shitty
> 
> We have a Fëanárioni-centric chapter for the first time in a while. This one still has mentions of all the rape and ugly stuff going on in Tirion, so be aware of that. Also, more PTSD themes.
> 
> Maedhros = Maitimo = Nelyafinwë = Nelyo = Russandol  
> Maglor = Makalaurë = Kanafinwë = Káno  
> Celegorm = Tyelkormo = Tyelko = Turkafinwë = Turko  
> Caranthir = Carnistir = Morifinwë = Moryo  
> Curufin = Atarinkë = Curufinwë = Curvo  
> Amrod = Ambarussa = Pityafinwë = Pityo = Minyarussa  
> Amras = Umbarto = Telufinwë = Telvo = Atyarussa  
> Finarfin = Arafinwë  
> Fingolfin = Nolofinwë  
> Angrod = Angaráto  
> Fingon = Findekáno

_Aldúya, 58 Lairë (10 July)_

\---

_At the very least, he has no choice but to accompany us to Tirion now. No amount of sulking or hiding will get him out of it this time._

From the corner of his eye, Pityafinwë watched his twin brother stuffing clothing into his pack with more force than was strictly necessary, face set harder than stone with his obvious displeasure. It was clear that, in the wake of hearing of Lindalórë’s trials and tribulations facing down the cruelty of her own father alone and unprotected, Telufinwë was furious. To the point that his hands were shaking, that his throat was jerking with each harsh swallow, that his eyes were lowered but burning invisible holes into the floor, as though it were the criminal who had committed despicable acts against his sister-in-law and he was imagining what bloody and vicious thing he might do to it in retaliation. With such terrible news ascending the mountain, and with the clearly infuriated reaction the youngest Fëanárion was showing, it was more important than ever that the older twin remain vigilant and monitor his brother’s mental state closely.

To avoid any unpleasant, impulsive behavior that might put their standing as civil beings in question. _Again,_ as Kanafinwë had said.

 _How did he even figure out about what Telvo did to those three rapist pigs in any case?_ The older twin felt his own lips twist into a frown thinking about.

Looking to his own clothing, Pityafinwë crinkled his nose. Beneath his fingers, the expensive, silky fabric of his only decent tunic seemed so delicate, but he did not give it any special mercy and shoved it into the pack with the same vehemence as he had the rest of his hardier clothing, even knowing it would be wrinkled when it came out and he may have to beg Istelindë to salvage its smoothness. At least it was a straightforward forest green. He could see the golden tunic peeking out of his brother’s pack, and it made his skin crawl for how fitting its vibrant color truly was in this moment. Before, he had seen it and predicted that it would be nothing but a source of agony for his little brother because of its brilliance, because of its silent and every-present reminder of flames, but he was starting to wonder if it had not incited…

With another violent shove, Telufinwë finished his packing. The golden fabric disappeared abruptly from Pityafinwë’s sight, but he still felt as though the afterglow of it lingered like a purple haze in his eyes.

And the burning _hate_ was still glowing harsh and bright in his baby brother’s gaze, undiminished with the loss of the golden fabric speaking of heat and of fire and of dangerous resplendence. There was still that twitch in his jaw where it clenched tight. Still that steely wall of stubbornness in the set of his brow as he glared straight forward at nothing. Still that specter of Fëanáro lingering like a mantle of flame behind the freckled face and the verdant eyes, that ghostly veil which left Pityafinwë shivering within the cage of his flesh, stricken with cold memory.

Under any other circumstances, it would have been a relief to see some of the old Telufinwë shining through, inner fire flaring brighter and hotter than Anar. Now, though, Pityafinwë only felt wary. When they were young, that fire had left Telufinwë wildly fierce and beautiful, burning with all the charisma their father had ever managed to scrape together, but with a big heart quick to compassion and steadfastly honorable. Yet—

 _“I will speak to him. I will not allow such a thing to unfold,”_ his younger brother had said, and that same horror, that same rage, that same stubborn need to see justice done, had been there in his eyes as he prepared to face down their sire alone. As he prepared to march across camp and demand that the Spirit of Fire allow the ships to return to the other side of the water and rescue their sworn comrades from a cold and lonely fate. _“I will change his mind.”_

—yet Telufinwë could be just as reckless and impulsive as their sire as well. Had Pityafinwë not accidently realized just how close to the surface all that rage and all that righteousness lingered—had he not stumbled upon that limping, wide-eyed pig of a man in the Healing House, hobbling about looking at the tall, redheaded Fëanárion as though seeing a cursed phantom risen from the darkness, and known what foolish retribution his younger brother had carried out in the name of a girl he had not even known—he might not have been so concerned. He might have seen this little burst of flame and thought for it to fade away, swift as a summer rainstorm and just as pitiful and gentle. A flicker of a dead spirit.

He knew better than that.

And so, too, did his older brother.

A knock at the door distracted him from his thoughts. Almost as if summoned by Pityafinwë’s dangerous musings, it was Kanafinwë who leaned in the empty space of the doorway, long-fingered and elegant hands braced on either side of the frame as he looked inside at the pair younger brothers.

“Pityo,” the second-born said, “I want to speak with you. In private.”

Acting as though he were uninterested in such proceedings, Telufinwë gave them both a dark look and went back to his business, still silently smoldering like a hot coal waiting to burn unwary fingers. Quickly, setting his own things aside, Pityafinwë followed his older sibling out of the room and down the hall, the pair descending the creaky stairs one after another and going out the backdoor into the garden.

Looking around, the second youngest sighed. It looked so much nicer out here now that Istelindë was about and taking care of things. Or, rather, commandeering her new younger brothers to help her with such chores. The trees were trimmed neatly, the flowers were tame, and a small garden of herbs was neatly arranged in rows near the side of the house, just so to allow sunlight to brush across the little green plants but not linger too long and dry them out. Casually, Kanafinwë went and lowered himself to the ground at the base of a tree just beside the little garden, and his fingers, rarely still and lacking the distraction of a harp to soothe their anxious maneuverings, began to pick at ready leaves and harvest them gently.

“Join me,” his brother invited.

Slowly, he sat as well, watching. “What did you want to speak with me about, Káno?”

The hands did not cease their work, did not even hesitate despite those liquid silver eyes rolling up to stare into his bright, grassy green gaze. “I think you know what I want to speak about already, hanno.”

_I think I rather do, yes._

“How did you figure it out?” he asked first, leaning back against the trunk of the tree, looking up at its weaving branches. Through the leaves, sunlight glimmered, showing straight through their thin bodies and highlighting the delicate networks of water-giving veins.

“You should be more careful to watch for followers if you are going to have private conversations,” his older sibling scolded, though without any real malice. Just a little hint of dark amusement in the quirk of his lips. “When you made off with Telufinwë that night you confronted him in the barn, the both of you looked quite suspicious. So, I decided to follow and see what sort of mischief my cute little twin brothers were about to get up to behind our backs. The unfortunate result of being an older brother looking after five younger siblings is that, sometimes, nosiness and curiosity get the better of one’s sense.”

Pityafinwë felt his lips purse. “You have a fair point. I will be more vigilant in the future. I expect Telvo will not be bothered with such care.”

“You were always the more careful and wiser of the two,” Kanafinwë agreed.

“Someone has to look out for him,” Pityafinwë said then, sucking in the cool morning air, feeling it burn in the heat of his lungs, and then slowly exhaling it out. “He might have been born with a kind heart and a strong will, but sometimes I think he was born with little sense to keep it in check. And I was born at his side to rein in his wildness. To watch over him when he gets carried away.”

_For all the good that did us both in the end._

“I suppose that that is sometimes how it goes,” Kanafinwë said, big, dark eyes slipping closed whilst his fingers tenderly continued their work.

He sounded oddly wistful. Oddly knowing.

And Pityafinwë felt something clog in his throat. “So, since you know all our deep, dirty hidden secrets, how about you share, Káno? What happened to Nelyo last night? I have never seen him like that before, not even throughout Exile.”

Finally, those hands ceased in their moving. Closely did the younger brother watch the elder’s face. The way Kanafinwë looked down at his own palms, lined with the crystal-faceted burn scars where he had held in his palms a Silmaril and been rejected by its hallowed light. His older brother’s shoulders sagged with unspoken weight.

“Ever since Angamando,” he explained, “Nelyafinwë has had these attacks. Moments of temporary insanity, or something of that sort. He falls into himself and disappears. Sometimes, if he is not treated with care during the ensuing detachment from reality, he can even become rather violent or upset, see and hear things that are not there, and forget where he is and who he is with. More than one unwary man has nearly long fingers or eyes trying to approach him without realizing what a foolish idea it is to try and pull him out of such strange waking nightmares. Still, for the most part, I stayed with him to keep him in check, to help him, if necessary, with such unpleasant dealings, and it remained a well-kept secret. Even to the younger siblings. Even to you and the rest of our brothers.”

“But he has never done that before _here,_ not since…” 

_Not since rebirth._

Rebirth did not fix all problems, did not erase all despair and heartache, nor negate the horrors of a previous life in a faraway land. But, since his own, while still barraged with waves of unspoken guilt for his own failures regarding his family—in particular, his baby brother—Pityafinwë had felt some measure of peace. He still remembered dying, still carried the scar down the middle of his back where his spine had been cloven, still occasionally had nightmares about that battle and other battles in the warring abroad, but…

Well, it had all become a little distant and a little hazy. He had been a young man when they went into Exile, had known little of any other life but one at war, and perhaps his morals were skewed as a result. But battles were fought not out of any personal need or lust for blood, but because of duty. Because his uncle demanded it. Or his older brother demanded it. No guilt did Pityafinwë particularly feel over defending his family or obeying his sovereign—regret, perhaps, that such death was necessary, but death was the nature of war—and certainly nothing comparable to the internal suffering he felt every single day thinking about that moment he let Telufinwë slip out of his fingers and go to confront their father alone in the long night. There was nothing else that had happened in Exile—not even the Kinslayings, truth be told, which were a necessary cruelty and nothing personal or particularly vengeful to the older twin’s mind—that had scarred him so thoroughly as losing his younger brother to murder.

He could not really understand Nelyafinwë. Or Telufinwë, for that matter. He was certainly far from perfectly healed, still experienced crippling moments of doubt and depression and regret and resentment, but it was nothing in comparison to the permanent scars that some of the others carried. It was clear that rebirth and time had done not so much to heal Nelyafinwë as they had to heal Pityafinwë.

And he had a feeling that, to some extent, Kanafinwë was the same as him. Still aching and sore, but nothing so terrible as some of the others felt. Nothing so terrible as what Nelyafinwë still felt and kept hidden from their eyes and ears.

“Since rebirth, Nelyafinwë has shown no signs of relapsing into those sorts of fits,” Kanafinwë confirmed, practically reading his younger brother’s mind, knowing already what lingered on the tip of the younger man’s tongue. “This is the first time since.”

“And here, we all thought you never went off on your own because you were clinging to big brother Nelyo’s apron strings like a frightened child,” Pityafinwë admitted with a halfhearted chuckle, staring down his older sibling, “But you were the one mothering him this whole time, were you not?”

Out of the lot of them, Kanafinwë was the only one who had never spent time apart from their eldest brother and pseudo father—beyond that time in which Nelyafinwë had been a prisoner of war kept by the Enemy—and the rest had, on occasion, quietly mocked him for his weakness when they were questionably just out of earshot. Even bashful, self-esteem-less _Carnistir_ was able to venture out and build a small, independent holding for himself, running a quite successful stream of trade with the Casari without interference from his brothers, somehow convincing the entirety of Beleriand that his horrible mother-name referred to the shade his face turned in fury rather than embarrassment.

If even Morifinwë could be off on his own without clinging to Nelyafinwë’s hand like the big baby he was, why had Kanafinwë stayed so close?

This. This was why.

“Ah, Pityo,” Kanafinwë said, his hands going back to their quiet doings, leaving the little basil plants rustling beneath his touch, as though each vied jealously for his personal attention, “You see through me. And you mirror me. Just as I watched over Nelyafinwë and continue to do so even now, just as Curufinwë has always watched over Turkafinwë and chases after his shadow, so, too, may you be forever trailing after Telufinwë, keeping him in check. It seems, of the whole lot of us, Morifinwë is the only one lucky enough to escape all this ridiculousness with his sanity and freedom intact.”

It was strange to think, but Pityafinwë could not help but snort at the realization that _Morifinwë_ was the most normal and well-adjusted of the seven brothers. Bumbling, bullied, bashful Morifinwë who had barely been capable of mumbling out two words in the presence of their esteemed father had turned out to be the _least_ ruined of the whole lot of them, and the sanest.

Considering that the fourth brother somehow had managed to be a kind-hearted, considerate, genuinely romantic man despite all the war and all the violence—never falling to the desensitization that had claimed Pityafinwë early on, never forgetting to abhor the blood they were forced to shed no matter how just the cause—it was not too surprising when one actually sat down to think about it in truth. The rest of them had fallen to their own selfishness, to their own vengeance, to their own apathy or to their own insanity.

So, here he sat, knowing how he had fallen. Knowing what he had to do.

“I need you to look out for Telufinwë whilst we are in Tirion,” Kanafinwë asked of him, and he was not surprised in the least by those words. “I would say it is my request, but it is actually Nelyafinwë who asked me to give you this task.”

_And here, I was rather hoping that Kanafinwë had not told him about Telufinwë attacking those three men whilst I was out cold in my bed with a concussion…_

Idiotic. Of course, the second-born told the first brother of Telufinwë’s ill-fated adventures on Midsummer night. Logically, it was for the best that the eldest know of any potential pitfalls that might hurt his delicate plans or jeopardize their ability to demonstrate their innocence in this purported case of kidnapping. The last thing they needed was some violent altercation fueling the fires of hatred against their kin, making the people of Tirion even more suspicious of their motives and more likely to believe they truly had abducted a helpless woman. Pityafinwë was quite certain that his elder brother was _beyond_ angry that Telufinwë had done something so incredibly rash already and did not want a repeat.

Not surprised, perhaps. But angry, nonetheless.

At the look on his face, Kanafinwë let out a soft laugh. The sort that was impossible to ignore, that made the tension seep from muscle and bone as it rang clear and beautiful through the air. “Look not so forlorn, hanno! He would have figured it out eventually. At least, I managed to convince him to let _me_ act as a go-between such that you did not have to meet him face to face just yet. He wanted to speak with you both on his own, but we all know how that would have ended.”

Pityafinwë shivered, thinking back to the incident with Curufinwë being screamed at and banished from the house for acting out in such a way as to meddle with and undo Nelyafinwë’s careful plans. The older twin was not afraid to admit that he most definitely preferred a calm and collected Kanafinwë over an outraged and hot-tempered Nelyafinwë. Especially given that Telufinwë would have shown exactly _no_ remorse for his actions, and that would have done naught but make the first brother angrier.

“In any case,” the second brother said, “All we need from you is to keep Telufinwë busy and distracted during our time in Tirion. And, of course, to make certain he does not wander off on his own and perpetrate another violent crime unthinkingly. Tempting though it is to hunt down our enemies and silence them with the sharp end of a sword…” A shadow crossed over Kanafinwë’s face. “We need to take a more diplomatic route this time.”

Which, of course, would mean that _all of them_ would be in an awful mood. Because all of them would much have preferred the quick and decisive solution to the problem that came with spilled guts and fear in onlooking eyes.

“Perhaps you could use that dancer girl as a distraction,” Kanafinwë then suggested, eyes taking on a softer hue. “Anyone with eyes and a brain can see that little Telvo has been pining over her for weeks.”

“And still stubbornly refuses to see her again,” Pityafinwë growled out.

“Well, no one knows him better than you.” That was, for certain, the truth of the matter. “If any one of us can find a way to get through his thick skull and knock some sense into his head, it would be you, Pityo. It would be good for him to have a friendship, at the very least, outside the walls of this house.”

An ugly feeling bubbled in his gut. For long moments, he was not quite certain what it was.

And then Pityafinwë crossed his arms over the feeling. It was hard to continue to hold Kanafinwë’s gaze as a hot wave of shame shuddered through his limbs and closed tightly like fists about his lungs, squeezing the air straight out of them in a hitched breath. It was a complex mixture of emotion—a concoction of his own protective reticence at allowing his brother to approach a potentially harmful relationship churning together with his guilt at knowing that he should not try to prevent his twin from developing outside relationships because of his own fear or jealousy—which left his breath seemingly paralyzed.

_I have been holding him back. Interfering instead of assisting._

He should admit that he was not enough anymore. That he never had been enough on his own to heal or help his baby brother. That, no matter how guilty he felt about not being there to protect his brother when Telufinwë needed it, he could not try to make up for his mistake by holding his younger twin hostage. 

Telufinwë was a grown man and _should_ have friends beyond his own twin. That the protectiveness in which the youngest Fëanárion was encased now acted more as a prison, keeping Telufinwë from bonding outside his family and keeping Pityafinwë from feeling as though he was losing his little brother. If Telvo cultivated friendships outside his family, and if those friendships led to more pain for his brother…

Well, that was life. And he should allow—even encourage—Telvo to start living. No matter how much he feared or how much it hurt.

Or how much it made him think of the last time he saw Telvo, smirking widely with confidence as he slipped out of their shared tent to confront Fëanáro. How much he wished he could have just reached out and caught his fingers in his twin brother’s hair…

 _Enough is enough,_ he chided. _He needs someone else._

Starting with that woman, Amaurëa, was not such a terrible idea. After speaking to her, she certainly was not such a bad choice as either a lover or a friend. Her resolve to remain Telufinwë’s friend, to grow close to him and show him her gratitude and admiration, at least assuaged a small part of Pityafinwë’s worrying heart. And she did seem to be genuinely fond of and attached to his younger brother, besides. Enough that it could, perhaps, bloom into love.

“The both of them are interested in more. But yes, I agree. Amaurëa is a fine woman, and I do not believe she would hurt Telvo, intentionally or otherwise. It would be… nice… to see him happy again.”

If his older brother heard the hesitance (and, dare he think it, small hint of jealousy and regret) in his voice, the second-born said nothing.

“It would,” Kanafinwë agreed instead. “Now, help me with the rest of this basil, and we shall go inside and conclude preparations. Nelyafinwë wants to leave well in advance of midday to reach Tirion as swiftly as possible.”

“I do not know anything about harvesting basil,” Pityafinwë protested, but his lips were twitching with a half-hidden smile. His heart felt just a little bit lighter.

“You can learn,” the older brother chided.

And, so, he learned to pick basil. And destroyed at least three plants in the process. But neither of them were about to tell Istelindë about that.

\---

The arrival of the Fëanárioni was quiet. For that Arafinwë was eternally grateful. There had been quite enough drama over the course of the past days without adding to it a massive spectacle at the palace gates.

Now, after their covert arrival, Nelyafinwë and Istelindë once more sat across from him, his wide desk between them. This time, there was no space between the pair, making it clear that they had only drawn closer over the course of the past weeks of married life. His nephew’s left hand was entwined tightly with his niece’s where they rested on the wooden surface, showing their solidarity openly and without apology. Both looked somber and poised in the face of their sovereign. At least, the King thought to himself, they did not look _hostile._

Behind them stood Kanafinwë, whose face was softened with a smile hiding just a little too much bite to be genuinely friendly. It was not unalike the look the man had worn on Midsummer night just prior to threatening bodily harm upon the ill-spoken, drunken Telerin _guest_ who had defamed Istelindë and all the women of the House of Finwë in public. It had Arafinwë warier even than the stern frown on Nelyafinwë’s face. And then there were the twins, lingering in the background, both looking equally irate at the proceedings, expressions almost identical, but easy to tell apart for one bearing a scar across his cheek and throat and the other having mostly smooth features.

“My thanks for your cooperation in coming to Tirion on such short notice,” the King began, trying his best to avoid sounding so tired or so hesitant as he felt. Showing weakness before the eyes of a Fëanárion (let alone four) was never recommended.

Well enough could he recall the curl of his half-brother’s upper lip, the look of disdain in those glowing white eyes, when the man stared down at him as though he were lower than the lowest cockroach. On that day in Araman, when he had heard the Doom of the Noldor, felt ice drip down his spine with a foreboding chill, and decided, against the wishes of his siblings, to turn back and bring all those wise enough to reject a lost and unjust cause with him, he had faced the wrath of his oldest brother in all its white-hot force. The eldest Finwion had looked at him in such a manner as to make it clear he had sunk somehow lower in the man’s estimation than he had already been for his Vanyarin coloring and bloodline, for his quiet, almost timid nature, and for his tendency towards calm and rational compromise over stubborn and unbending willpower. Those actions had only confirmed in the eyes of _that man_ just how unworthy, just how pathetic, just how disposable the youngest son of Finwë truly was. For, to Fëanáro and his ilk, little was there more disgusting and worthy of contempt than a coward.

Arafinwë did not consider himself to be cowardly. Just appropriately wary. And just the right amount of wise. Still, his neck prickled with discomfort as he sat.

Now, he was being stared down by so many glowing eyes, as though four clones of that awful and terrible phantom now burned through his flesh and bone with their incisive gazes. “Of course, we came as quickly as we could,” Nelyafinwë very nearly spat out, his teeth showing white and sharp, breaking his composure. “The Fëanárioni do not shirk their duties when it comes to the protection of one of their own. And Lindalórë is, without a doubt, one of our own.”

 _No, I am certain you do not,_ Arafinwë could not help but think, withholding his sigh. Nelyafinwë’s voice carried something bordering on outrage, as though the very idea that he might have _waited more than a day_ to come rushing to the aid of his sister-in-law was a grave insult to his family and his personal honor. Clearly, he had managed already to incite the man’s temper with just his greeting. This meeting would be going better if he did not inadvertently insult his nephews with even the simplest of sentences.

“I would never suggest such a thing,” he breathed out, smoothing his voice along the rough edges of Nelyafinwë’s gravelly tone. “I know that you would never abandon your sister-in-law. I simply meant…”

How to say it without sounding discourteous?

“After what you and Nolofinwë have done for Lindalórë, of course, we are willing to follow your lead, and we understand that you meant no slight against our honor,” Kanafinwë interrupted before Arafinwë could try to think of a way to skirt around his nephew’s sensitive and easily-evoked temper. A graceful, burn-scarred hand came to rest upon Nelyafinwë’s tense shoulder. The older brother looked sharply at his younger sibling, mouth pursing tightly, and then looked away. “Please, give us news of our sister,” the second-born continued, offering a smile just a hair too wide.

_At least one of them is trying to remain diplomatic._

Slowly, the story spilled forth. Or, rather, what Arafinwë knew of the details, for all that many of the happenings had taken place far beyond his sight or knowledge. The unfolding of Lord Hendumaika’s plans once Curufinwë and Aikambalotsë were away and unable to interfere, the ensuing days and days of tense resistance on the part of Lindalórë and her mother, and the conclusion in the form of a rescue in the midst of a fierce storm, it all spilled forth.

“Nolofinwë did not consult me prior to running off like a reckless fool,” the King told them, a half-fond and half-exasperated smile tilting his lips into a dilapidated mess, “But I am relieved that he acted when he did. Things could have been much worse.”

The brothers all looked as though they agreed with that sentiment, at the very least. And Istelindë let out a sigh of relief.

“So, Lindalórë is still with Nolofinwë, then,” Nelyafinwë surmised, voice still lingering upon the edge of fury, but spoken through his clenched teeth, as tightly controlled and restrained as his tense and knotted body language. “You called us here to bring her home.”

“Well, and to prove your innocence. Hendumaika’s claims that you have abducted his daughter are ridiculous, but the Court is still all too eager to believe the very worst of their Kinslaying brethren. Amongst the common folk, truth of the situation is spreading, but it would be best to demonstrate good will and decency for a few days to soothe over the upset of the courtiers, to show them that you mean no harm whilst the matter is sorted,” the King explained. “No proof is there that you have done anything wrong, and I have no intention of allowing you to be held responsible. But…”

“But you want us to abduct Lindalórë in truth,” Nelyafinwë concluded knowingly, and it was difficult to tell if he was merely infuriated by the situation as a whole or by the idea that Arafinwë was daring to tell him what he ought and ought not do rather than consulting him in the forging of a plan. It was typical of the Fëanárioni, who followed in their father’s footsteps in this matter all too damningly. None of them seemed to enjoy following orders from above.

“In a manner of speaking,” the King admitted, trying to delicately dance around _ordering_ his nephew’s cooperation. “More so, I would call it smuggling, not abduction, for Lindalórë is a willing accomplice in these matters, not an unwilling captive. In fact, she had originally been trying to contact you for help directly. Once your innocence in the matter is established unquestionably and you are free to leave the city, she can accompany you back to the mountains with the Court none the wiser. Much safer will she be with you as she waits for Curufinwë to return and reestablish his position as her husband.”

Almost reluctantly, Nelyafinwë was nodding along, looking as though he would have liked to find reason to protest but also as though he was trying his best to keep his unhinged temper in check. At his shoulder was Kanafinwë’s hand, still squeezing. Arafinwë got the impression of the owner of a vicious dog tugging at its leash, however, and it left his stomach swirling with discomfort. Not too unlike, was it, to the feeling he had felt as he stood before his elder half-brother in those moments after being called craven and oath-breaker, that rising bile of anxiety lingering in the back of his throat and tasting sour upon his tongue.

There was that look in Nelyafinwë’s eyes. Like a man on the edge. Like a man contemplating slaughter. And it was all too familiar.

It made him imagine, for a split second, what might have happened if he had warned Nolofinwë of what he had seen in Fëanáro’s eyes in the midst of the long night—

 _That is long in the past,_ he thought, crushing the idea before it could turn into an auric splinter to fester and rot. _And Nelyafinwë is not his father. Nor ought he be punished for or held in suspicion due to the actions of a long-dead man._

_I will simply have to watch him closely. Not blame. Not accuse. Just watch._

“Once we have a better idea of timeframe, we can discuss more of plans,” the King then said, trying to remain genial and show none of his nerves or his discomfort visibly. “You must be exhausted after your journey here, and I would have you take time to remove the dust of travel and prepare for a public appearance at Court this night, so I would not keep you further.”

At that, Nelyafinwë seemed prepared to argue, lips parting. But his wife’s hand wrapped around his own, and his younger brother’s hand squeezed at his shoulder. And he remained silent, much to Arafinwë’s relief.

“That sounds wonderful,” Istelindë said then, taking the lead and standing. Her husband allowed himself to be pulled upwards by their linked hands, moving to stand close beside his wife. “Thank you for your kindness, Uncle Arafinwë. And, if we do not get the chance to do so away from the public eye, thank Uncle Nolofinwë for us as well. His interference in these matters may have been unplanned, but we would not forget such an act of kindness towards one of our own.”

Nelyafinwë nodded along in agreement, still remaining oddly silent under the scrutiny of his wife and younger brother.

Then, with a curtsy (her husband sketched a shallow bow when her hand tugged at his own), Istelindë was gone from the room in a sweep of pale lace and white fabric, her husband following with flying red hair. The twins, giving the King one last narrow-eyed look, followed in the wake of their elder brother and sister-in-law, feet silent upon the hardwood floor.

Kanafinwë stayed.

“Uncle Arafinwë,” the second-born Fëanárion said, “I would have a word alone.”

Surprised, Arafinwë, who had been halfway out of his seat and more than ready to close his study door behind his ornery guests for some desperately-needed privacy, found himself sinking back down into his cushioned chair. Waving a hand loosely in the direction of the now-vacated seats across the desk in invitation, he resisted the urge to pinch at the bridge of his nose when frustration knocked like an unwelcome acquaintance at the back of his mind. He would rather have liked to have a bit of an afternoon nap before someone—either his wife or his councilors or his advisors or anyone else—came knocking and insisted that they needed his precious time and attention.

Apparently, that rest was not to be.

“What is it, Kanafinwë?” he asked, forcing the fatigue and the irritation from his voice, instead folding his hands atop his scattered array of half-finished papers.

“Forgive my older brother’s behavior,” the second-born said then, leaving the King’s mouth popping faintly open in surprise, “But Nelyafinwë is not feeling his best. The news of such happenings in Tirion have disturbed him more so than I anticipated.”

_Disturbed him?_

“I… No, I understand,” Arafinwë said quickly, hoping to assuage his nephew’s rather unnerving look, a mixture of disconsolation and bitter expectation, as if daring the older man to say something derogatory towards Nelyafinwë at the admittance of a less-than-sound state of mind. As if half the men of the House of Finwë were not half out of their minds or more as well! “Truly, I do. None of us have handled the news well. Is he…?”

 _Well, of course, he is not_ well, _but…_

Instead, he found himself broaching a subject he would never otherwise have touched. Not for all the riches in the vaults of Formenos. “Is it… to do with Angamando?”

Grimly, Kanafinwë nodded. “I believe so, yes. Never has he shared details with me, not explicitly, and I did not dare to ask Istelindë if he had said anything to her for certain. But, with the reemergence of some _concerning_ behaviors, I am forced to revisit some rather upsetting assumptions about what took place there. I had hoped, when we returned to Valinórë— _if_ we returned to Valinórë—we would never have to deal with such unspeakable crimes again. Clearly, I was mistaken. And, furthermore, to have it happen to one of our own…”

It had never occurred to the King to even _think_ about how his seemingly unbreakable and unbendable nephew might handle news of Lindalórë’s abuse and the rape of a helpless maid. In his experience, both before and after Exile, Nelyafinwë had been utterly unflappable, the perfect in temperament and in intelligence to become a formidable ruler one day. Stupidly, he had not at all thought that that man might have, in some great way, been irrevocably _changed_ not only by the war abroad, but by his decades as a prisoner of war.

_I am an idiot. Truly._

Because he knew what his own son—what Angaráto—had gone through in those very same dungeons under the tender care of the very same servants of evil. Hesitant had he been to involve his third son for _that very reason,_ yet he had not thought for even a second to hesitate in involving Nelyafinwë.

_There is no reason to think that Nelyafinwë’s experiences within the keeping of Angamando and its filth were any kinder than Angaráto’s. Of course, these happenings would leave him disturbed and upset._

The King swallowed down the nausea that climbed up into his throat. Now, it was far too late to correct his own blunder, his own inconsideration towards his nephew’s suffering. It was really no surprise that his reception had been fairly cold on all fronts, or that Nelyafinwë’s façade was cracked as the man struggled to maintain a calm exterior. It was really no surprise that the instability of the House of Fëanáro was showing through, brighter than a bursting star in those wide and furious gray eyes.

Coughing to clear his throat (and his mind) of the choking haze of guilt that wanted to exert its silencing force upon his lungs, he plowed on, even knowing he owed his nephew a great apology later, in private. Instead, he grabbed hold of his own sympathy and understanding as best he could and tried to reestablish rapport with his second-born nephew, tried to negate any damage his ill-thought-upon actions may have caused and rebuild their tentative alliance. Compassionately, he offered a saddened expression. “Nolofinwë handled the happenings not well at all either. For different reasons, perhaps, than those you imply. But, still, I find myself concerned.”

“Then you would understand why I ask that you treat with _me_ in these matters rather than my older brother,” Kanafinwë said, gray eyes darkening like thunderclouds upon the horizon. “While Nelyafinwë is likely fit enough to act as the figurehead of the Fëanárioni in public, as is expected of the eldest son, Istelindë and I both feel it best that he remain involved with these happenings as little as possible. Grudgingly, he has agreed with our wisdom in this manner, not in the least bit because Istelindë wept and begged and insisted he care for himself or she would tie him to the bed and send me alone. Though I suspect he may still try to interfere once he is feeling more himself, for the time being he should be left out of the proceedings.”

It was not what the King had expected, but he readily nodded in agreement, pleased that Kanafinwë had not outright taken offense at his accidental thoughtlessness. “Whatever you think is best, nephew. I would not want to harm anyone unintentionally. These matters have already done enough harm just by existing.”

“Indeed, they have done that,” Kanafinwë agreed.

Arafinwë did sigh this time. “Is there anything else I might help you with, nephew?”

“Not as such,” the second-born Fëanárion answered, smile now tight but not so sharp or so threatening as before. A relief, it was, to have some small modicum of understanding forged between their minds and hearts, for Arafinwë despaired at having to deal with more than one of the sons of Fëanáro worked up into an wildfire frenzy. “I will take my leave. Mayhap, you should get some rest as well before this evening, Uncle. You look tired.”

And then the second-born son, the singer, left him sitting in his study, wondering whether he really knew much of anything about his nephews at all and feeling raw and red and scraped all down his spirit at the realization he had not even thought about them overmuch as people. Had not thought about his nephew Nelyafinwë as a prisoner of war, nor about Kanafinwë as his steadfast and loyal right hand keeping him from falling apart.

 _Has it always been this way since rebirth and I have never noticed?_ He could not help but wonder if he had just been blind. To Findaráto, who had scolded him this morning. To Nelyafinwë, who was clearly overwrought. To the others in ways he had not even yet realized.

Slowly, the King lowered his head, pressing his cheek to the cool wood of his desk. His eyes momentarily slipped shut against the brilliance of Anar’s rays coming through the window.

Maybe a nap was in his future after all.

\---

Dinner and Court were painful.

It was not that her husband had particularly acted out in the public setting, not in any way more violently or unpleasantly than he would normally when faced with what he deemed to be the general stupidity of the nobility. There were some harsh words and sarcastic quips exchanged, but nothing so biting or hot-blooded as the few words that had slipped out in Arafinwë’s study. To an outside observer, he seemed fine. In a poor mood—Who would not be after being accused of abduction out of the blue and without any evidence?—but altogether unruffled.

Outside observers did not stand next to him and lay their hands upon his arm or his wrist as he shifted from foot to foot anxiously. Outside observers might have been able to see the firm, hard set of his face, but not feel the way his muscles shook beneath his skin.

Istelindë was not an outside observer.

The whole night, she clung tightly to her husband, uncaring of whether that made her appear as a desperate and weak-willed limpet using her mate to avoid falling over upon weak knees at the stress of the whole debacle. Yet, beneath her hands, he trembled from start to finish. The corner of his jaw ticked and his beautiful eyes were a shade too bright and his movements jerked in that way that always told her an old injury was acting up and causing pain.

And she hated it. She wished dearly that they had not needed to come here at all. Not whilst it was obvious that her husband was a light breeze away from shattering, like a thin, fragile wine glass squeezed into a hard grip, little cracks tinging and spreading down into the foundation as the pressure grew and grew. He held on to his composure, to his silver tongue and nonchalant dismissal and general disdain of the courtiers throughout the entire ordeal, as she had known he would, but…

Now. After. This was what she had truly been worrying about.

The pair entered their rooms, and Maitimo’s first action was to tear the copper circlet of his Princehood from his hair and throw it down. The metal did not bend out of shape at the rough handling, but it bounced and wobbled with a loud, obnoxious ring and tumbled down to the floor, landing with a heavy thud.

Maitimo did not bother with picking it up. He was busy shedding the layers of his robes and his tunic, as though the soft and understated elegance of their make were too much to bear upon his shoulders or have rustling against his skin. It was not until he reached his archenemy in the form of the ties and knots holding his clothing in place that the frustration began to visibly boil over, that the nails of his left hand dug harshly into fabric—in tandem to his sibilant cursing and hisses of fury—and yanked impatiently, all the while visibly shaking.

“Let me help,” she demanded, albeit softly, approaching her mate.

Perhaps she should have been nervous, approaching such a large man who clearly did not _want_ her help, who gave her a look caught between horror, resignation, fury and terror, and snarled quietly between his teeth. “I am fine!”

But she knew that he would never harm her. Not even a hair upon her head.

“Maitimo,” she said, voice firmer, “Let me help.”

“I can do this mys—”

“Maitimo!” She reached out and pushed his hand away from his clothes, already reaching for the ties that held the fine, satiny gray fabric of his tunic in place, keeping the one-handed man captive within his personal decadent prison. Within moments, she had them undone and was helping him pull the fabric away.

And she could not really tell by looking at his face if Maitimo was angry or about to scream or about to cry. As soon as he was down to his half-undone undershirt and his leggings, having pulled off his boots with fast and sharp movements and practically thrown them in the direction of the waiting doormat, he collapsed onto the edge of the bed and buried his face into his singular hand with a frustrated, disgusted sound. Normally, Istelindë would get up and fold the clothes scattered about, setting them aside to avoid wrinkles, and go to make sure the boots did not sit about leaving smears of dirt upon the rug or scuffs upon the wooden floor, but she dared not leave her husband’s side. Not when he was like this.

Instead, she crawled onto the huge mattress and curled her legs up beneath her body. With soft hands, she brushed his hair over his shoulder, unbraiding it in fast strokes, knowing that he preferred to sleep with it loose. As she worked, she caught glimpses of the skin at the back of his neck, she noted it was flushed red.

 _Embarrassed,_ she realized. _He is humiliated at the fact that he needs help._

Never had it bothered him overmuch before, or so it had seemed. Living one-handed, he had adapted as much as possible to the situation, but there would always be things he simply could not do on his own, and he had taken to allowing Istelindë to help with clothes and boots (the kind that actually laced, for the first time in centuries, he notified her wryly one day) and hair-braiding and such two-handed chores with minimal fuss. After all, they were husband and wife, and their marriage was a partnership, and she would have done those things for him even had their friendship never developed into more. Because that was what partners did. They assisted one another without asking anything in return.

Yet, for the first time in their marriage, she wondered at whether he had really been so well-adjusted and so healed as he had seemed. Whenever he managed to speak of Exile, or what had happened to him during and after his stay in Angamando, he had sounded distant and detached, as though it were some terrible ordeal that had happened to someone else, and she had thought little of what that meant for his state of mind. Nor had she overmuch contemplated how little she actually knew of what happened _during_ his captivity or why he never spoke of it so freely. Very little had he spoken of his actual time within the iron fortress, except to say that it was unpleasant and not fit for any ears, belonging to a lady or not, preferring to expound upon before (his naivete in trusting the Black Enemy’s word at face value) or after (to comment upon Findekáno and the reason their great friendship of lore had faded) rather than anything between the time of his capture and the time he had been strung up by his hand upon a cliff to die. And Istelindë had never pushed, not wishing to bring up unpleasant memories he might rather forget.

If this was what happened when those memories _were_ incited, she rather thought that she made the right choice in treading carefully.

“Here,” she soothed, sitting up on her knees at his back and placing her hands upon his shoulders, now that she was more than familiar with the consistent slope from his neck to the plateau of muscle and bone on his left side as well as the rough, twisted muscle and uneven terrain of the right. Her fingers dug into both, and she did not take the time to mentally marvel at their strength today, to be amazed at the heat beneath his skin, to feel the prickle of heat in her own as a result. Instead, she just wanted him to feel better, to stop shaking and relax.

He did not lift his head. But, slowly, the trembling did fade. The longer her hands worked over his skin in firm waves, the longer and deeper his breaths, the smaller and shorter the tremors.

“Sorry,” he whispered into their shared silence. “I have been most unpleasant to be around today.”

“There is no need to apologize.” She did not say that it was understandable—even though she thought that it most certainly seemed a normal thing to be upset when such revolting reminders of things better left forgotten were suddenly drudged up and thrown in one’s face, abruptly and unkindly without consideration—because she knew he would not agree. So, instead, she slipped her arms over his shoulders and wrapped them about his upper chest, squeezing her body against his marked and scarred back in a close embrace. And her hand rested over his heart such that she could feel its strong, even beats against her palm. “I know this is hard. Harder for you than it could ever be for me.”

When she tugged him back onto the bed, he did not resist her pull. Managing, with his submission, to get him rolled onto his side and pressed close, she wondered what to do from there. They were face-to-face now, sharing breath, and she could see in his lowered eyes the glimmer of tears he was holding back. There were deep furrows in his chin of the same sort she remembered from the morning of Midsummer just before he wept against her shoulder.

Carefully, she leaned in and kissed his lips. Nothing demanding. Just to feel them soften beneath her own, parting faintly.

For several minutes, that was all she did. Kiss his lips and his cheeks and his nose and the furrows on his chin and the lines in his brow whilst she rubbed her cool fingers at the nape of his neck where his skin burned. A tentative hand came to rest upon her hip in return, not squeezing or pulling her closer. Just resting.

The breaths he let out were long and shuddering. Better than the shallow, hitched pattern that he had shown before.

And then she kissed at the corner of his jaw, and he flinched back.

“I… I cannot,” he muttered. Before she could move back to get a good look at his face, she felt the hand on her hip tighten, and his body somehow managed to curl in such a way that his face found the crook of her neck and hid from her sight. “I am sorry. I cannot. Not right now.”

_He thinks I wish to make love now. Aiya, Maitimo…_

“I would not demand that of you,” she soothed. She supposed this had seemed not too different than some of their nights in bed, working each other up with love-play in preparation for lovemaking. But that was not her intent tonight. Inferring what she had about why Lindalórë’s situation had him _so upset,_ she would not expect for even a moment that her husband be in the mood for intercourse. “Vennonya, my faithful Prince, you have never made me apologize for being uncomfortable or nervous about anything we have done, or not done, together as a married couple. For any time when I have been too tired or have not felt the urge. Why should you apologize when our situations are reversed?”

Of course, she knew why. Painfully, striking hard in her breast enough to spike her internal hatred of society for just a moment. He was a man, and, therefore, it was _expected_ that he should always be interested in copulation, that he always be ready and virile. And he did not want to make her unhappy or disappointed besides by refusing her desires during their tenure as newlyweds.

 _I would have been more upset if we had done something that upset_ him _so much because he did not want to tell me he did not want to make love tonight._

In her hold, his shoulders hitched. Closing her eyes, she kissed his brow again and held it against her cheek as she watched the little cracks coalesce and fall apart.

He had been angry all day. Angry that Makalaurë had tricked him into sleeping last night without his consent. Angry that he had been out in the open, curled up with his wife on the sofa in plain sight, showing vulnerability. Angry that the twins had acted out—one nearly killing three people and the other helping to cover it up—against his wishes and plans. Angry that Makalaurë had known about the whole incident and kept it a secret. Angry that they were being summoned to Tirion like dogs by Arafinwë to do the King’s bidding. Angry that Lindalórë had been in danger and none of them had known. Angry that they _owed Nolofinwë_ for saving her when it was their duty to protect a member of their own family. Angry, angry, angry at everything and everyone…

And, really, she knew he was mostly just angry and disgusted and upset with himself. And, as she felt the hot sting of tears soaking into her gown, she wished he would not be so harsh or unforgiving towards himself when none of this was his fault.

Not even the fact that he was helpless throughout it all. _Especially_ the fact that he was helpless throughout it all.

Nothing did she say about it, for she doubted he wanted it stated so brazenly, pointed out in the open to be mocked and targeted. Hating the fact that he could not undo his own clothes and needed help. Hating the fact that he had fallen into a terrible mental state and needed Makalaurë’s interference. Hating the fact that someone else was controlling the politics and leaving him on the sidelines like a discarded tool. Hating the fact that he could not be healed and whole and do it all himself, that he needed support. Because to need help and support was to be weak in the unspoken philosophy of Fëanáro, and there was nothing that scared him or tore at his sanity more than weakness and loss of control.

She did not understand fundamentally _why_ it bothered him so much. But she knew that it did, and that was all that mattered. She did not need to know more.

So, instead of speaking, she just laid still and stroked his neck and shoulders as he wept quietly against her, stubbornly ignoring the burn of her own tears collecting hot and thick at the corners of her eyes until her vision blurred.

 _This is not about me,_ she thought quietly.

Her chin bumped upon his brow as she snuggled closer, and she sighed into the flyaway wisps of russet curls. Her voice murmured nonsense words into his ears.

Until, eventually, the weeping stopped.

And they just lay entwined in the encircling silence. And she let him have her support without asking for it and without telling her why.

And she hoped that it was enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:
> 
> Anar (Q) = the Sun  
> hanno (Q) = brother (informal)  
> Fëanárioni (Q, p) = sons of Fëanáro  
> aiya (Q) = exclamation, like oh  
> vennonya (Q) = my husband


	77. Bleed For You, Breathe For You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aikambalotsë begins to set his plans in motion...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: PTSD/trauma, depression, scheming/politics, spying, scars (mental and physical), nightmares/insomnia mentioned, mentions of rape, mentions of murder/killing/people being eaten alive (Finrod's death)
> 
> Yeah, so this week has been crazy. But I didn't want to post an unfinished/unedited chapter, so I elected to take an extra day rather than rushing. This one is just a little longer than usual (I debated splitting the end off but decided against that). Really, the editing was finished around noon today, but today was road trip day (to get my sister home from college), so I have been home about 20 min (thus reestablishing my internet connection lol), so here we are!
> 
> Just a couple other notes: There's mention of rape/abuse in this chapter, so that warning applies. This is the last one before doing some cuter stuff (currently in the process of writing some stuff for the twins), so take heart, friends, the fluff is coming! Finally! This also has some vaguely, faintly anti-capitalist commentary (well hidden in there, but yes, I mean Aikambalotsë's inner commentary) and the normal PTSD themes throughout. Read with care, as always! <3
> 
> Maedhros = Maitimo = Nelyafinwë = Nelyo = Russandol  
> Maglor = Makalaurë = Kanafinwë = Káno  
> Celegorm = Tyelkormo = Tyelko = Turkafinwë = Turko  
> Caranthir = Carnistir = Morifinwë = Moryo  
> Curufin = Atarinkë = Curufinwë = Curvo  
> Amrod = Ambarussa = Pityafinwë = Pityo = Minyarussa  
> Amras = Umbarto = Telufinwë = Telvo = Atyarussa  
> Turgon = Turukáno  
> Egalmoth = Aikambalotsë  
> Finrod = Findaráto  
> Angrod = Angaráto  
> Fingolfin = Nolofinwë  
> Finarfin = Arafinwë

_Aldúya, 58 Lairë (10 July)_

\---

The day had passed them by in a blink.

For a while, he had spoken to his sister of his past few days abroad. First of Curufinwë’s strange and sudden friendly, almost brotherly, actions. To which she had laughed with less force than he would have liked, with less sparkle to her eye, though some was thankfully there, but told him she was surprised not in the least by such happenings. And the look on her face of relieved and quiet joy beneath the fatigue had uplifted his heart. And then of Turukáno constant annoyance, the main reason for his return from the wilderness, to escape the man and his attempts at earning forgiveness that Aikambalotsë was determined never to give away. Compared with her own trials, his seemed as nothing at all to whine about, but she still laughed as he bemoaned the former regent of Ondolindë’s stubbornness and gall.

And he did not ask her about what had happened whilst he was gone. The look on her face when she had left the room with Amarië at her side and a tired Findaráto at her back…

_He hated that look about her face. The downcast eyes. The quivering frown. The shimmer of half-dried tears. The slouch of the shoulders. Those things did not belong on his strong and proud sister. And he hated to see them there._

_He wanted to make them go away._

_“Come and sit with me,” he had said, almost begged, offering a hand._

_Half had he expected her to shun touch altogether, but she reached out and grasped his offered hand with ease and let herself be pulled away. And the others, some reluctantly, let them be. All he could remember was Angaráto’s restraining hands keeping Anairë and Amarië back from their concerned mothering and the half-smile of camaraderie he offered to Aikambalotsë over their shoulders—as if to say, “I have your back, háno, now go and care for your sister in peace”—and then closing the door._

_“Tell me about Curufinwë,” his sister asked immediately, steering them away from more sensitive subjects. “I want to hear everything.”_

_And, of course, he obliged._

Now, though, that all the words of the doings of the brothers-in-law and the merry band of Nolofinwioni had been shed and shared, nothing more was there that needed to be said. And they did not need to speak, to disturb the room with unnecessary noise. Instead, there was a quiet peace about it, a sort of equilibrium between the two settled on the sofa, as the silence descended along with the angle of sunlight shimmering across the floor, rippling with the soft breeze at the window teasing the curtains.

He did not wish to break it, but… “I should go soon.”

His sister’s hand remained entangled with his own still. He had not noticed until now, until her fingers squeezed tightly about his own as if to hold him in place and keep him by her side. “Do you have to leave already?” she asked. And he hated how pathetically lonely she sounded, how desperate she seemed for trusted company. It made his stomach tighten and twist in his belly.

He did not want to be the one to make her sad.

But he had to go.

“There are things I still need to see to today,” he answered, trying for a smile. It came out a little wane, but she managed a little bit of one in return.

“Very well,” she murmured, looking away.

“Nettë,” he said, reaching out to lift her chin, “Try not to worry. Soon, you will be free, back in your husband’s arms. I would that you would rejoice for the reunion that is to come rather than despair for the horrors that have passed you by.”

“But…” She sighed, shivering. “But what happened… I could do nothing, hanno. I was useless and selfish, and people have been hurt as a result. I know, objectively, that there is nothing I can do from here, not right now. Angaráto and I have spoken about it at length, and his wisdom is welcome and invaluable, but…”

_But I feel responsible._ They might as well have thought it together.

_It is how I feel every second of every day,_ he could not help but think, wondering how they had ended up here, like this, understanding one another so much better but at such a terrible price. _I would never have wished this upon her. Pitya nettenya…_

“I know,” he said instead of trying for comfort, for he dared not deny her feelings or call them wrong. Hearing those words— _it is not your fault, you are not responsible, do not cry, do not linger on the dark thoughts_ —had helped him but only to a point. And they had not healed the painful need to take action, to fix, to resolve, to atone and to redeem. “I promise, you can leave it to me, nettë. I swear, I will find a way to make this right. Nothing can fix what happened… but I can make certain it never happens again.”

“Can you?” she asked forlornly. “But, Atar…”

“You just leave Atar to me,” he said then, squeezing her hand almost too tightly. “I will find a way. The best thing you can do—the best way you can help—is by staying safe and getting better, nettë. It would do my heart good and give me peace of knowing you are well when there is so little otherwise to be had.”

“Well is a stretch,” she replied, flicking him in the shoulder with just a hint of playfulness, “But I will try my best. Angaráto said he would continue to visit for as long as I stayed here, so I will not be alone with Nolofinwë and Anairë only.”

“I am not really certain I understand why you like him so much…” He knew next to nothing about the third son of Arafinwë. “But if he is helping…”

“He understands this. Better than I could ever have imagined,” she answered.

Well, if she took solace in that—in having someone who shared her experiences, though he wanted little to think of how the other man might have come to have such experience and such trials to share—then he would be glad that there was someone who could help. Even if it was but a little.

“I wish you luck, then. And I hope to see you again before you leave the city,” he said, biting at the inside of his lip. “Just remember, I promised. I _will_ find a way to bring our House back to glory, to fix this gross injustice. I swear it.”

“Oaths are dangerous things,” she chided, but half-heartedly.

“Some oaths are worth keeping.” This was one of those. One that he dared not forsake or renege. “Now, I should be on my way. Get some rest, nettë. You look tired.”

“You get some rest, too,” she replied. “Think not that I cannot tell you have not been sleeping. If you are going to keep this oath of yours, you had best take care of yourself whilst I am not around to be a nagging, bratty younger sibling with good intentions.”

“Good intentions,” he scoffed, but teasingly. “You just enjoy being bossy.”

“You caught me.” And they snorted out little laughs together.

But their hands were still entwined.

“I should go,” he said again, and his grip loosened.

She clung tighter. “Just, promise me, also, that you will speak to the maids. Promise you will tell them that I am sorry, that I wish I could come in person to tell them with my own lips. I know it is not much, and I would never expect that they would forgive my actions. But I… I want them to know. Both of them. Please.”

Aikambalotsë swallowed sharply against the sting behind his eyes. “Of course, I will tell them both. Worry yourself not, Lindalórë.”

Slowly, she finally allowed him loose, staring at him with dark green eyes as he stood, towering over her where she remained seated. “Should I send in Anairë when I leave?” he asked, thinking that she should not be alone here in this room, sitting sadly by herself with nothing but her thoughts to keep her company.

“I would say no,” she said, trying her best to smile but still not quite succeeding, “But Angaráto wants me to try and talk with them more. Anairë and Nolofinwë. He did not really say why, but I think he thinks it will help.”

_I wonder…_ He nodded along, even though he thought that, perhaps, Angaráto was trying to kill two birds with one stone. _Helping both at the same time, meldo? It seems that way…_

“Very well. See you soon, nettë.”

“Yes, soon,” she agreed. “And, please, Aikambalotsë, be careful. Calmacil is a joke, but Atar… He is something else altogether. Difficult to manage and dangerous to cross.”

No one alive knew how dangerous that man was better than Aikambalotsë, who had learned from the days of his toddling at the man’s knee until he was a grown man going off to war. The consequences of failing to take care could be disastrous, and their hovering threat was perhaps the only reason he had managed so far to hold his temper in check and avoid outright verbally calling out both his father and his potential brother-in-law-cum-scum of Eä. Still, he took her warning in good spirits. “Of course, I will take care.”

And then he walked away, even though it hurt.

It took a minute or two of hunting through the halls to find the older couple. Nolofinwë and Anairë were together, wife leaning against her husband, who looked to be dozing in the evening sunlight whilst his female companion worked on her embroidery spread across both their laps. At their guest’s appearance, though, she sat up abruptly with wide, slightly expectant eyes, and her husband jolted faintly out of his light sleep.

“How is Lindalórë feeling?” Anairë asked.

_Well, one cannot fault her too much,_ he thought, seeing, in part, why Angaráto was not so hesitant to push Anairë into the fold as a figure of support for Lindalórë. _She may have no experience with such things, but her heart is in the right place._

“Tired, and maybe hungry,” he answered, “But better, I would like to think.”

“Does she… want company?” Anairë seemed hesitant, halfway through the motions of setting her embroidery aside with a hopeful expression.

“Yes, she said to send for you,” he replied kindly, watching (half bewildered and half amused) as a bright smile crossed the woman’s face.

Her work was folded and cast aside in a neat little pile of thread and fabric in an instant. “I shall go and make us some tea and snacks, then! Dinner is still a few hours off! Nolofinwë, please see Aikambalotsë off, and then come and help. You should eat, too.”

In a flurry of skirts, she was gone, leaving the two men behind.

The pair lingered in silence for long moments. And then the older male let out a thoughtful noise, tilting his head upwards to fully take in Aikambalotsë’s face with those observant if darkened eyes.

“Did Lindalórë truly say she wished for company?” Nolofinwë asked, and he was slower to stand and less enthusiastic at the idea of such socializing.

Honestly, the man looked exhausted. Whilst there might be flickers of anger in his expression every now and again—as when the men had sat about the table and plotted this morning, as when his mouth had opened in a sneer and his eyes and glowed pale blue with his outrage—it was tempered by the deep, dark circles forming under his eyes, pulling him down into a clear and stark picture of a man who had not been sleeping. More disturbed by the incident but a few days ago, he must have been, than he was willing to let on.

For his part, Aikambalotsë nodded. “She was not very enthusiastic about it, but she is trying to take Angaráto’s advice to heart. He has suggested that she take advantage of her current company. And Lady Anairë seems eager to assist.”

“Anairë is like that,” Nolofinwë murmured, sounding caught somewhere between fond and exasperated at his spouse as he led the guest to the door. The fondness, at least, seemed to win out, for a little dreamy smile crossed briefly upon the bow of his lips, caught every so briefly as sunlight washed across his features through the opening door.

Aikambalotsë let himself out onto the porch. “I will likely not be back,” he said, “So take care of my sister in my stead.”

“Of course, I shall,” Nolofinwë swore. “You have my word.”

With a swift bow, the heir of the House of Helyanwë offered his words of gratitude and turned away, looking up over the rooftops towards the lingering glow of Anar, shimmering and reflecting with blinding silver light into his eyes. Some daylight did he still have, he could not help but think as he descended the steps, setting his boots upon the cobbled street. His next course of action swirled through his mind, the words already dancing upon his tongue, how he would convince the follower of Fëanáro to speak with him and—

“And, Aikambalotsë,” Nolofinwë added, leaving the younger male to turn and stare up at his older counterpart, “Take care. Your foe is formidable.”

“I know.” And he did, better than any other.

With a last nod of acknowledgment, the Finwion shut the door. And Aikambalotsë felt as though the last, tiny tendrils of his tranquility were severed between door and frame, cut loose. Nothing was there, now, for him to do but carry on and leave his sister in good hands. No matter how much he would have liked to go back up to the door, cry to be let in, and curl up with her until he was assured that she would not be shattered forever.

_It is time to go,_ he told himself pitilessly.

So, he went.

\---

“Are you feeling well?” Amarië asked once they arrived home.

Ever since leaving Uncle Nolofinwë’s home, her husband had been just a little pale in the face and just a little quieter than usual, though he hid it well beneath his usual impossibly handsome, blasé smile. Still did he look every inch the confident Crown Prince he ought to be beneath the public eye, but Amarië knew her husband well enough to see the stiffness of his back and the faint lines at the corners of his mouth as his lips strained into position.

“I… no,” he admitted. “But you could already tell, could you not?”

It was not that Amarië was any less disturbed by the reality of Lindalórë’s situation than her mate. It was a woman’s worst nightmare made reality, and she could scarcely have imagined such a situation even existed here, in the peace of Valinórë, until she had heard the tremble of Lindalórë’s voice with her own ears and seen the tears upon Lindalórë’s cheeks with her own eyes and known the woman was telling the truth.

_“Oh, darling…” She could not help but sit beside the trembling woman, wrapping an arm around quivering shoulders, rubbing a hand up and down a shaking back._

_“I could not even leave the house,” Lindalórë choked out. “That was the worst part up until that night, that I had nowhere to go even if I did desire nothing but to be out of that house. And then, when Atar suggested that, if only I would cooperate, he and Calmacil would not need to resort to harsher methods… I did not want to think about what he might be planning.”_

_Even as Amarië leaned in and offered the other female a soft embrace, her husband, nibbling at his lower lip, asked, “Did he say what he was planning?”_

_This, Amarië knew, was a pivotal question. If Lindalórë had heard her own father admitting to the plans that resulted, ultimately, in the rape and abuse of two women, at the very least they would have a solid witness. Perhaps not the most reliable, but certainly better than nothing. It would be the beginning of the end for Hendumaika of the House of Helyanwë._

_But she just shook her head frantically. “If I had known they would try something like_ this, _I would have run. I do not know where to, but I would have rather slept in the woods in the cold with nothing to eat until I was found than put those girls through…”_

_Her voice cracked and faded away._

_“Of course,” Amarië crooned, “Of course, you would never have wished something like that upon anyone. I think my husband wished to know if you knew—for certain—if your father condoned Calmacil’s actions and, perhaps, if he took part in premeditation.”_

_Lindalórë let out a sniffle and pushed her head into Amarië’s shoulder like a child seeking comfort from her mother, snuffling against waves of loose golden hair. With a roughened voice, low and hoarse, she said, “I can only speculate. I am certain he knew, but… I never heard him speak of it directly, no.”_

_Findaráto frowned, a flash of irritation and frustration crossing his features momentarily before they smoothed out into a comforting expression. “Perhaps it is for the best that you take a little bit of a break, have some water or some tea and calm yourself. There is no rush, meldë. I know this is uncomfortable, and I wish to put you through as little pain as possible.”_

_To which their interviewee just let out a snort of false amusement, loud and sarcastic. “If you did not want to put me through more suffering, why are you even asking these questions?”_

_“My father has ordered me to do so,” Findaráto replied calmly, “And I trust in his judgment, even though I would have preferred to give you time to heal, or to have Angaráto conduct this questioning. I will not ask forgiveness, but I do regret that this is necessary.”_

_The words were calm and collected, but Amarië could see the way her husband shuddered all through his skin._

_“I do not want to wait,” Lindalórë said then. “It will do nothing to help, drawing this out. I want it done. And then I want to see my brother.”_

_“Very well,” Findaráto then continued, though with new hesitance upon his tongue in the face of those hints of hostility and anger showing beneath the trembling and shattered features of the woman across the table. “Will you tell us about that night? The night Nolofinwë rescued you?”_

_“Rescued,” the woman repeated, voice hollow. “I do not feel rescued. What happened was not a rescue. It was a flight! A cowardly, horrible flight! All I remember is Amillë telling me not to leave my room until she came home, and I hid in the bathroom, and I heard someone come inside and I thought it would be_ him, _Calmacil, that he was going to break down the bathroom door and force me out…”_

_“But it was not,” Findaráto prompted._

_“No. No, it was your uncle,” she admitted. “He urged me to leave, and I had every intention of going once he had explained that Amillë had sent him to help, that he would be offering sanctuary to me in my time of need. But then Calmacil came back to the door, and he had Yavannië with him.”_

_By now, Lindalórë’s voice was shaking so badly that it was hard to make out some of the words running and twisting together. Carefully, Amarië leaned her cheek against dark waves of hair and did her best to_ be there _as the hands grasping at her clothes tightened and pulled upon the fabric in need. Closing her eyes, she allowed the body drawing close to her own, curling up within the fold of her arms, seeking comfort and reassurance in her presence._

_The words were spoken against her skin. “We hid in the bathroom, like selfish, craven monsters,” Lindalórë admitted, “And we listened to Yavannië being raped and did nothing. Nolofinwë claimed that we_ could do nothing, _and, from a rational point of view, I understand what he meant, even then. But that does not change the fact that I should have done_ something _and, yet, was held back. We stood pressed up against one another, silent as a grave, while she screamed and cried just on the other side of the door. And I have never felt so disgusted. By a man. By a situation. By myself. I just…”_

_It was taking all Lindalórë had to maintain her composure. At the corners of her eyes, Amarië felt tears prick—they always did, when the stories she heard were as awful as this—but she did not allow herself to cry. Not when she needed to be strong for the woman in her arms._

_Glancing over at her husband, Amarië could see that the color in his cheeks had faded to a dull and sickly gray, and there was something wild and feverish about his gaze even as his pupils blew wide in sudden alarm. “No one will blame you for doing what you needed to do to survive,” Findaráto murmured. “When your husband returns, I am certain he would fall to his knees and praise the One that you are safe, for he would never forgive himself were something to happen to you whilst he was away.”_

_“I know that,” Lindalórë whispered, “But it does not make things easier. Surely, you can understand that, right?”_

_And Findaráto’s lips lost their last bit of color. “I can. More than you know.”_

Of course, he could. Amarië knew what her husband had gone through. Never had he hidden any part of his adventures—or misadventures—from her eyes or ears, though she knew he was often hesitant at first to trouble her mind with the burden of his nightmares and his worries and his moods and his memories. There had been times where she sat with him curled up in bed, letting him whisper his darkest secrets and most potent fears into her hair, and did exactly as she did for Lindalórë earlier that day. Wrap her arms around him and hold on tight, eyes squeezed closed against the onslaught of weeping, for she needed to be strong when he was weak, just as he would do without question or hesitation for her in return.

Now, she knew, was another one of those times when he needed her to be there.

“Aiya, Findaráto,” she murmured, reaching out to wrap her arms around his waist and look up at his forlorn features, “Of course, I could. Is there anything I can do to help?”

A helpless little smile fluttered across his face, looking equal parts relieved and pained. “Amarië, somehow, you always know just what to say and what to do. I do not know what I would do if you were not here with me. Most especially for such trials as these.”

Perhaps the front hallway was not the greatest place to have a heart-to-heart conversation, but Findaráto made no effort to pull away, showed no sign of wishing to depart her embrace, and, so, they sat instead at the base of the small staircase leading up to the private floor of their small townhouse, curled together. She was in his lap and her cheek pressed up against his chest, ear positioned just so upon his heartbeat.

Even as she ran a comforting hand up and down his back, she could already hear its frantic beat slowing, could already feel his shallow breaths deepening. “Tell me what is bothering you, vennonya, about this particular story. I know the others you found just as horrible as I did, but this one has left you shaken.”

“If I were a better liar, I would say it was because Lindalórë’s experiences are so horrifically similar to Angaráto’s,” her husband began with a huff. “I would redirect your worry elsewhere and tell you that I am fine but for worrying about my baby brother.”

“But that is not so,” she knew already. In fact, Amarië knew enough that she could guess what it was about this situation that had her husband frazzled. Just as she had known, the very moment he started to have trouble sleeping after Midsummer, that it was knowing the Fëanárioni were welcome in Tirion, would make appearances more often, would appear at family functions without warning, that had set off his insomnia and lingering nightmares. But she wanted _him_ to speak of his thoughts and feelings of his own accord and free will, to explain it to her so that she could truly understand what was going through his (sometimes dumb) head that had him looking like a ghost.

“No,” he confirmed. “I… When she spoke of what happened to her and to Uncle Nolofinwë, I felt… sick. And, when I heard the guilt in her voice, how she spoke of _doing nothing_ though she knew that was the correct choice to grant herself and her ally the most safety and, eventually, time to escape, I… I felt it, too. The guilt.”

Against his chest, she nodded. Little did she want to try to negate his feelings, negative though they might be, and deny him the right to feel as he would. “But why, vennonya?”

Against her temple did his lips rest, and they quivered faintly. “I stood by, too. Until the very end. Until there were no more options. I stood by and watched my comrades torn to shreds and eaten alive. I stood by and listened to their screams for help and did nothing. I did not act until my oath—to assist the son of Barahir in his quest no matter the consequences—was in jeopardy, and I placed that, my honor and pride, above my most loyal comrades.”

The similarities, Amarië could see. Knowing how that tale ended—with her husband breaking free and going on a suicidal rampage, tearing apart a werewolf with his bare hands and teeth, leaving him with nerve damage in a twisted arm that never quite healed right after re-embodiment and gauged dips in muscle where bites had taken out chunks of flesh and groups of claw marks that left furrows upon his skin curling everywhere over his body—she knew he saw that he could have acted from the very start, sacrificed himself at the first, but would have ultimately sacrificed Beren by dying first and leaving the human without his strongest and most committed ally. From the perspective of a righteous King fulfilling his oath of protection and assistance to one who had saved his life—a life for a life—it had been the honorable choice, the _right choice._ But, from the perspective of a man who stood by and watched his most loyal friends perish in the most gruesome manner, so terrible Amarië could scarcely comprehend what it would have looked or sounded like and had nightmares of her own thinking about…

Well, it must have seemed a terrible conundrum, an impossible choice. Stay loyal to those who had shown their greatest worth and loyalty in return or stand aside and betray that loyalty for the sake of honoring a debt of life.

“Do you think they blame you?” she asked quietly. “Your ten followers?”

“I would dearly like to say no,” he admitted, “But there are times when I am not so certain. We all knew that the quest upon which we went was dangerous, that we were all likely to perish, but… they gave their lives for me, and I placed fulfillment of my debt above that. I know I made the admirable choice—that it is sung into legend and other ridiculous nonsense—but that does not change the feelings of doubt.”

Humming thoughtfully, Amarië nuzzled into her husband’s shoulder. “Do you think that speaking with them again would help?”

“I… do not know that they would want to speak with me.”

Looking up at her husband’s face, Amarië could see his hesitation, his anxiousness at the thought. “Would it make you feel better?”

“If I spoke to them?” His eyes refocused on her face, and she was pleased to see that the slightly manic light had passed them by, left them that same ocean-deep blue of sapphires in the dusk, shimmering and open to her gaze. “Cousin Turukáno tried to speak to those he failed, and their rejection of him has led him to nothing but sorrow and suffering. What if the same happens here, and they do not forgive a King for following his mind over his heart, fulfilling his duties rather than salvaging his loyal servants?”

“I think that the situation with Turukáno is vastly different,” Amarië countered, “For your servants—your friends, really, no matter what else you might call them—knew what dangers they faced on that journey. They knew they could have stayed behind in safety and left you and Beren both to die, but they did not.”

A faint frown crossed his lips, and there was nervousness in the way his eyes averted. “But do you think speaking with them is a sound idea?”

“I think it will make you feel better,” she admitted, “And that is truly what I desire. For you to find a way to be happy again. Not fleetingly, but resoundingly and forever. No matter how many hurdles we need to leap or trials we need to face, I would face them with you to help you heal. Surely, you know that.”

And his arms around her were so _warm._ “Of course, I do know that, vanya vessenya. You are so perfect and so wonderful, and I could never have done anything to deserve you.”

“Well, you are stuck with me,” she countered, snuggling in close.

“That I am,” he agreed.

And, if nothing else, she was pleased to see the color return to his cheeks, the love glowing bright blue in specks of turquoise and sky within his irises. Even with the faintest traces of scars outlined upon his skin, held back by fragile Words of Power, he was still the most beautiful thing she could imagine.

And she wanted him to be happy.

“Talk to your followers,” she suggested, “But later. Enough somber conversation or today. We both need some food and some rest before we look into matters of Lindalórë further. Being exhausted and drained ourselves will hardly serve our family well.”

“Of course, you are correct,” he agreed, and she let out a loud squeal of laughter as he lifted her up within his arms as though she weighed nothing and started towards the kitchen. “I did not get a chance to speak with Aikambalotsë today, but I would prefer to meet him in his father’s house, to get a look at the inside of those mansions myself, and I had best be fully fed and able-bodied for such a daunting task.”

Almost did Amarië open her mouth to demand that she attend as well, but, at the last moment, she let the words die silently upon her tongue and instead offered her spouse a smile in return for his grin. The House of Helyanwë was clearly no place for a woman no matter her stature or importance, and she knew she would be but a liability in such a task, a constant worry distracting her spouse from his investigation.

The thought of either of them entering that household left her shivering.

But she just nodded along, knowing it was necessary, and thinking of other things that she needed to protect. A faint flush crossed her cheeks.

Of course, the man noticed nothing. For all that he was so sharp and so observant, he was sometimes shockingly blind to what lay right before his nose. “How about we make fresh bread,” her mate suggested enthusiastically, none the wiser.

“That sounds perfect,” she agreed.

\---

It festered. That feeling of powerlessness, of being trapped and encased with nothing but the rage burning hot in the pit of his belly. The need to act, now that he had a name, now that he had a vague plan, now that he was capable and ready, was too strong to resist.

Leaving the townhouse, and his sister within, behind, he let the fire burn over his skin.

Aikambalotsë knew his face must be a formidable wall in that moment, for, though the streets were no friendlier this evening than they had been the day before, eyes shifted away from his gaze wherever he turned to stare. Still could he feel their acidic burn upon the flesh of his back, searing deep and leaving marks. But, in return, did he bore holes with his eyes into any of those who would look upon him and assume his affiliation with someone so low and so contemptuous as to allow the abuse, torture and rape of women within the four walls of his domain, women who should have been under his protection.

Well, if Hendumaika would not protect his own, he deserved not his place as Lord of the House of Helyanwë. And Aikambalotsë, the heir to that House, was also at fault for not being there, for not stepping in, for not protecting his own. Again.

Never again. Seeing Lindalórë, seeing the strain and desolation new and dark in his bright, wild sister’s eyes, made the fury burn even hotter. And the conviction all the brighter.

So, when he stopped outside the blacksmith’s shop, he clenched his teeth and curled his upper lip at the appearance of three men, near identical in face and stature. Brothers, he presumed. They all looked upon him the way one would look upon a cockroach, with such disgust that it sizzled in his bones, the need to scream to the skies that he _was not his father_ and _would never support such filth!_

Instead, he growled out, “I am here to speak with the owner of this establishment.”

The suspicion in those eyes was blatant. “Very well, Helyanwë,” the middle one said, and his words were no less harsh than his unwelcoming expression, the name spat out as though it were cursed. “I shall fetch Atar to speak with you.”

Two stayed behind whilst the third disappeared into the depths of the shop.

They waited in silence, staring each at the other.

And then the third brother and a fourth man appeared. The latter appeared related to the others, perhaps older in the way he held his shoulders, in the softer look about his eyes and the lines at their corners. Instead of outright hostility, the face he wore was calm and assessing. The younger three seemed ready to hate Aikambalotsë upon principle, but this man was sharp and knew he must be here for a reason.

“Why have you come here, Helyanwë?” 

Straight-faced and resolved, he stared into the man’s gray eyes without shame. “I was sent here by Angaráto Arafinwion to speak with you.”

Surprise crossed the faces of the sons, who all turned to stare at their father. The man himself, though, maintained his composure, measuring the heir’s worth and truthfulness with a stern tilt of his lips. “Did he, now?”

“Yes, he did,” Aikambalotsë countered, teeth clenched but face carefully devoid of the roiling hurricane of bitterness and caustic rage swirling through his insides and melting at his bones. “He seemed quite certain that you would understand that one should never judge a man too quickly by his name or by his affiliation. Being a follower of Fëanáro, I suspect he ought to have the right of that.”

A faint smile crossed the older man’s lips. “He always is so full of wisdom, Angaráto. That does, indeed, sound very much alike to him. Very well, let us convene indoors in privacy, and I shall speak to you, Helyanwë.”

Through the gateway of towering sons did he pass, each still eyeing him with contemptuous suspicion in their ashy gray eyes. But the father was unruffled by the stranger in their midst, taking him through the shop—a place that displayed wares as one might expect, well-lit with sunlight and lamplight—and through a door into what at first appeared to be the depths of the earth. The first thing Aikambalotsë saw was fire—forge-fire, he realized swiftly—as it swirled red-hot and fierce through the black. A wave of hot air slammed into his face, blowing the loose wisps of his dark hair back from his temples and cheeks as it rushed to escape confinement within the sweltering sanctuary.

Three steps in and the door closed behind him with a sharp click. “Come and be seated,” his new potential ally said, gesturing to chairs a ways from the flame. They were nothing spectacular, not cushioned or decorated, but their purpose, he supposed was to serve as a temporary place of rest, not a throne of comfort and relaxation.

He sat upon one and heard it creak beneath his weight. Definitely uncomfortable and with nowhere to rest his hands.

The man sat down opposite him. “So, Angaráto has sent you forth. He would not send you here unless he trusted you.”

“Whether he trusts me or not is irrelevant,” Aikambalotsë growled out. “I have the trust of my younger sister, and that is what matters. She has bid me do something to correct these terrible circumstances, to cleanse the name and reputation of our House, and I have agreed to do so. But that is not something I can do single-handedly.”

“You would go up against your own father?” the man asked, not sounding skeptical, but merely curious. “He raised you, did he not? Taught and trained you since you were but a young boy? Is offering you his fortune one day when he leaves his trade behind? And you would sacrifice all that merely to avenge your sister and a handful of unimportant servant girls?”

“He did something unforgiveable,” Aikambalotsë murmured, feeling his shoulders hunch. “I cannot let it pass unpunished.”

Truthfully, he felt his own doubts rise to the surface amidst the words of the older man. _Of course,_ he had been hesitant to surrender the relationship he believed he had—and might still have—with his father. _Of course,_ he had heard his mother’s words against Hendumaika and wished desperately that she had been wrong, that his father, for all his ambition, could not be so cold-blooded as to condone harm of one of his own, a woman under his protection. _Of course,_ Aikambalotsë, even now, felt the sting of betrayal, ten times stronger than anything he felt thinking Turukáno even in those early days after the Fall.

After all, Turukáno’s betrayal had not been intentional. The man might have been foolish and selfish and prideful, but he had not acted with the intent of harming or allowing to be harmed any of the citizens of the great city of Ondolindë. Twisted and warped though his perception might have been, Turukáno had believed they would be safe if only they stayed hidden. Being wrong did not change that his intentions had been at least somewhat pure. Aikambalotsë still hated the man, and he doubted they would ever do more than silently avoid each other in public from this point forward, but thinking of his former regent could not even begin to stir his blood the way it was kindled now.

Because Hendumaika had allowed this to happen. Even, the son suspected, had encouraged it and egged Calmacil on to perform those heinous acts of cruelty.

Until that moment at the breakfast table, he had prayed it was all a lie. What son would ever want proof that his father was that sort of man? That the person who had raised them, who they had once held up amongst the stars and the moon in regard, could betray them so thoroughly? But, seeing the bruises on Yavannië, witnessing her terror, and seeing that his father had not so much blinked in surprise let alone been horrified at such brutality… There was no denying that the man had known. No proof had Aikambalotsë—yet, at least—that his father had been part of the plotting of such designs, but he knew all the same.

And that truly was unforgiveable.

If there was one thing Aikambalotsë could not stand for, it was the harm of those under his protection. Be they abroad, the craftsmen and merchants who loyally served the House of the Heavenly Arch, or be they here, the lowly servants who slaved away in the giant mansions of the House of Helyanwë, they were still _his people,_ every bit as much as his sister. They were his responsibility and his to protect, and he would protect them even at great cost to himself in mind and body. He _would._

Which meant that his father, their abuser, needed to go.

“It does not matter how I feel about him,” Aikambalotsë added, voice dripping in the toxic sludge of his hatred, because it was easier to be angry and imagine tearing the man’s throat clean out of his neck than it was to sit here and cry at the grief locked up behind heavy doors in the back of his mind. “I need to do this.”

Slowly, he looked up at the older male’s eyes, staring straight into his own without flinching from the acidic green burn of hate nor quelling at the swirling despair and confusion beneath. The man smiled.

“You are a good man, Aikambalotsë of the House of Helyanwë. But, then, I should not be surprised. Angaráto never judges men falsely.”

Whatever he saw there, Aikambalotsë could not help but be ever so slightly relieved. “He sent me here to get help. To find allies. He seemed to think that you would be the correct man to talk to about furthering my plans.”

“I do have some thoughts on the matter,” the blacksmith answered, smile turning a little crooked, almost mischievous. “But first, Helyanwë, tell me more of your plans. And then we shall talk a little about strategy.”

As it would happen, hours later, as he was leaving the sanctuary of the forge, Aikambalotsë could not deny that Angaráto had not led him astray.

Pleased that things were in motion, the heir retreated home.

There was work to be done yet.

\---

She should not have been there, should not have been eavesdropping outside her husband’s study, for there was no reason that she ought be out of bed and in this part of the house in the middle of the night. But, if nothing else, these last few days had taught her the value of information and of secrecy, and she was not about to let even the smallest detail regarding her husband and his doings slip her by. It could be the difference, she knew now and with stinging clarity, between survival and suffering.

So, she stood just around the corner, listening to the footsteps.

“You have been out for quite some time, yondonya,” her husband said to her son, who was dutifully following in his father’s wake.

“I have been away from Tirion for more than a week. I had business to see to.” Aikambalotsë revealed nothing of his whereabouts, but Eressëa knew her husband was not going to take such vagueness as an answer.

“Really?”

“Yes,” their son said, still withholding any further information. That would be enough to make his father as least mildly annoyed if not bring him to the brink of suspicion. Eressëa would have preferred that her son lied outright. It would have been safer.

“What need have you of me that you are up and waiting for my return?” Aikambalotsë then asked.

“Is it a crime for a father to wish to talk to his son?” Hendumaika asked then, voice tinged with the faintest bit of hurt, as though he really, truly felt slighted by the treatment of his eldest child, by Aikambalotsë’s standoffishness and clipped words.

“It is when we both know you do not hold your son in high regard,” Aikambalotsë countered. “You make your disdain very clear before I left to join that ridiculous hunting expedition. Nothing will have changed in such a short period of time. So, what is it that you really wish to speak about, Atar?”

Their voices were quieter as they entered the study, but she could still make out their conversation, the door left open.

_Hendumaika wants to be overheard._

She doubted that she was the intended audience.

“You were rather unwelcoming towards our guest this morning,” the Head of the House began probingly. “Is there something about him that you particularly do not care for?”

For long moments, Eressëa wondered if her dear son, who had been so shocked and so infuriated over the happenings in his absence, would explode into fits right then and there. Aikambalotsë had made no secret of his disapproval over the actions of both Calmacil and Hendumaika, had made no secret of his plans to do something about both of them as quickly as he could manage rather than running away from a long and hard fight, and Eressëa both knew and felt the depths of his rage resonating to the marrow of her own bones. But, nevertheless, he was already being reckless enough without making his negative opinions of the recent happenings clear.

But he did not break character. “I simply find him to be obnoxious. Really, Atar, if you sought to replace me, you could have picked someone with more backbone. I might be softer than appeals to your bloodthirsty nature, but surely such a toy as Calmacil is hardly worthy of going to all this trouble.”

“Maybe traditional backbone is not what I was searching for,” Hendumaika countered.

And Eressëa shuddered, because she was certain she _knew_ what her husband was looking for. The same thing in a son-in-law as he looked for in a wife. Subservience and loyalty. Calmacil was not so terribly bright, but he would do whatever Hendumaika wanted, was easy to manipulate, and would not shirk from doing truly diabolical deeds in the name of getting what he wanted and, conversely, what Hendumaika wanted. Aikambalotsë, on the other hand, had gone off to war a well-groomed and obedient, heartless monster but come back an independent, self-opinionated, bitter but somehow more compassionate man.

_You were not entirely honest with me, venno,_ she could not help but think. _But then, I am not surprised. Outright lie, you might not do often, for it can be a gamble, breeding suspicion and leading to problems if not wagered with great care. But lies of omission? They are your bread and butter._

Truthfully, she doubted her husband planned to ever surrender his wealth and business to either one of the younger men. They were just convenient tools to advancement.

That was all anyone ever was to Hendumaika.

Swallowing down her outrage—Aikambalotsë, after all, was her son, her very own, and the thought of her husband trying to harm or use their boy in psychological and political games was nerve-wracking—Eressëa backed away from the door, around the corner, and as far as she could down the hall without losing completely the sounds of their exchanged words.

“I will get rid of him,” Aikambalotsë said, and his tone was that of a vow, firm and unquestionable. As if the deed were already done. “I will not allow myself to be replaced with an unworthy worm of a man.”

“Do what you wish,” Hendumaika allowed, sounding his usual nonplussed self.

“I shall,” their son then retorted. “Goodnight, Atar.”

“Goodnight, yondonya.”

The sound of footsteps came, leaving the study in swift, sure steps and closing the door a touch more sharply than necessary in their wake. Three more steps, and then a scoff. Peering around the corner, Eressëa saw him, the second eavesdropper. The _intended_ eavesdropper. Calmacil was lingering at the other end of the wall, looking caught between mulish anger at Aikambalotsë’s open and utter disdain, and spine-chilling terror as the taller man looked his way. Only secondhand had she heard about the incident from the women downstairs, but she could see now that Calmacil’s wrist was clumsily bandaged to try and support a twisted or broken wrist from here her son had manhandled him this morning.

“You heard,” Aikambalotsë shamelessly snarled out. “Your days as a guest in this House are numbered, scum. I will have you out of my home if I have to drag you out myself by your hair as you kick and squirm like the bug you are. No man so lowly and so pathetic as to hurt or terrify those weaker than himself to feel powerful—and women, at that—is strong enough to take my place in this family.”

“Your father will stop you,” Calmacil said, though there was a new hesitance in his voice. “He promised me your sister.”

“He is more than happy to break promises, as he has duly shown. If you think he will protect a weakling from being weeded out, you are sorely mistaken.” With that, Aikambalotsë spun on his heel and began striding down the hallway in Eressëa’s direction, giving her but moments to pull back such that he did not hit her as he rounded the corner, crisp and fast, with a twist of his heel.

Only to spot her there. “Ah, Amillë!”

“Yonya,” she greeted quietly, reaching out to grasp at his wrist, “I had thought I heard you arriving home and came to bid you goodnight.”

Gently, his hand reached out and wrapped about her wrist in return. Without any real force, he tugged her in the direction of her rooms, eyes focused upon her face. “Indeed, some rest sounds like an excellent plan. I think I shall join you in retiring for the night.”

Together, the pair retreated.

Only once they were safely ensconced within Eressëa’s private chambers did the mask of distant nonchalance fall from her son’s face, crashing to the floor and shattering to reveal his seething beneath. Yet, for all that his anger still burned bright and hot in the depths of his eyes, swirling and churning in a way Hendumaika’s had never mustered for their lack of passion, he also seemed to wear just a hint of a satisfied smirk.

“Have you seen her?” Eressëa asked, and she wondered if she sounded as desperate for news of her daughter as she felt.

“I have,” her son answered, squeezing her hand. “Lindalórë is unharmed physically. Exhausted and in low spirits, but well taken care of. You chose her guardians well.”

It was not, of course, that she doubted the honor of Nolofinwë or the care and consideration of his beautiful wife, Anairë, but Eressëa had found herself _worrying_ in the past days. Worrying about her daughter, waiting for confirmation of Lindalóre’s safety and security from without. Worrying about her son, who had only just come home last night and was already getting himself into trouble. Worrying about her maidservants, who were still badly shaken and nervously sought her company whenever there was a man about the house. It had left her feeling oddly tired and stretched in ways nothing ever had, to be so listless, to desire but be unable to obtain the medicine—the comfort—she needed to assuage the aching burn in her chest. And, at the same time, she was restless. Feeling her eyes droop but unable to reach out and touch sleep. Feeling her muscles ache but also jitter and shudder over her bones.

It was alike to being kicked in the chest, to have that held breath, that intensive waiting, expelled suddenly from whence it had built up in her lungs. “Oh… I… I am…”

Understanding crossed his face. “Things are not perfect, but I think she is getting better. There has been talk already of how we are to smuggle her from the city.”

_“We?”_ she asked.

“Ah… yes…” A faint flush crossed his cheeks, and he looked at his toes like a scolded child caught doing something he ought not be. “I… may have gotten involved. But I needed… I needed to show the people—the common folk—that I was not _in Atar’s corner_ in this matter. _I needed to do something.”_

“You may have played your hand too soon,” she said nervously. “The more who know, the sooner your father will, too.”

And the nerves were back. One child safe—or as safe as she could be when her husband was out and about gallivanting through the woods instead of at home standing up for his wife—but another putting himself in danger. Swallowing down a chastisement, for Aikambalotsë’s reasoning was sound no matter how much she disliked the idea of him putting himself in jeopardy more so than necessary, she resigned herself to the feeling. For a while longer.

“I have upset you,” he said, seeing the look on her face. “Forgive me.”

“I am just concerned,” she admitted. “You have only just come back, and I have only just salvaged one child from your father’s scheming. What if…?”

“I can handle Atar,” her son insisted. “If nothing else, believe that.”

What else could she do but have faith?

“Just be careful,” she warned, knowing that, if he was anywhere near as stubborn and confident as his sire, he would smile blithely at her words.

“Of course, I shall,” he reassured teasingly. With that exact smile on his lips. For a moment, just the tiniest slice of time, he looked young and unburdened and moments from laughter. Wholly untouched by shadow. Until another thought descended upon him as a curtain upon a sunlit window, and that momentary flash of something young and beautiful was lost once more to the turmoil within and without. “On another note, Amillë, I have a request.”

“What sort of request?” Naturally, she desired nothing more than to help.

“I need to speak to those two maids, Yavannië and Míriel.”

Eressëa’s first instinct was to deny his request. Not because she did not trust her son, but because she did not want either girl to feel uncomfortable or pressured to be in the presence of a man, not when both were still so fragile. Swallowing down her reticence, she asked, “What do you wish to speak with them about?”

“Lindalórë wished for me to pass on words to them,” he answered, head bowing. “She feels guilt for how things unfolded.”

“It was not her fault,” Eressëa whispered, heart wrenching in her chest at the thought of her daughter feeling as such. “None of it was her fault. Not truly. And I… I would never say it to anyone else or before any other ears, but… I am glad that it was not her. I am her mother, and I would rather it was a nameless woman rather than my own daughter.”

It was not said with guilt, not truly. Maybe a hint of shame, for Eressëa knew that, in part, her desire to help and soothe the victims of Calmacil was to do with a desire to negate her own ill thoughts. But she would never, ever wish to go back and have her own daughter exchange places with either woman, no matter how sweet or beloved Yavannië and Míriel had become to her old heart. She would rather have died, or taken Lindalórë’s place herself, than have her daughter be raped and tormented.

Such, she was discovering, was the truth of being a mother. Of _feeling_ as a mother.

Now, if only her daughter could understand.

“I know what you mean,” Aikambalotsë told her, “And I know what Lindalórë feels as well. I said I would do this in the effort to help Lindalórë feel better, to feel as though she had done right by those women, though she cannot be here herself to say the words. If it would make her feel better…”

Eressëa sighed. “You are right, of course. Let us call forth the maids.”

“Oh,” Aikambalotsë added, then, as his mother opened the door and called for Víressë to summon the pair, “There is other news to share with them. Of a more encouraging sort.”

Eressëa turned to stare at her son.

“Do tell more, yonya.”

\---

She had been summoned to attend the Lady of the House.

This was not surprising, as Yavannië had been summoned thusly every night since… Well, since _that night…_ and she was not expecting anything to have changed. It was a relief to know that she could go there, that she could be in a place in which no man—especially Calmacil—would ever dare to trespass. That she could release her held breath for even the shortest period of time and allow the aching bruises and the stinging abrasions and the deep muscle burning to be soothed in hot water and beneath the warm healing poultices without worry or burden clouding her mind.

What she _did_ find surprising was the presence of Lord Aikambalotsë in her Lady’s private chambers, perched almost lazily at the vanity with his hands tangled and fingers twiddling about one another.

At her entrance, his green eyes shifted to stare at her, and at Míriel who followed at her heels. Hesitantly, the pair came to a stop before the door, both shivering beneath the sheer weight and vehemence of that stare boring straight through their bodies. For the briefest of moments, stricken with a flicker of insanity, Yavannië contemplated turning around and fleeing like a rabbit from a wolf.

_Lord Aikambalotsë would not do me harm. He protected me just this morning._

It was enough, though just barely, to keep her firmly rooted in place, as though the threads of the rug beneath her feet had suddenly sprung to life and wrapped themselves in knots about her ankles, even if she—and her companion—were shaking in their shoes with fluttering heartbeats galloping across their ribs. With baited breath, they waited.

“Forgive my intrusion,” the man began, “But I have a message for the two of you. Once it is delivered, I shall leave you be.”

_A message? For us?_

Standing from his chair, the heir of the House bowed.

“My sister and I both extend our apologies for allowing this to happen, though we cannot ever apologize enough for such a thing,” he began. “Lindalórë wishes you to know that she thinks of you, and that she understands if you will not now or ever forgive her for what has happened. But she wished for you to know that, if she could be here and helping without risking her own safety, she would be.”

Yavannië did not really know what to think, hearing those words.

Beside her, Míriel had a strange look about her face, as though she could not decide whether she felt rage and indignation or whether she was swamped in confusion and loss or whether she ought be grieving and destroyed. Wide-eyed, she simply stared at the man bent at his waist, halving his height such that the two women easily stood at greater height.

_He apologized,_ was all Yavannië could think. _A Lord, so high up that he should never even speak directly to me or look directly at me, is apologizing. To me._

Shocked, her mind spun in circles, trying to think of what to say.

Luckily, she needed no to speak.

“Lindalórë has also requested that I do something to _fix_ this travesty of a situation,” Aikambalotsë added, standing to his full height. “And I intend to do so. I would have done so, without hesitation, even were it not at her personal behest.”

_Do something about it?_ Shivering, Yavannië was stricken cold out of nowhere, rubbing her arms as they developed gooseflesh.

“However, I fully understand if you desire to leave this House after what has been done under the _care_ of its current Head, who has proven himself nothing short of unworthy of the title he possesses,” the heir continued, and his voice reflected deep revulsion at the situation, a fury that had both women shrinking faintly back. “I have arranged a place for you both to go and maintain steady employment should you wish to depart for your own safety and comfort. Generously, Prince Findaráto and his wife, Amarië, have offered you both a place in their home to stay and work.”

At that news, Yavannië felt lightheaded.

She was torn at both the knowledge that _Prince Findaráto, the heir to the throne of the Noldor, knew what had happened to her and was offering her asylum in his home_ and overwhelming, heart-stopping joyous _relief_ because _she could leave this nightmarish place and needed not worry about Calmacil stalking her from the shadows any longer, thank Eru and the Valar ten times over again!_

Her legs wobbled, and she would have collapsed onto the floor had not her Lady gently steered her—and Míriel, pale-faced and silent with her lips parted but nothing coming out—to sit at the edge of the bed.

Before she knew what was going on, she was weeping. Again, for the second time in the same day, in front of the same man. But, for the very life of her, she could not find a way to cease. No news she had ever heard could ever be so welcome, so wonderful, as this was, surely! How could she withhold inside herself the bubbling _light_ spilling forth down her face, contain the airy sense of floating through a dream that suffused her spirit?

“Are… are they alright?” Aikambalotsë was asking, looking to his mother. Through the shimmery fuzz of tears, Yavannië could see that he had taken a step closer and hesitated, looking for all the world like he could not comprehend what had just happened.

“Worry not about it, yonya,” the mother soothed, even as she sat between the two girls and wrapped a comforting arm around each. “This is most excellent news. They are simply a little overwhelmed to know that they can leave this place with a guarantee of safety and continued support. Staying here in these mansions had not been a kind fate for either of them, especially with Calmacil still lingering about like an unwanted pest.”

“Yes, well…” A shadow passed across the man’s face. So fast that, by the time Yavannië, through her hiccups, wiped away the wetness at her lashes, his face had already transformed back into its normal deadpan expression. “I will be making certain neither Calmacil nor anyone else in this House will get away with such behavior _ever again._ Even so, I understand if they would like to leave as swiftly as possible.”

“But…” Míriel’s voice shuddered. “Will your father not stop us from going?”

Since _that night,_ the Head of the House had been monitoring the comings and goings of his servants closely, preventing especially the women from leaving the mansions except under the strictest of observation, for he wanted not for news of these happenings to reach ears outside the walls. Unfortunately for him, his son had apparently been all too willing to share, and with someone much more important and dangerous to the standing of the House of Helyanwë than the mere common folk in the city marketplace or square.

“I will release you from service to the House and take you to Prince Findaráto myself, as is my due as the heir to these mansions and guardian to the wealth of this family,” Aikambalotsë declared, arms crossed and jaw set. “It is best to wait until Atar is busy, of course. He will take care of business in his study uninterrupted in the morning as he does every morning, and that is the best time to leave to avoid being detained. But, once you have left this House, there is no hold he has over you. If he does not know where you have gone, he cannot even attempt to bombard your new employers with complaints and bad references.”

“Will you not be in trouble?” Yavannië then asked.

Those green eyes flickered towards her, assessing. Thankfully, they blinked and fluttered, relieving her from the intensity of their stare. “If Atar did not want me releasing servants as I see fit, he should have said so. And, if he did not want people wagging their tongues, he should have taken more care to keep his machinations secret. Besides, the common folk _already know_ what is going on, even about what has happened to the both of you, and they are quite hostile towards this House. There is no point in attempting to keep it from reaching external ears by holding hostage the entire household, not now.”

Slumping in relief—why she felt relief over something such as that, that her rescuer was not going to be facing hardship at her behest, she was not quite certain—Yavannië leaned her head against Lady Eressëa’s arm.

“I think that is enough excitement,” the Lady said then. “Let us bathe. Aikambalotsë, come back in the morning once your father has secluded himself, and the girls shall be waiting to depart if they wish to leave.”

Knowing he had been dismissed, the heir offered another low bow. With a last glance in Yavannië’s direction, he swept from the room. The door clicked shut in his wake.

And Yavannië, for her part, took a deep breath and welcomed in the sweet, sweet air.

Tomorrow morning, she was going to be _free._

And, if there was anything worth weeping for, it was that. So, she wept. And smiled through the tears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:
> 
> Ondolindë (Q) = Gondolin  
> háno (Q) = brother (formal)  
> Nolofinwioni (Q, p) = sons of Nolofinwë  
> nettë (Q) = sister (informal)  
> hanno (Q) = brother (informal)  
> pitya (Q) = little  
> nettenya (Q) = my sister (informal)  
> Atar (Q) = Father  
> meldo (Q) = friend (male)  
> meldë (Q) = friend (female)  
> Amillë (Q) = Mother  
> Aiya (Q) = exclamation, like Oh  
> vennonya (Q) = my husband  
> Fëanárioni (Q, p) = sons of Fëanáro  
> vanya (Q) = beautiful  
> vessenya (Q) = my wife  
> yondonya (Q) = my son  
> venno (Q) = husband  
> yonya (Q) = my son (informal)


	78. And The Walls Come Crumbling Down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pityo finally takes matters into his own hands...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: courting rituals, politics, some fantasizing about sexual things, mentions of assault/kidnapping, spying, hints of mental health issues, small mention of the Kinslayings
> 
> Well, I have a second job lined up. Likely this means that the 4-5 days per chapter is a permanent change. Otherwise, I have little in the way of warnings for you. The assault/abduction is still mentioned briefly, but this chapter is mostly fluff and courting <3
> 
> Maedhros = Maitimo = Nelyafinwë = Nelyo = Russandol  
> Maglor = Makalaurë = Kanafinwë = Káno  
> Celegorm = Tyelkormo = Tyelko = Turkafinwë = Turko  
> Caranthir = Carnistir = Morifinwë = Moryo  
> Curufin = Atarinkë = Curufinwë = Curvo  
> Amrod = Ambarussa = Pityafinwë = Pityo = Minyarussa  
> Amras = Umbarto = Telufinwë = Telvo = Atyarussa  
> Aegnor = Aikanáro = Ambaráto  
> Finarfin = Arafinwë  
> Egalmoth = Aikambalotsë  
> Finrod = Findaráto

_Menelya, 59 Lairë (11 July)_

\---

No matter how much Pityafinwë would have liked to race first and foremost to the Healing House to see the lovely Lady Wilwarin again, today visiting the lover healer was a secondary mission. When he rose at first light—and took care not to stir any of his siblings in the adjacent rooms—he rather planned to go and see someone else entirely.

Without even bothering to ask, he already knew his younger brother would resist his urging to get out of the palace and about the city, sadly uninterested in bland and useless socializing. A shame when he had once been the exuberant pinnacle of extroverted bliss, talking happily with anyone and everyone he met at parties or on the street as though he had known them for centuries rather than minutes. Certainly, he was not about to agree to go and visit the girl who had been pining after him (who he had been pining for in return, the idiot), not after he had made up his mind that she was safer without his influence. So, Pityafinwë did not bother to make an attempt at negotiation. Of all the brothers, Telufinwë was likely the most stubborn, every bit as immovable as Fëanáro had ever been, and it would do naught but give away his plan too soon.

Instead, he patted the frame of his brother’s door on his way past with a crooked smile. _You may thank me for this later, moron._

A mere half of an hour of walking down the sparsely populated streets of Tirion in the silvery glitter of early dawn light, and he stood outside the School of Dance, looking up at the familiar sprawling white buildings. Perhaps it was ridiculous—he was a man who had marched into battle several times, who had experienced raids and ambushes without even blinking, so a mere plan to ambush his brother with a woman should hardly call for any concern at all—yet his heart was working harder than it ought with nerves.

 _Hopefully, no one gets the wrong impression about my presence here,_ he thought wryly, staring at the foreboding front doors.

Pushing that down beneath a layer of stoic frowning, he entered, thinking it would be deserted and he might need to wander to find someone who might assist him in his mission. Shockingly, however, while it may have been a barely respectable hour of the morning, there were many people about. Enough that others took note when the first pair of unknown women stopped to stare in shock at the russet-haired man lingering awkwardly in the foyer. Until he had a small crowd of dancers staring and whispering but none daring to approach.

Clearing his throat, he directed his gaze to the nearest person, an unfortunate girl who had frozen in place when she realized that she was near enough to a Fëanárion to reach out and brush her hand against his arm. “I am here to see Lady Amaurëa. If you would find her and tell her that Ambarussa is here to speak with her…”

Shocked further, perhaps, at being addressed directly by one of the infamous Fëanárioni—and politely if gruffly, for that matter—the girl sputtered and stumbled over her words for several long moments. And then choked out an “Of course, my Prince” before she fled back the direction she had come.

 _Well, at least there was no screaming or fainting involved,_ the redhead thought blandly to himself, going back to ignoring the staring from all sides.

Sluggishly, the gathered crowds began to move with the consistency of honey, unclogging the halls and moving on to their destinations when they realized Pityafinwë was not about to do anything particularly interesting or make a gossip-worthy spectacle in the middle of the foyer. Instead, the redhead leaned back against the nearest wall, crossed his arms, and closed his eyes, just listening to the low murmur of voices and the soft treads of feet against the floor. Silent, the dancers were not when they walked, but they were significantly quieter than the average layman, than people who had never had their lives depend on their silence in the hunt or in battle. Making a game of guessing how many people were passing by the pitter-patter of their footsteps, he busied himself with ignoring the stares he could still feel like stinging insect bites upon his skin. If they wanted to watch him think with his eyes closed, they were welcome to it.

And then there came the swift steps across the open foyer, too fast to be a walk, and headed straight as an arrow in his direction without detour. Enough time did he have to blink open his eyes and take in the familiar dark-haired figure, seemingly tinier each time he saw her, before she barreled into his middle and had her thin arms around his waist.

Amaurëa was hugging him. And he could not deny that it was strange but also strangely nice. Even Istelindë tended to give the brothers—other than her husband, of course—as much physical space as they desired. Not so with this woman, he realized, feeling a swirl of warm fondness.

_I honestly did not think she liked me that much._

“Is Telufinwë here?” she asked immediately.

_Ah, I see._

“Here, as in, here in this room with us? No. He is stubbornly hiding himself away in his rooms in the palace. Here, as in, in Tirion? Yes, he is.”

She was excited to see his brother. That would explain the exuberance with which she seemed to almost vibrate, bouncing on her toes as she pulled away from the brief embrace. Last time, she had seemed wary of the older twin, watching him with narrowed eyes for the first few hours of their lunch encounter. But, apparently, the understanding they had established last time they met was enough that she no longer felt quite so wary in his presence. Especially now, when she was swaying and prancing and seemed ready to twirl herself across the room at the mere possibility of seeing his baby brother once more.

Pityafinwë imagined that she might, as she was, all small and adorable and excited like a puppy, even manage to make the currently dour and gloomy Telufinwë give up a smile.

“So,” she began, “I have been thinking since the last time you were here. And I have decided that, if Telufinwë wishes not to make the first move towards courtship, perhaps I should do so in his stead. I can have an appropriate bouquet made, and I even have a sentimental jewel that could serve as a proper declaration of courting gift. Not much do I have in the way of jewelry that is my own, for the elaborate pieces worn during performances are property of the School, but I still thought it would do, even if it is rather simple.”

She pulled out a ring.

It was large enough that it would fit one of her larger fingers, but even the broadest of her digits was still tiny to Pityafinwë’s eyes. Taking the small piece, he noted that, while it was nothing ostentatious, it was of pale yellow gold, untarnished and gleaming, and set with a spiraling design of tiny diamonds. To a royal—most especially a royal of the House of Finwë, the ruling House of the Noldor—it might appear but a simple thing, lacking the large size and elaborate design favored by men such as Fëanáro.

Pityafinwë slipped it over his smallest finger and found it caught at the second joint. Seeing this, Amaurëa let out a dismayed noise.

“Well,” she sighed out, seeing that it was too small and looking a bit downcast. “I suppose maybe I was getting ahead of myself…”

“No, I think it will work fine.” He slipped it off and held it instead in the palm of his hand. The make was fine enough. Not so flawless as their father would have preferred for one of his own, but Fëanáro was not here to kick up a fuss. And Telufinwë, much like his older twin, was not really a man for loud, decadent jewelry besides. “We can find a chain for him to wear it upon instead.”

“Do you think he would do that?” she asked, looking down at the small ring where it sat upon the pillow of the heel of Pityafinwë’s palm.

“He may be a stubborn moron,” the older twin commented, handing the golden trinket back to its rightful owner, “But he is very fond of you, whether he would admit it aloud or not. I do not doubt that his mind can be turned, albeit through effort and persistence. I shall do my best to assist in such matters, but you are the one who will be doing the bulk of the difficult work. He is quite immune to my manipulations. But those of a beautiful woman…”

A flush crossed her cheeks, and she pocketed the ring, eyes averted. “So, do you think we should begin today?”

“Only a few days will he be forced to stay here with the rest of us,” Pityafinwë answered. “It is best that you make the most of that time while he cannot run away. Besides, he is in need of some distraction. The news which brought us all to Tirion is certainly not pleasant.”

“Yes… I heard,” Amaurëa murmured. “I do not know any of your kin well but for your brother and, to some extent, you as well. But I cannot imagine Telufinwë sitting back and allowing one of his siblings to take advantage of a woman or abscond with her against her will. He saved me when he needed not, when he _knew me not,_ and he asked for no reward or favor in return. I know that he would do the same for anyone.”

Pityafinwë felt the twist of nostalgia toxically mixed with resentful remembrance of glowing green eyes fading into darkness. “Indeed, he can be shockingly, stupidly brave at times. It is how he ended up getting the scars he now bears.”

Curiosity flashed through Amaurëa’s eyes. Tactfully, though, in a room with so many potential eavesdroppers, she did not ask the question clearly searing upon the tip of her tongue, resisting despite the ready part of her lips and the quick uptake of breath. After an awkward moment of struggling to withhold her words, she instead said, “I can leave off my practice for this morning, and I think I shall given how little time there is to get this task completed. Let us go and get started immediately, and we might have everything we need within an hour or so.”

And the bubbling excitement was back, almost rippling through her tiny little wisp of a body as she clasped her hands and rocked on her heels. Her infectious smile got to him, and the older twin’s hard frown twisted into a little crooked smirk.

“Everything you need for what, I wonder?”

The new voice startled them both, and Pityafinwë instinctively reached for the knife hidden at his waist. Though he might not have been listening so diligently, he internally wondered that he had not heard anyone approach. When his eyes swiveled about, they landed upon a taller, dark-haired woman who held herself straight and tall with authority.

“Mentor,” Amaurëa greeted, voice taking on an almost nervous tinge. “I…”

“You are not the same one as before,” the woman commented, looking Pityafinwë up and down. “You are not the one I spoke with, though you look identical but for the lack of scars.”

 _Spoke with? She_ spoke with _Telufinwë?_

“This is Pityafinwë Ambarussa,” Amaurëa introduced, rushing through the words as she now shifted from foot to foot in apparent nerves. “He is Telufinwë’s twin brother. We met and became friends, and he is helping me with a bit of a project.”

An amused cant of her lips alerted both that the woman knew exactly what sort of “project” Amaurëa was undertaking. “I cannot say that I truly understand the appeal of such a man, pitya, but I suppose he made a good impression. Had he not, the rumors circulating about would certainly be enough to drive me to ban you from leaving the School in the presence of such questionable and dangerous folk.”

Pityafinwë resisted letting the little bit of offense he took show on his face. He was quite used to such suspicion and disdain. Amaurëa did not bother to censor herself as such, however, nose wrinkling in the other woman’s direction as though the words stunk with something foul. “Everyone knows that the rumors spreading down from Court are a farce. Besides that, Telufinwë would _never_ harm or kidnap someone! I think he would rather die!”

 _Well, that is a succinct but painfully accurate synopsis of the well-meant failures of my younger brother._ Certainly, Telufinwë had bandied his life carelessly about in the past, and over injustice and righteousness, too.

He wondered that Amaurëa saw through his brother so easily.

Blinking, he looked at the two women, each with a firm stance, the younger with her arms crossed stubbornly and the older with her hands planted firmly at her waist, staring each other down. It felt rather like a situation he ought to back slowly away from, just in case they leapt at one another and started brawling right in the middle of the foyer full of nervously watching people pretending to go about their daily business but too enthralled by the drama unfolding over the presence of a Fëanárion to flee or look away.

And then the older woman, the Mentor, let out a faint snort of laughter. “You really are stricken by him, are you not, Amaurëa?”

The tension, like a popped soap bubble, vanished into thin air. Pityafinwë felt a bit disoriented at the sudden change of atmosphere, for such standoffs usually led to days of heightened grumbling and tension within the household of the Fëanárioni. They certainly never vanished in a mere instant as both sides let their disagreement—and the need to be correct at the end of the ensuing argument—simply slip away.

“So, you do not have any objection?” the younger dancer asked.

“Even if I did, it would not stop you,” the Mentor replied, looking fond rather than annoyed. “Go on. Do not be late for your lessons in the evening. And try not to cause too much trouble with your secret little plan.”

Amaurëa’s loud and gleeful exclamation was wordless, and it made Pityafinwë jump within the confines of his skin, shuddering like a startled cat. The women embraced, the elder indulgently patting the head and back of the younger, and then they parted ways and Pityafinwë found himself assaulted by a tiny woman with far more energy than he had previously given her credit for, wearing a determined mask even as the excitement continued to bleed through and push her lips into a grin rather than a set line.

“Well,” she said, “You heard the Mentor! I need to be back before the end of the day, and we have things to do! Let us get started!”

 _I wonder if I have found someone who could drag even a reluctant Telufinwë around and get him to smile while she does it,_ Pityafinwë found himself thinking wryly as his arm was grasped and he was manhandled out of the School of Dance by a woman half his size and probably a third of his weight.

“First, let us find a golden chain,” she said, turning them towards the marketplace. “Do you think Telufinwë would prefer something long or short?”

But then, he found himself pondering, maybe someone who pushed his younger brother to stretch and test his limits would not be such a bad thing. Amaurëa was someone who would encourage the youngest Fëanárion to fight back against his own limitations. Something that not even Pityafinwë had ever managed.

_And, maybe, that is exactly what he needs. Someone to test his boundaries. And someone to stand by his side as he pushes through those walls. Someone who is not me._

“Something long enough to put underneath his clothes,” Pityafinwë was answering, “Such that it is out of the way whilst working.”

“You are right!” Amaurëa declared, tapping her fist against her palm. “I would not want my gift to get in the way! Oh, what else do you think he would like, Ambarussa? Once we have his first gift ready, maybe we should look for more!”

Helplessly, he smiled.

“We could do that,” he agreed. And, for once, his compliance had not even a hint of begrudging resignation.

 _This,_ he thought, _may actually work._

And off they went.

\---

It was swiftly becoming a common occurrence to see one of the Fëanárioni in the streets. At least, it was for Aikanáro, for whom this was twice in about the space of a week. In fact, he was almost certain it was the same one—the twin without the scars, as far as he could see—with the same tiny, dark-haired woman, who looked far more animated and sunny today than she had the last time he had seen the pair together.

Watching with blank eyes, feeling slightly as though his feet were but tenuously anchored to the ground and this all might be some strange hangover-induced delusion, he saw her reach out and tangle her arm through his cousin’s at the elbow, pulling the much taller and much larger male along in the direction of the marketplace.

The only natural thing to do was follow.

Not only because, simply by nature of being a Fëanárion, any of the twin’s doings were subject to scrutiny and curiosity both, but because Aikanáro very clearly remembered hearing, last time, some rather suspicious conversation between these two.

This time, though, he noticed other things as he followed a few paces behind.

First and foremost, he noticed that his cousin had garnered quite a bit of attention, but it was not all of it negative attention. There were a handful of glares or wary glances, even a little bit of shocked staring, but that was few and far between. Instead, the vast majority of the passerby looked upon the redhead with, dare Aikanáro think it, either sympathy for his family’s plight—one of their members was missing after all—or a distant sort of acceptance. Many more passed him by in the street without a double take, as though he were but any normal man despite his frightening height and dark scowl.

And then there were those who bowed their heads in reverence. Never before had Aikanáro imagined that the followers would so openly display their loyalty in public, that things could change so swiftly in a mere handful of days, that there would be a shift from hiding that association at all costs to showcasing it with pride. He could see the blinks of surprise causing his cousin’s ginger lashes to flutter, blacking out the image of a nearby man smiling faintly with a quiet “good morning” and bowed head only for it to appear again when lashes parted, proven not to be a mirage in the early morning sunlight. There was no outright prostrating, but there were soft greetings, inclined heads, eye contact.

The woman looked on in curious wonder. The twin, on the other hand, seemed completely caught off his guard, occasionally turning his head to glance back at someone who did or said something strangely welcoming.

Aikanáro was fairly certain he even heard at least one, “Good morning, Lord Ambarussa,” from someone’s lips.

And then, to make the rest of this dreamlike strangeness even more mind-bogglingly unrealistic, the pair reached the marketplace and immediately went to the nearest jewelry stall. There, the tiny woman talked brightly to a quivering merchant, who was half-hiding behind his cart to escape the staring, forest green eyes of the Fëanárion hovering over her shoulder like a particularly malevolent shade, fire in lieu of hair blowing against his cheek and over his shoulders. Not even acknowledging the obvious terror of the merchant, the tiny woman held up a thin, delicate gold chain in her tiny palms to show the Fëanárion, who eyed it critically.

“Too delicate,” the Fëanárion declared. “Telvo would break that in less than a day.”

_He is… helping her look for jewelry… for his twin brother…_

Surreal seemed an understatement of the true thing before Aikanáro’s eyes. Yet, the golden-haired Prince could not look away any more than he could have turned back the clock, stricken with a strange sort of fascination at such unfolding happenings. Watching still from a distance, he observed the pair go through several more possible gold chains, each rejected by the (unsurprisingly) picky nature of the older twin.

And then they moved to the next vendor. And the poor merchant slumped against his cart, not even looking disappointed at failing to entice his customers into a sale. Just happy to be out of direct line of sight of Pityafinwë Fëanárion was he, hands shaking slightly as he rearranged his wares back into their neat little spaces.

On silent feet, Aikanáro followed. Even if he heard nothing more of the suspicious circumstances which had so caught his attention the last time that he had espied this couple, it was still worth taking a bit of time out of his morning.

He was curious. Too curious.

But rarely had he felt anything other than static disinterest or bubbling hatefulness in what felt to be countless centuries, so there was something welcome about the warm tickle of lightheartedness that grew and grew in the pit of his belly, resembling the beginnings of laughter. On such a fine day, he was hardly going to turn down the opportunity to conduct a little investigation of his very own, unguided by father or older brother.

The distraction was more than welcome. He might even have some juicy gossip to share with the family grapevine by the time it was over.

\---

They had a follower.

At first, Pityafinwë had thought that he was being paranoid. There were already dozens of early risers at the marketplace. Just because a man was walking in the same general direction at the same slow approximate pace as he and Amaurëa did _not_ mean the man was _following_ them down the street. He could see at least two or three other patrons who were doing the very same as he and Amaurëa, going from cart to cart or stall to stall, looking with something specific in mind for exactly the perfect piece over which to haggle and barter.

But there was something off about this man.

“Oh, what about this one?” Amaurëa, of course, was completely oblivious. No warning instincts were screaming in the back of her mind that something was out of place. And Pityafinwë wondered if that made her blessed or cursed.

_Well, if the past is any indicator…_

“It might be a bit on the short side,” he commented lightly, eyes fully focusing on the newest set of wares as he was pulled back into the present happenings by his female companion. Even then, he still felt the heaviness of eyes resting upon his back.

“My Lord,” the vendor greeted with a bowed head, “If you are looking for something longer, might I suggest this?”

Pityafinwë was almost too distracted by the address—and the vague familiarity of the man’s face, for he was absolutely certain that he had seen it somewhere before—to really look at the chain. But, when he did, he found himself grudgingly pleased at its make.

Lifting it from one end out of the vendor’s palm, he found the length first suitable and then the links appropriately sturdy, each simple in its design for the shape but near-flawless as well, lacking the dings and dents of an inexperienced goldsmith or the wear and tear of travel. It was also heavy enough that he knew it to be real, whereas a few things he had held in the past hour or so had been just a hair too light to be as pure a gold as he thought would be necessary for a courting gift.

 _While we are technically Princes,_ he scolded himself lightly, _we are hardly wealthy men. No need is there to push Amaurëa into completely emptying her purse over a bit of gold chain._

Still, could anyone blame him for wishing for the best for his baby brother?

“Can I see?” she asked before he could comment that it was probably more expensive than she ought to be paying on the wages of a mere dancer. Her tiny fingertips caught the swaying, flashing end of the chain as it dangled from Pityafinwë’s hand, scooping it up and stealing it easily out from between his fingers. “You liked it. I could tell.”

“It will be a bit on the expensive end,” he commented. At that, Amaurëa’s eyes, which had been traveling over the chain resting in the cup of her palm with a novice’s confusion—for it likely looked nor felt to her not different than anything else they had handled in the last hour—dimmed with her disappointment. Who would have thought it so difficult to find something both of fine enough make but not of overwhelming price?

“I am certain we can work something out, my Lord,” the merchant said, leaning closer. And the sense of familiarity grew stronger. Pityafinwë was not quite certain, but he thought there might be a name resting upon the tip of his tongue. “After all, it would be an honor to be the maker of a courting gift to a Fëanárion.”

Finally, it clicked. Runando, a rather cheery man who had both been a follower of Fëanáro abroad and a student of Fëanáro (once, for about five minutes) in the forge. Back in Exile, when Pityafinwë’s days were full of bitterness, he had found the man to be impossibly annoying, for who could cheerfully whistle tunes when whole forests were wilting of poison in the air and the water, for who could chat idly whilst men—fresh from battle and scrubbing blood from their armor, both of the enemy and the ally—were shocked into silence by the reality of death, for who could be so happy and so exuberant when Pityafinwë’s little brother was dead and three more besides and the whole world was twisted inside out and spilled into a million broken, impossibly tiny pieces on the ground? Even when things had been at their most dire, even after they had decorated their hands with the blood of kin, this man had still smiled and talked lightly and joked, undaunted.

Then, it had been something that the sixth brother _hated._ He would not deny that, on at least three separate occasions, he had imagined wrapping his hands about this man’s neck and wringing it until he stayed silent and appropriately somber.

Now, he knew it for what it likely was. A way of coping with the unpleasantness of what they had been forced to do in the name of the Oath. If only the rest of them could have appreciated it then, could have reached out and snatched a little bit of that optimism for their own, maybe they would not have unraveled quite so quickly.

 _I would not have wanted to feel better then, for I believed not that I deserved the privilege,_ he acknowledged, though, turning his eyes from the familiar vendor to Amaurëa, whose fingers fluttered about the chain in her hand thoughtfully whilst she stared at it like it might come alive and slither through her fingers. _I am still not quite certain I want to feel better now. That I deserve to feel better now._

But he was trying. He was trying to atone in the only way he knew.

“Let us hear this deal of yours,” Pityafinwë said, initiating the haggling, “And we shall see whether or not you are, in fact, going to be the maker of a piece gifted to a son of the greatest smith to walk this earth.”

Undaunted, even in the face of Pityafinwë’s stony mask, Runando let out a laugh. “Very well, my Lord. Let us talk.”

If nothing else, the man had spirit.

\---

They walked away with a golden chain and two lighter purses, but the woman was almost bouncing with glee at the fact. Bubbly, she did a flouncy pirouette around her taller male companion and let out a little sound of utter delight as she took out a tiny ring—far too small to fit on any one of a man’s fingers, perhaps even the smallest of them—and slipped the end through is tiny golden loop, leaving it dangling as she closed the ends and let it swing.

The tiny swirls of diamonds on the metal glimmered in the early morning sun, coruscating blindingly in all directions. “What do you think, Ambarussa?”

Again, she called his cousin that name, one the man had purportedly not used since Exile.

“It is an admirable gift,” the Fëanárion answered, and the words would have seemed but diplomatic pacification but for the quirk of a smile on the man’s lips. “You never did tell me from whence you ended up with such a pretty piece of jewelry. Was it a gift?”

“It belonged to Amillë,” she answered easily, now holding the small jeweled ring on its new chain in her hand, swirling her finger through the folded liquid of chain. “It was one of the first courting gifts she received from Atar. Not one of the rings they exchanged for marriage, but she did wear it every day, so she told me. She gave it to me when I left for the School.”

“And you would give it away to Telufinwë so easily?” he asked, a little skeptical.

“It seemed rather perfect to me,” she countered. “I cannot wear it, not that diligently, for I do not even get to choose what clothes to wear most days, and donning jewelry during training is never recommended besides. It would probably get damaged somehow or destroy some expensive clothing by catching. In any case, I thought it seemed rather perfect that it would act again as a courting gift, but this time for the daughter of the original owner. I wanted… I wanted the gift to be meaningful, you understand. To make certain that _he_ understands that I am entirely serious in my pursuit.”

Aikanáro, despite himself, found that he liked the woman’s spirit. It took someone quite special to face down a Fëanárion at all, but she was going a step beyond that and _courting_ a reluctant Fëanárion whilst he stubbornly dug in his heels.

She must be quite something to be willing to step forward and take the reins in the courtship besides. To think, a woman doing the wooing! What a novel idea! He had not seen the like of it before, for Court would have thrown a scandalized fit over something so strange, so against the natural flow. Yet, what with his disillusionment with Court and its dark, scummy underbelly, he found he cared little for their opinions on what was right and what was wrong. This might go against the unspoken rules, but it was a wholesome breaking. And the fourth son of Arafinwë found that he liked that. The spirit. The outgoing nature. The fearlessness.

From the side, he could see that his cousin was helplessly smiling, too, so easily moved by the words and actions of one tiny woman.

“It does seem to have worked out favorably,” Pityafinwë replied.

“Favorably? You mean _perfectly!”_ she exclaimed. “I am so _excited!_ I cannot _wait_ to see his face, or to watch him don it about his neck! But, before you escort me over to the palace, we need to still get flowers.”

“Before I _escort you,”_ the redhead mocked, but with a light and teasing voice, bumping against her shoulder with the broad side of his upper arm. “Here, I see how it is. I am just a stepping stone over which you will trod in your pursuit of my brother.”

“Do not be jealous,” she soothed in return, flicking his arm.

To which Pityafinwë scoffed, but through a smile. “So, what have you decided upon for flowers? It is not really my area of expertise, but…”

“Oh, do not worry about that! I have it all figured out!” she exclaimed, seeming just so ever pleased with herself. “You are just coming along to verify that the color combination is tasteful before we go and find your brother.”

“We? Do you not mean you?” the Fëanárion blurted out, once again almost being dragged down the street, though his voice hinted at laughter, shaking lightly.

“Yes, we!”

And Aikanáro, having learned nothing useful yet—except that he was firmer and more confident in the knowledge that Telufinwë had definitely not been the one to assault or harm this very ebullient female—followed on silent feet.

At least, he did until another figure caught his eye and had him pausing in the street.

Tall, dark-haired, green-eyed and very related to the reason that the Fëanárioni were currently prancing about Tirion and under suspicion of abduction.

At the same moment, Aikanáro was spotted in all his golden-haired glory. The pair eyed each other for several long moments, and the fourth son took in the solemn cast of the Helyanwë’s lips, the sharpness of his brow speaking to his anger, the brightness of his eyes in their narrowed lids full of his rage, and the stiffness of his shoulders and back showcasing his discomfort. He was the very picture of a man under stress, a man in hateful despair over his situation, and it hung over his being like a black veil, as dark and undeniable as the long black hair that whispered over his shoulders and down his back, unbound.

Behind him stood two women, both of whom looked on with widened eyes, anxious that their escort has stopped in the middle of the street when confronted by what to them must appear to be a complete stranger.

Aikanáro had heard enough through his brothers to know that these two women must be the two who were assaulted by the vile bastard named Calmacil, the two that Amarië had invited into the home of her and her husband without hesitation. Looking at them more closely around the Helyanwë’s shoulder, he could believe that. The last lingering stains of bruises were teasingly bared at neck and wrists, the half-faded colors displayed as watercolor stains on white faces, and both looked as though they could lay down and sleep for a month and not regain healthy coloring. Gray-faced with pallor and dark around their eyes, they reminded him all too much of nights before battle, lying awake wondering if the next day was going to be _the last day,_ worrying about what would come after should he die and leave his brothers and people behind to suffer. Or should he live and be left behind in return to linger in sorrow and despair.

Pushing those thoughts away, he concentrated on the present. It was dangerous to allow his mind to dip too far into the past.

Having his intensified stare upon them unsettled both. One reached out to the Helyanwë, clinging at his elbow, and Aikanáro was surprised to see that the man did not shake her off but instead laid a hand over her trembling fingers as though to soothe. And that the touch seemed to smooth the tremors running through her body down to mere quivers of nerves.

“Helyanwë,” he greeted with an incline of his head.

“Arafinwion,” the dark-haired man greeted in return. “I hear that you have been put in charge of your own investigation.”

Leery of speaking too much aloud in a public setting, Aikanáro nodded with pursed lips. “Indeed, I have.”

“See to it that you do your duties diligently, then,” the man commented, voice light but eyes harder than adamant. “Many are depending upon you.”

As though he needed reminding. “I shall.”

The pair then passed each other by without further speaking, but the Arafinwion knew enough to predict what his counterpart had wanted to say. That he keep his eye out for a particular perpetrator—though Calmacil had yet to present himself at any of the private gatherings or parties at which Aikanáro had been present—and not miss a word that departed the man’s lips should they end up in the same room. Information was more valuable than gold in this little political game, and it was Aikanáro’s job to go digging and bring back the loot.

Blinking, he gave the Helyanwë and the man’s pair of female companions one last glance from behind, noting that each of the women carried a rather large bag. Most likely, they were on their way to the residence of his eldest brother and sister-in-law, and he silently wished them luck before continuing on his way. With irritation, he then noted that Pityafinwë and the dancer had managed to make it almost to the end of the street in the time he had been loitering about staring down Lindalórë’s brother, and he had to trot to catch up, pressing up against the side of the shops to try to remain unseen by the couple up ahead, who were now twisting around the corner and out of sight.

Aikanáro, many paces behind, turned the corner just in time to see the towering russet-haired wall of muscle and bitterness holding the door of the florist’s shop open for his tiny dark-haired companion. The pair disappeared within.

And the golden-haired Arafinwion, huffing slightly under his breath, waited impatiently without.

\---

“Who was that?”

It was Yavannië who asked the question, her fingertips digging slightly into his arm as she spoke. At first, Aikambalotsë merely wondered how she could fail to recognize a member of the royal family, and he almost opened his mouth to blurt out something rather tactless and irascible. But, at the last moment, he snapped his jaw shut and gritted his teeth against his own bout of irritation. The last thing she needed was a man snapping and snarking in her direction when she had done nothing wrong in asking simple questions.

“That was Ambaráto Aikanáro, the King’s fourth son,” he answered quietly.

“Oh…” Slightly wide in the eyes—and he noted that they were very dark and very gray with just the tiniest hint of green—and pink in the cheeks, she averted her eyes in mortification.

Aikambalotsë, for his part, let out a sigh. It was not as though she had seen any of the members of the royal family up close before. A golden-haired man on the streets, especially one wearing dark and surreptitious clothing rather than the gaudy and gem-encrusted impractical nonsense that the heir had slowly lost his taste for over the long course of Exile, could have been anyone with Vanyarin blood. Mixing was not so uncommon now as it once had been, nor mingling between cities and clans.

“He is responsible for investigation into recent happenings. Ones alike to yours,” he elaborated even as they entered the residential areas lined with rows of modest townhouses rather than towering silvery mansions. “You should not need to worry about it. I will be having some words with that overzealous annoyance Findaráto and his sensible wife to make sure you are unmolested by uncomfortable questions.”

The idea of Yavannië and Míriel wearing that same look of resigned, shattered exhaustion as his sister had when she left that room with Findaráto and Amarië, it made his blood boil under his skin, and he would not stand for such questioning going on a second time when it would be entirely unnecessary. He knew that gathering such information served a purpose, but he did not think that there would be anything these two women could tell Findaráto that the Prince did not already know from the lips of someone else. Nothing except the raw, painful details of their ordeal, which needed not to be shared except by their own desire with a trusted confident. Besides that, they were still Aikambalotsë’s people, still of his House, and it was still his job to look out for them even if they were no longer officially serving his family.

It was simply something he needed to do. For reasons he could not quite explain but felt under his skin like an itch, in his bones like an ache, and in his mind like a blinding white light that would not be ignored or brushed aside.

Quietly, Yavannië nodded along, the furrows and lines at the corners of her lips softening and the strength of her clawed grip on his arm weakening. Míriel, too, seemed a bit relieves in the way her shoulders slumped slightly, in the way her white knuckles regained color as the grip of her fingers about the handle of her bag loosened.

They found the townhouse in question after a few more minutes of quiet and peaceful morning travel, and Aikambalotsë led them both straight up to the front door. It was plain white and windowless, a far cry from the decadent nonsense of the House of Helyanwë. He rapped at the wood with his knuckles just a hair harder than was necessary, and both the women flinched at the loud, sharp cracks of noise.

“Sorry,” he muttered, making a note to keep his temper better leashed.

Before he could make any further comment, the door popped open, and the golden-haired beauty Amarië looked out at them from the shady foyer within. “Come along inside,” she greeted kindly and with a smile, looking at all three of them with warmth, though they must all have been an ugly sight.

“I am not going to be staying,” he said, allowing the two women to slip quietly through the open door, leaving him standing alone on the porch. “You will watch out for them, will you not? Your husband can be a bit vehement in his investigating. More so than he needs to be even for the sake of his duty, I think, at times.”

Both girls were now inside, standing with their heads bowed in the same subservient way they might before the presence of his mother. Only, instead of ordering them both about like the servants they were meant to be, Amarië slipped an arm through each of theirs, pulling them in close against her side in a way that could only be deemed friendly. There was nothing “Mistress of the House”-like about the woman at all as she exclaimed, “Aiya! Men! Do not worry, Aikambalotsë, I will keep my husband from getting in over his head. We know enough that no questioning is needed, and he certainly will not be eager to defy me in that.”

From the hint of sharpness in her smile, just a sudden razor-thin threat that left Aikambalotsë feeling just a little chilly and unsettled, he supposed Findaráto ought not test those boundaries and accidentally upset his pretty wife. She might do more than have mere words with him should he push too far and stumble into her ill temper.

“My mission is complete, then,” he said, bowing and backing away, a little more confident now that his charges would be well-guarded in his absence. In fact, they would likely be quite happily rid of—

“Wait!”

It was Yavannië who interrupted, and she blushed slightly when all eyes turned to stare. “W-will you be back?”

Truthfully, Aikambalotsë had not thought to make contact with either woman again. Both had been rather standoffish and nervous in his presence—unsurprising, given he was tall, powerful in both the physical and political sense, and very much a man, just as had been their attacker—and he had not thought that either would care to see him any longer once they escaped the hellish conditions they had endured within his home.

“Only if you want me to,” he said cautiously. More out of a sense of duty than anything else. If that was what it took to keep the women happy after what his father had allowed to happen in their House, he would do it without hesitation. “I could bring Amillë along.”

Even Míriel seemed to show a spark of interest at that.

“That would be lovely,” Yavannië answered, and then bowed. “Thank you, my Lord.”

To which he let out a long, low sigh. “You are free of service to the House of Helyanwë. There is no reason you should not call me Aikambalotsë just as does everyone else. Or Helyanwë, if my ataressë is too informal an address.”

Lower lip trembling slightly, the woman nodded in assent. “I… I suppose you are correct, my Lord. I mean…”

Still, she seemed not quite able to bring herself to say his name, biting at her lower lip.

“I think some rest and settling in are in order,” Amarië then interrupted, taking over before the silence could settle into something awkward and coarse. “If you would be on your way, Aikambalotsë…”

 _Well, that is certainly a dismissal if ever there was one,_ he thought but with little malice, seeing the meaningful look cast his way by the golden-haired female.

“Of course, Lady Amarië.”

He set off down the steps before anyone else could stop him, glancing back only long enough to see the door click shut.

That, he supposed, was the end of that. They would be safe, and they would be quite well and happy staying far, far away from his family. In no time at all, he was certain as he glared up at the sunlight now shattering too bright and too hot in his eyes, they would be well and truly contented and forget anything about him returning with his mother in tow.

He set off back to the mansions. Hopefully, he would be quick enough that no one would even have noticed he had gone.

And he never saw the eyes watching as he walked away from the window at his back.

\---

There were far too many flowers to choose from.

That was what Pityafinwë thought, in any case, as he eyed the elaborate bouquets on display and the curiously unafraid florist creeping about in the shadows with almost avaricious eyes. The whole place was quaint and well-lit, though a bit cramped from an excess of growing plants reaching their leaf-ridden stalks out to touch at the bursts of sunlight through the windows. In all honestly, as he shifted and felt yet another plant brush against his forearm and a second against his upper back and a bold third tickle his left cheek, the sixth brother could not help but think that such a place was very obviously built with people of a more normal height and build in mind for the narrowness of the aisles and the ceiling within reaching distance overhead.

“These!” Amaurëa exclaimed. “They are perfect!”

“An excellent choice, my lady,” the florist agreed as she fawned over the dusky blue cornflowers. Pityafinwë vaguely recognized them as one of the few blue flowers that commonly bloomed in the meadows alongside the dozens of other wildflowers in the lower hills of the mountains. “These can mean many things. What meaning do you intend?”

The woman fidgeted slightly, eyes cast downwards, lashes hiding their golden hue. “New love. Or friendship, if Telufinwë would prefer. But I… mostly love.”

It was incredibly sweet. Sweet enough that Pityafinwë would normally have at least pretended to gag at the saccharine nature of the whole affair. Instead, he felt his hands itching with a sudden urge to, perhaps, consider procuring some flowers of his own, thinking inexplicably of dark hair pulled into a sharp braid—What would it look like completely unbound upon naked skin?—and equally dark eyes gazing upwards through long lashes. The anticipation and the nerves mixed and swirled together into an abstract painting of emotion in his gut.

 _I will be visiting Wilwarin later today,_ he could not help but think, struggling to keep the hint of an eager yet embarrassed flush from his own freckled face. _Might she welcome such a small gift as a few flowers?_

“And we will need bluebells,” Amaurëa said, interrupting his train of thought before he could more explicitly imagine how his healer’s lips might feel and taste, how her bare flesh would be silky and soft beneath his hands, how she would sound as she gasped eagerly into his mouth. His eyes swirled back into the present, following the tiny dancer who was already moving on without missing so much as a beat, sweetly shy about her impending statement of love but still unhesitating in her dance. “If I remember correctly, they can represent gratitude and support.”

She did not elaborate upon why gratitude was necessary. Both man and woman already knew, and the poor florist would be left to look on in interest left unfulfilled as they exchanged a meaningful glance. “Anything else, my lady?”

“Daisies, too,” she continued. “I know those are a little on the strange side for a romantic declaration, but the white will offset the blue well, and they can mean support and peace of mind. And some happiness would do him some good, too. His brother says he has not been feeling very well as of late.”

 _Or ever,_ Pityafinwë silently thought to himself, ignoring the sideways glance he received from the florist over that little comment.

“And… uh… red chrysanthemums,” she finally added. Only now did her cheeks darken to match her shy, maiden-in-the-midst-of-her-first-love sort of behavior. She did a little twirl that made her skirts flare and tucked her face as if to hide the vibrant color bleeding into her skin. “I suppose you already know what those mean?”

“I suppose I do, my lady,” the florist agreed, helplessly smiling in the face of her exuberance, shining through even her slight bashfulness.

Pityafinwë, on the other hand, had no idea. But he could guess. Probably.

“And will you be purchasing anything, my Prince?” the florist asked, voice growing just a hair more distant and formal as he directly addressed the thus far silent and towering shadow haunting the aisles of his shop. Even when the older twin offered up a glare, the man did not seem to falter. “Your brother was in here buying flowers just a few days ago.”

 _Must be Morifinwë,_ he thought to himself. Curufinwë and Turkafinwë were well out of the way of Tirion, and Kanafinwë was too early in his wooing to be giving away flowers, which did not seem the man’s style anyways. The second-born could, in all likelihood, simply sing them into existence on a whim if he wanted. On the other hand, the fourth brother was certainly sappy enough to shower the object of his affections with flowers at every opportunity. How the man could be so anxious and so shy about the color of his face and the awkwardness of his speech but then wander around shamelessly flaunting his lady’s claim on his chest whilst buying her flowers, Pityafinwë could not have said.

 _That is,_ he thought wryly, _probably the reason he is the most well-adjusted of us all. If anything, this florist seems to think such behavior perfectly normal rather than strange and has used it as a cue to shed his fearful awe of the rest of Morifinwë’s brethren._

Who would have guessed that the scowling fourth brother could use his bashful nature and inherent awkwardness for the benefit of his brothers? Even if it was accidental.

Still, this whole situation left the Prince sweating enough to wipe his palms on his thighs to rid them of their slightly clammy dampness. He would have almost preferred to have the reliable shield of fear protecting him from the nosiness and matchmaking prowess of random members of the public.

“I would not know what to buy,” he commented, feeling a bit like a tasty rabbit beneath the almost hungry scrutiny of those gray eyes.

“Well, there must be a lady for you to even consider it.”

Curiously, Amaurëa turned to stare as well. “Is there a lady, Ambarussa?”

The older twin nibbled at the inside of his cheek, sourly wondering that these two dared to unite forces and back him into a corner as such, not in the least bit terrified by the irate narrowing of his eyes. “There is. A healer.”

“That is so sweet!” Of course, Amaurëa would think it sweet, and most probably terribly romantic as well. “Are you going to see her again today? How did you meet? Did you get injured and she nursed you back to health?”

“How else would someone like me meet a healer?” he asked, tiredly resigned. Well, he had never intended for his eventual courtship (assuming that Wilwarin ever accepted) to remain a secret. There was no shame in going after an intelligent and beautiful woman no matter her profession, and, though he was a Prince and the last thing anyone would expect was for him to find a woman of the Healing House as enthralling as he, indeed, found Wilwarin, he did not truly care what others thought. Especially those of Court, who would scoff down their nose as him marrying so far below his status.

“You did not answer the first question!” Amaurëa exclaimed, grabbing at his arm and squeezing it in a small hug so that her other arm, laden with her treasured cornflowers, was not disrupted by her glee. “If you are going to see her, certainly, you should bring her flowers!”

“I am not really certain that that is her sort of… preference,” he finally choked out, now feeling more overwhelmed than anything else. “I would not even know where to begin.”

“We can help!” Amaurëa exclaimed.

“Certainly, my Prince, it is part of my job to assist customers in choosing flowers,” the florist added, looking far too pleased with himself and far too unaffected by the glare directed his way at that comment.

“Fine,” the Prince groaned out. “What do you suggest?”

Both of his ambushers smiled. Pityafinwë felt a cold sweat break out upon the back of his neck.

“Well, how about…?”

\---

The pair each left the shop carrying a bouquet.

And Aikanáro followed. He had known the woman went inside for flowers, and she had come out carrying an entire armful of blue and white and red looking pleased as punch. Surprisingly, though, Pityafinwë carried some as well. Smaller and less vibrantly colorful, perhaps, but still standing out against the dull neutral tones of his clothing.

“This really was not necessary,” the Fëanárion was saying, staring down at his bundle of purple and white and green with something akin to trepidation glistening in his vibrant green eyes.

“Where is the fun in that?” the woman asked. “She will love them. They smell lovely, they are practical, and they will look beautiful even in a vase in the Healing House. Besides that, if you are going to broach the subject of courting, you should at least bring her _something.”_

“I should never have told you about her,” the man groaned out. “I should have denied it all and kept my mouth well and truly shut.”

“Too late,” she commented.

“Well, what had you so flustered about the red chrysanthemums, then, Miss Matchmaker?” he asked, obviously trying to turn the conversation away from his potential wooing of, apparently, one of the healers at the Healing House.

The woman, so quick usually to reply to his quips and snarks, got a bit flustered, halfway between a wildly strong blush and a grin of delight. “Giving someone a red chrysanthemum is _generally_ considered to be the same as asking them if they would like to have a relationship with you. A _romantic_ relationship,” she replied easily. “Do you want one of mine? You could give it to your healer.”

“That might be a bit forward!” he exclaimed, “Think you not?”

“Not at all!” She plucked one of the large red flowers from her bouquet and stuck in it with his, disrupting the soft and delicate shades of pale purple and white and soft, minty green with a spot of bright, heart-stopping red. Like the bloom of a fresh wound upon pale skin. “You keep that.”

“It does not go well with the others.” Fitfully, the Fëanárion, helplessly born with an instinct for colors and aesthetics, plucked it out of the center of the arrangement. “Really, I do not need—”

“Just give it to her separately, then,” the woman insisted. “Now, we are almost there. I will go in search of your brother and you will go in search of your lady healer, and, when next we meet, we will both be courting. Hopefully.”

“Hopefully,” the Fëanárion echoed, voice a little weak.

“Good! Excellent! We can do this, Ambarussa!” 

They were just about to disappear inside when Pityafinwë stopped, back going stiff. “Wait for just a moment.”

That moment was all Aikanáro had to hide himself in the shadows of a nearby building before bright and sharp green eyes swept up and down the street over the Fëanárion’s russet-covered shoulder. Those orbs lingered in the shadows of the buildings for but a moment, narrowing thoughtfully, and then moved away. “I just thought that I saw…”

“Are you quite well, Ambarussa?” the woman asked.

“Yes. Yes, of course.” The Fëanárion, whose instincts were spot on when he suspected he was being followed, now turned away with a vaguely unsettled shiver. “Let us go inside. I suppose my brother will still be hiding in his rooms, but we can…”

The man’s voice faded as the door to the servant’s entrance clicked shut in their wake. Leaving Aikanáro half-hidden down an alley, alone and trying to ignore the feeling of gritty stone beneath his fingertips and the smell of something vaguely rotting coming from further down in the narrow column of darkness.

The fourth son of Arafinwë sighed. He had learned plenty about the courting problems and challenges of two separate Fëanárioni and nothing at all about the topic he was actually interested in learning more about. So he told himself.

But, he supposed, his father would at least be pleased to hear something _good_ in his report for once. Something sweet.

Because there was no denying that these happenings were very sweet. And left Aikanáro feeling shockingly nostalgic for the long-forgotten days of gathering wildflowers and waiting until dusk at the lake for Andreth to appear like a maia reflected in the water beneath the starlight. For once, thinking about that… Well, it did not ache so much as it might.

Who would ever have imagined the Fëanárioni feeling those same things as he had felt in those long-ago and well-remembered days of lovesickness, waiting for his love to join him at the lakeshore? That same nervousness? That same anticipation? That same burgeoning need?

Who would ever have though even a single one of them could appear so frighteningly, helplessly and strangely emotional, stricken down by that very same sense of newfound love?

It was shockingly reassuring. And left Aikanáro helplessly smiling into the darkness.

Just a bit.

Not that anyone was there to see it.

\---

There was a knock at the door.

Briefly did Telufinwë consider ignoring it entirely. He was not feeling particularly welcoming or social at the moment, and he doubted he would make for good company. Truthfully, he had done nothing since arriving here but stare at the far wall attempting sleep—caught up in too many tangled and painful thoughts to find rest—and was now fatigued, annoyed and restless where he rested over the top of his sheets, still folded up beneath his back and undisturbed.

They simply would not go away. Those thrice-be-damned, pesky _thoughts!_

Thoughts about Amaurëa, about what might have happened to her if, like for Lindalórë, he had simply _not been there_ in her moment of need as she struggled at the end of that dark corridor, helpless in the hands of those three men.

Thoughts about what that would have meant for her. What would have happened if he had not by chance stumbled by. How she would be now, ruined and torn apart both in body and spirit, and he would never have known the difference.

Thoughts about how he might never have known her at all. About how it was all so arbitrary, but a matter of luck and coincidence, and he was just the helpless pawn of both.

It, truthfully, left him feeling frightened. Even now, he had not seen Amaurëa in weeks, hiding up in the mountains because she was safer without him present in her life than she was under his protection. The Fëanárioni were universally despised, and he wanted not to risk that hatred spreading over to touch the beautiful dancer like some sort of contagious disease, unstoppable and incurable once it had started to spread.

Except, now, he did not know if he could swallow that truth. If he could stay away, knowing every single moment of every single day that she could be out there somewhere in need of his help and he would never even know. Just like he had not known about Lindalórë. Just like he had not known about her maids. Just like he did not know about other women out there who might be facing these exact trials but without powerful and influential relatives to step in and whisk them away to safety.

It was not something he had ever contemplated before. It was not something he had ever thought he _needed_ to contemplate in a place so peaceful as Valinórë appeared to be.

Yet, if it could happen to two women he knew—so easily and within such a short time frame—was it more common than he thought? Did it happen more regularly than his stomach could bear to imagine? Should he be worried that Amaurëa might be targeted again? That Lindalórë would not be safe? That Istelindë might be attacked on a trip into town, wandering about on her own?

It was making him feel sick, knowing that these things were _possible_ and having no idea how he could make certain they could never take place.

 _Because,_ his mind hissed maliciously, _you know you cannot make it certain._

The three men he had viciously and without guilt waylaid and crippled were probably still laid up in the Healing House somewhere. He was not sorry to have put them there, not sorry to have disobeyed and upset Nelyafinwë to make certain they knew better than to ever touch or harm a woman against her will again lest they answer to the consequences of their actions. But he could not do that to every man in Valinórë who had hurt a woman in such a heinous manner! And he certainly could not hope to use fear and violence to intimidate and bully every such man into changing his ways while keeping them silent about his identity!

It grated on his nerves, like shocking bursts of pain, lighting up through the scars that twisted their way down his face and neck and chest, all the way down to where they wreathed his legs in melted flesh. Every single one of those knotted patches of old burns ached and seared and itched, and it was becoming hard to ignore. Hard to separate the physical agony from the mental anguish as he twisted his thoughts into colicky knots.

His mind went in increasingly faster and faster circles, spinning until he felt dizzy and breathless. Then came the knock at the door. And the noise snapped his thoughts back into the present moment, brought him back to his own small, dark room where he lay fully dressed upon the made-up bed with his tangled hair unbrushed and his eyes straining with lack of sleep. While he thought to not answer at first, for he was certain to be a bitter bear of a companion, he suddenly felt that the interruption was, quite frankly, welcome.

A distraction from the unpleasant reality swirling through his brain. And an anchor to distract him from that horrible truth. A way to get away from his thoughts for even a few moments.

So, he stood and went to the door.

When it opened, the first thing he saw was blue and red. Flowers. A _lot_ of flowers.

And then gold eyes beneath dark lashes. Wide and bright and filling with happiness at his sight in a way no pair of eyes ever had when looking upon his face.

“Telufinwë!” Amaurëa exclaimed. “It is so good to see you again! I would give you a hug, but I do not want to squish the flowers!”

And he wondered whether he ought to lean down and kiss her as his heart so longingly wished to do, or if he ought to slam his door shut in her face and hide as his mind demanded in cowardly fashion. Torn between the two, he felt frozen.

But, like a fool, he then looked at her. Really looked. And his breath was sucked out of his lungs. Along with all will to close the door and cut himself off from her sight.

Because she was so, so beautiful. So, so perfect and joyous and wonderful.

And, in that moment, he was so, so _weak._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:
> 
> Fëanárioni (Q, p) = sons of Fëanáro  
> pitya (Q) = little (one)  
> Amillë (Q) = Mother  
> Atar (Q) = Father  
> Aiya (Q) = exclamation, like Oh  
> ataressë (Q) = father-name  
> maia (Q, s) = lesser Ainu
> 
> \---
> 
> Flower symbolism:
> 
> Cornflower = new love, new friendship, new home blessing, delicacy, knowledge, home protection  
> Common Bluebell = thank you, gratitude, you are supported, constancy  
> Daisy = happiness, calm, peace of mind, support, protection, playfulness  
> Red Chrysanthemum = declaration of love, will you start a relationship with me?


	79. A Tale of Two Courtships

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Or, A Tale of Two Twins (Revisited).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: flirting/courtship rituals, kissing, insecurity (especially body insecurity), low self-esteem, foreplay (for some of them), seduction, brief mentions of darker themes from previous chapters (rape, murder, etc.), anger issues, proposed sexual relationship outside marriage
> 
> Finally cranked this bitch out. Mostly fluff. I just haven't been in the mood to write it. And work. Urgh. Anyway, hope y'all enjoy some more lighthearted marshmallowy goodness <3
> 
> Also, I included some of the medicinal properties of some of the goodies in Pityo's bouquet in the End Notes. Just for shits and giggles. Most of those things are used in either food or tea, but have other medical uses as well.
> 
> Maedhros = Maitimo = Nelyafinwë = Nelyo = Russandol  
> Maglor = Makalaurë = Kanafinwë = Káno  
> Celegorm = Tyelkormo = Tyelko = Turkafinwë = Turko  
> Caranthir = Carnistir = Morifinwë = Moryo  
> Curufin = Atarinkë = Curufinwë = Curvo  
> Amrod = Ambarussa = Pityafinwë = Pityo = Minyarussa  
> Amras = Umbarto = Telufinwë = Telvo = Atyarussa

_Menelya, 59 Lairë (11 July)_

\---

There was a sense of nervous anticipation in Wilwarin’s belly.

And she despised it.

For days, the rumors had been circulating with the ferocity of a wildfire. Rumors that should have put her off even the most stubborn daydreams and fantasies that had been haunting her, day and night, with visions of a handsome face dotted in a starry net of freckles and hair that glowed like a rain of molten fire as it curled over broad shoulders. From above, the elite were whispering about the Fëanárioni, how they had returned from their exile only to begin making trouble so quickly, cursed as they were. There was talk of abduction of a woman being involved, a woman who had formerly been married to one of the seven brothers but apparently broken off their marriage, now taken back by their family by force.

Something like that would make any woman under the appreciative eye of a Fëanárion nervous. Naturally, Wilwarin had gone white in the face hearing such a rumor from the lips of a patient, and she had floated on a wind of mild panic until the lady departed.

_“Nonsense,”_ young Inyë had said as soon as the noble had been out of earshot. _“That might be what the Court is whispering about, but it is a different story out on the streets!”_

Intrigued, Wilwarin had listened. More because her heart had been working double-time in her chest and she _needed to know_ if she should be worried about her suitor—For was there anything else to call him now that he had more or less confessed his interest?—deciding to just up and snatch her from the Healing House one day.

_“What do you mean?”_

_“I heard from Nowë—the blacksmith’s son—that the Head of the House of Helyanwë was forcing his daughter to marry someone else, someone awful who had actually been seen attacking her in public, and that she fled to escape this horrible, horrible man who treated her terribly,”_ the healing apprentice had explained. _“Her father has only offered money for her return because he does not want her to go back to her Fëanárion husband with whom she is still in love!”_

Afterwards, Wilwarin had done a little searching and listening of her own. And, as Inyë had said, the stories and rumors spreading through the common folk varied vastly from those circulating through Court. There were even people who claimed to have heard stories of women being attacked or worse within the House of Helyanwë by this purported fiancé.

It was enough to turn anyone’s stomach, thinking of such things happening. It was certainly enough to make Wilwarin sick at heart.

But it was also enough to give her the tiniest bit of burgeoning hope.

_Why does it even matter?_ Stubbornly, she dug her teeth into her cheek and folded bandages with perhaps more vehemence than strictly necessary to achieve perfect creases. _You have no plans to allow yourself anything further with Pityafinwë Fëanárion either way! Next time he shows his face, you will send him politely away and ask that he does not return, and that will be the way of it, no matter if his family is involved in a kidnapping, as the Court says, or a rescue, as does everyone else!_

It was the most sensible course of action, truly, to end this strange not-quite-courtship now before her heart got any more involved than it already was. She _knew_ that that was the right course of action, the sensible course of action!

Still, there was the anticipation.

Because she knew that the Fëanárioni were here, in Tirion. Because she suspected that Pityafinwë would come to see her soon, fully healed and seeking companionship rather than care. And, while her mind screamed that she would need to turn him away—What use did she have for the trouble and distraction that would come from courtship, especially one that she _knew_ could never work in the end?—her spirit was tugging at the bit, rushing ahead with glee, bringing up images and dreams that she wished would stay buried and veiled, begging for _just a chance…_

_Stupid, stupid, stupid,_ her mind repeated in a harsh mantra. _Do not be stupid. If anything, he is a man in lust and wishes for a tumble in bed. Do not mistake his intentions for anything more than that._

Because, when push came to shove, Wilwarin was nothing but a common woman. A healer, but not even one of great renown. A no name bastard child from nothing.

And Pityafinwë was a _Prince._

She could never be good enough for him. There would be someone else. Prettier of face. More impressive of breeding. Slenderer of waist. And she would be set aside like an old toy. Long ago had she seen what that did to a person, what that sort of heartbreak looked like in dark eyes, and it made her feel cold beneath her skin to imagine _experiencing_ it rather than just staring at the pale, wane aftermath of desolation from afar.

_I will not fall into the same trap,_ she scolded herself, taking her folded bandages and storing them properly in their cupboard. _I will put an end to all this nonsense, and I will be all the happier for it, and…_

And _would_ she be all the happier for it?

_Does it really matter if you are?_ Her brain was ruthless in its countering.

_No,_ she would have liked to say, but the word was so very weak even in the endless expanse of her mind, too questioning and too withering, and it could not have been more painfully a lie. Looking down at her hands, caught in the bright, open sunlight streaming through the broad windows of the Healing House, she wondered if…

“Lady Wilwarin,” a soft voice called, distracting her from those dangerous thoughts, “Someone is requesting your presence.”

Her heart leapt up into her throat.

It was another full healer in the doorway, not one of the giggling apprentices who found the apparent romantic advances of her Fëanárion acquaintance terribly fascinating. The man, in fact, looked a little put off, brows lowered slightly, mouth set in a firm line. Before she could think better of it, she asked, “Is it Pityafnwë Fëanárion?”

“So, you… know him?” her colleague asked, sounding slightly concerned.

“He has been my patient before, yes,” she countered, setting her jaw and absolutely refusing to admit to anything more than that. Because there _was_ nothing more than that, and there never _would be_ more than that, so it did not matter that Pityafinwë had been fairly vocal in his compliments during his last visit, not at all hiding the fact that he was quite interested in something more than a healer and patient relationship, or even a friendly acquaintanceship.

It was clear from the look on his face that her colleague did not really believe that. “Just… be wary. He does not look like he bears injuries.”

_Of course, he had said that he would come as a friend—perhaps a suitor—the next time he visited and not with a lamed hand as an excuse to get attention._

“I will go and speak with him,” she said, trying her best to sound _exasperated_ and not _excited_ at the prospect of another interaction with the impossibly beautiful—and most probably extremely dangerous—man. Skirting around her colleague, who was still standing in the doorway with a thoughtful expression on his face, she entered the main room of the Healing House and, at first, saw nothing but Pityafinwë’s broad back layered in dark green, russet hair starkly in contrast.

The Prince was staring out the window at the Healing House gardens beyond. A quaint little garden, to be sure, with many plants that were practical rather than beautiful, barely any flowering because most were harvested well in advance of managing to bloom. Still, there was a little pond where rainwater gathered in a rocky basin and some shade from a towering tree for the handful of apprentices diligently at work harvesting herbs to be dried and used for teas, medicines, creams and poultices.

For a few breathless moments, she helplessly indulged. The way the sunlight was striking against his cheek was beautiful, and it turned his russet hair from a dark, coppery red to a vibrant shade of autumn leaves edged in pure gold. Even his eyelashes, fluttering against his cheek when he blinked, flickered in the sunlight.

Coughing delicately, she broke her own reverie. “My Prince?”

His head turned, light catching in his brilliant green eyes. Had she ever noticed the flecks of gold therein before? Because she certainly did now.

“I thought we agreed that, if I came here as a friend rather than a patient, you would call me by my preferred name, Lady Wilwarin.”

And his voice… Every time he left, she forgot just how powerful his voice truly was, how deep and clear. Easily, she imagined, could he have been just as successful a singer as his renowned older brother, for she felt momentarily put under a spell just by his words alone.

Sucking in a deep breath, she shook off the warm, shuddering feeling sliding through her limbs at his sight and sound. “I… suppose I could call you Ambarussa. But I—”

“I brought you something,” he said then, before she could choke out the rejection that lingered like bitter medicine on the back of her tongue. What he held out to her was most definitely a bouquet, and the rich scent of lavender washed over her senses like a balm before she even focused in on the pale purple shade beneath her gaze. It was cloaked with white jasmine, that sweet scent following swiftly, and surrounded by a variety of everyday herbs, practical and lovely, and dappled with the round, rose-like blooms of succulents.

Before she could stop its inexorable course, raging heat spread up into her cheeks, leaving her feeling almost dizzy. No one could mistake this for anything but a courting gesture. Perhaps she should have resisted, but she accepted the bundle as it was pressed into her hands, cradling it an running her fingers through familiar stalks of thyme and lavender and rosemary.

“I thought this more to your tastes than something overly flashy,” he said then, the first creeping hint of hesitance in his voice. Long fingers tangled together, shifting almost nervously, as he looked into her face to gauge her reaction.

“They are beautiful,” she murmured, trying not to think about how sweet it was that he had thought to give her something practical _and_ beautiful both, rather than vibrant colors and useless flowers that, while they might look nice in a vase on the table by the window, would ultimately not be to her taste.

Pleasure spread across his face in a soft pink hue, and his grin made her heart stutter. Eru, but why did he have to be so _beautiful_ and so _perfect?_ Why did she see that flush and think of whether he might look as such when they were tangled together beneath the sheets?

_Do not think about it… Do not think about it… Do_ not _think about it…_

Too late. Of course, it was. It was not like she had not been thinking of how he would look unclothed and lost in pleasure for weeks now. She was a hotblooded woman with a healthy sexual appetite, and he was not the first man she had fantasied about in the privacy of her bed, but he was certainly the first to show signs of reciprocation. That only made the entirety of her little infatuation—because she refused to believe it was anything more than that—even worse than it had been when their only interaction had been his drunkenly slurred words whilst being treated for a concussion on the night of Midsummer.

So, she helplessly took him in. His beautiful grin and his rosy cheeks, the curve of his throat and the broadness of his shoulders, the flicker of his muscles beneath the fabric daring to cover his skin, and she felt the heat-ridden insanity overtaking her sense.

Now was the time to turn him away. _Right now._

But, then, of course, he pulled another move on her like the tricky and unpredictable creature he was. The flower was red, bright against her eyes in a way few healing herbs or flowers were, and big. Red chrysanthemum.

_Will you begin a relationship with me?_

Now was the time to say “no” and break his heart—or, at least, disappoint his libido—earlier rather than later. _Now._

Yet, instead of doing the sensible thing, she listened to the damned burning in the pit of her belly, the sudden warmth and sensitivity between her legs, and let out a sigh that was just on this side of too _dreamy_ to be _annoyed._ “How about we go somewhere else and… talk about such things, Ambarussa?”

His lips curved into a smirk that made the space between her hips pang and twist. Damn him. And her body. And her loss of sanity.

Always had she wondered what would possess any woman to get involved with a man far above her standing—as she had witnessed before with dread in her eyes and resentful hate in her heart—why any woman would think it was a _good idea_ in any way, shape or form. Or why women would not flee in the other direction as soon as things began to fall apart. Now, though, she thought she had a better idea of what monster seduced her fellow vulnerable females into foolishness that was bound to unravel and leave everyone ruined and heartbroken when it was all over.

_This. This was why._

It was impossible to look away from his face. Nor avoid the way his hand reached out and grasped at hers. This was the first time they had touched which did not involve her hand upon his bare skin in the capacity of a healer. It left her skin feeling inflamed.

Yet, she did not pull away. _Could not_ pull away.

For long moments, they lingered together. Wilwarin had never felt so enchanted—so spell-stricken—over a man in all her life.

And then she remembered that she was still holding the bouquet in her arms and it needed a vase before they could go anywhere. The red chrysanthemum, too, was still there, stem twined between their fingers. From a few feet away, the healing apprentices were watching the pair, and Wilwarin felt the first hints of embarrassment twist up in her gut to combat the fiery burn of unmistakable lust.

Clearing her throat again, she pulled their hands apart. “I should find a place for these,” she excused, bustling away.

And she felt his eyes on her back. They made her belly tight and hot, a burning little ball at the center of her being pulled taut and trembling.

Damn him. She would need to retreat and attempt, again, to turn him away.

Because, for the moment, she simply could not resist.

\---

Telufinwë was every bit as beautiful as she remembered. Even startled and wide-eyed as he was, standing in the doorway of his rooms.

Perhaps more beautiful for it.

His eyes were so bright and so clear with their surprise, little flecks of gold shimmering as he scanned her face and then the bundle of bright red and cornflower blue that rested in the cradle of her arms. Soft lips were parted, as though he had been about to speak out as he opened the door but had lost the words that he wished to say and instead floundered in momentary incomprehension. Over his shoulder rested a long, thick braid of curly russet hair, just a shade paler than Pityafinwë’s, threaded with little bits of gold and crimson to bring fire to the deep, coppery red.

“A… Amaurëa?” His voice rasped, scraping harshly over her name in a croak, for it had seen much disuse. Still, it brought a wide grin to her lips.

“I brought you flowers!” she exclaimed, holding her bouquet aloft.

Almost instinctively, his arms jolted outwards to grab the large bundle of flowers, shaking hands wrapping underneath as the blooms of blue and white spilled out over his forearms and from the crooks of his elbows. The picture he made, all surprised in his loose white tunic and leggings, barefoot, holding her gift…

_He is so lovely,_ she could not help but think, _and so adorable._

Who would have ever imagined applying such an adjective to a Kinslayer? Yet, it could not be truer than in that moment.

“Let us find somewhere to speak,” she insisted, resisting the almost instinctive urge to reach out and entangle their arms, to bodily drag him through the hallways in her fit of excitement over the impending giving of the courting gift heavy in her pocket. “I have something for you, and it is not really appropriate for a woman to be inside a man’s chambers unaccompanied besides.”

At her words, a flush spread across his cheeks and up over the bridge of his nose, a sweet and rosy backdrop to the spangled network of freckles layered upon his skin. It softened further the sharp furrow that had alighted the spot between his brows, leaving him appearing young and out of his depth, uncertain how to proceed.

“They… need a vase,” he commented lightly.

_Oh…_ She had not thought of that at all. If she had, perhaps she would have brought one along for his use. The pair stared down at the wild spread of flowers together, and the ridiculousness of it left a golden sort of joy bubbling up in her belly. It spilled out of her lips in rolling laughter, sweet and ringing. Through eyes hazed in a blurry veil of joyous tears, she could see the way his lips turned up at the corners, just the tiniest bit.

It left her breath catching. _One day,_ she thought, _I will hear him laugh as well as witness his smile._

Carefully, he then stepped around her, padding into the hallway uncaring of his lack of boots. Laughter dying down to small bouts of giggles, she looked up at his face and felt her heart leap up towards the back of her throat. His little smile had turned slightly mischievous, and he pointed a finger off to the left and down the hall. Turning her head, she took in the empty crystal vase poised upon a luxuriously carven table at the end of the hallway.

“Are you quite certain we can just take that?” she asked, covering her smile with a dainty hand. It did nothing, she imagined, to hide the sparkle of her eyes.

His shrug was so delightfully nonchalant. Shuffling across the hallway, still with his feet completely bare and sinking into the thick crimson rug below, he settled the bouquet into its new home, long fingers impossibly gentle as he rearranged the blooms. Fingertips traced each flower they met, kissing upon tender petals, and she wondered if he knew what each of those blossoms meant. She wondered if, as he looked down upon the vivid splash of color, he knew that she was making a bold, scarlet declaration of her intentions right there for anyone who walked by to see. The idea that he might be ignorant of what exactly he now held cradled in his arms, displayed for anyone who might happen by to see, had her both just the tiniest bit frustrated but also the tiniest bit hot under her skin.

Returning to his door, he pushed it further open. The inside was dim, the curtains pulled almost entirely, but he did not hesitate to open them fully to allow the light forth. Amaurëa lingered, just watching. Watching the way he moved about, tall form slow and lacking the innate grace she was used to seeing in all her companions at the School, trained from childhood to make every movement intentionally breathtaking. Not that his slightly off-kilter walk was any less so, nor the way the flowers minutely trembled as he held the vase and carefully set it down on a dresser in the sunlight, nor the moment in which he stood with his body silhouetted in the incoming light which spilled through the thin fabric of his tunic and left her with a _very_ good idea of the shape of the body hiding underneath. Fascinated, it took all her willpower to look away from the curves of the muscles in his arms visible in stark black lines through his sleeves and the broadness of his shoulders relative to the sharp and sleek lines of his sides and belly narrowing down to his hips.

If he had been a dancer, he would have near-perfect proportions. He was so tall that Amaurëa thought they would never have been paired—he would have needed a dance partner almost as tall as he was, which was rare for a woman—but the thought of dancing with him, of being encircled by his arms, of having her hands laid upon his muscles as they flexed…

She managed to quell her reaction as he stepped back and presented the final product, the artfully arranged bouquet bright against the modest ivory theme to the guest chambers. With no small amount of pride and pleasure, she noted that it would be the very first thing to draw eyes upon entering the room. Both the idea that _he_ would look upon her gift as soon as he waltzed in the door—that he would think of her every time he saw the flowers there, announcing her intent to make him hers as plain as day to anyone who bothered to look and _know_ —and that _everyone else_ would see it, too, should they dare to creep inside his domain…

Well, she liked the idea of anyone and everyone knowing that she wanted him, that she was bold enough to come forth and woo her reluctant prize. And that he, perhaps unintentionally, displayed her statement for anyone to see.

“Your brother said you have been in these rooms since arriving,” she said then, still lingering at the doorway, wishing she could step into that space with him, close enough to breathe in the scent of ashy fire and sweet spices, but knowing that that was a little _too_ much of a breach of propriety even for one such as she. “Come out at least to a parlor and speak with me for a while, Telufinwë. I feel like I have not seen you in an _age!”_

He rolled his eyes in feigned exasperation, as if to say, “So dramatic, thou art being!” but was unmistakably smiling and trying to hide it behind a hand. Then he motioned to his clothes. Very clearly more befitting of sleep than venturing out into the palace.

“I do not really care if you change,” she answered. It was a nice, neutral response. Something less forward than, “I would prefer you stayed exactly like you are so that I can guiltily imagine that this is how you would look in the morning when you roll out of bed and pad lazily around the house that we might, one day, share,” which was more what she would have _liked_ to say had they not been within hearing distance of at least half a dozen other guest bedroom doors that might or might not be housing his other brothers.

Glancing at her from the corner of his eye, he dug a proper tunic out of his pack. It took her a moment to realize that, as he awkwardly stood next to his bed, he was waiting for her to look away. _Ah,_ she thought, observing his darkening cheeks.

She turned her back. Not that that prevented her from imagining what she might be missing as she heard the ruffle of fabric at her back.

Even though she suspected that his scars were extensive—and even she could not deny that they were disconcertingly _ugly_ —she also knew that he would be gorgeous as well. Shaped and sculpted in all the right ways, no matter the mottled or scarred mess of his outer layer. Even thinking about it had her shivering despite the summer warmth.

A gentle hand on her shoulder let her know she could look. Up and up and up at his face, framed with little curly flyaway hairs. His lips were a beautiful bow, and she could not help but stare at them, wondering…

His hands reached up to start unbraiding his hair, and she stopped him with a soft touch before she could think better of it. “I like being able to see your face.”

Big green eyes blinked, almost surprised. His head cocked to the side, and his fingers whispered over the scars that curled up over one corner of his jaw and slashed across his cheek, messy and stretched and discolored. _Even this part of my face?_

Without hesitation, she reached up to trace the marks. This was the first time she had intentionally touched any of his scars, measured the strangeness of their texture beneath her fingertips and explored the odd dips and curves in place of smooth skin. At first, he winced slightly back and crunched his eyes shut, as though the press of her fingers upon the shameful aberration were physically painful. But, when her touch lingered and no sound of disgust came—despite the feeling of some flesh stretched and twisted in ways that felt intrinsically _wrong_ to her senses—he relaxed and allowed the light caresses.

“If anyone does not want to see this part of you,” she said then, “They ought to be ashamed for being so petty. And selfish.”

Then, curling a hand about his wrist, she pulled him out into the hallway.

And enjoyed every second of the blush on his cheeks deepening from a delicate, rosy pink to a deep, crimson red.

\---

“Look at them,” Istelindë whispered, peeking through the crack in the door.

At her back, she felt the hovering presence of her husband. His broad hand settled on her shoulder as he leaned easily over her, chin brushing the top of her head. The warmth of his chest was against her back, firm through the thinness of his sleeping shirt, and his hair fell about her in fiery waves.

“I see,” he said, voice hushed and gravelly. But more so amused than anything else. “I did not realize that Telufinwë’s dancer was so tiny. And, here, I thought you were small and delicate, but, in comparison…”

“Oh, hush, you,” she scolded lightly, refocusing her attention on Telufinwë. “I think she is going to ask him to court her. Look at those flowers!”

He made a little rumble of agreement against her back. “Red chrysanthemums.”

She could hear the smirk in his voice. And felt the tingle of relief spread down her back, because she had not heard anything so lighthearted depart his lips now for days. After last night, she had feared that he might withdraw entirely, hiding away from her sight once more out of shame for the weakness displayed in the dark hours. But, instead, he felt inexplicably lighter, and his breathy chuckle against her temple, followed by a soft and affectionate nuzzle, had her state of worry easing. The tension that had been wracking her limbs since all this began now oozed away as if sucked down through her feet and into the earth, leaving her leaning back into her spouse’s strength with a sigh.

“Do you think he will accept her offer of courting?” Istelindë whispered, watching as Telufinwë briefly disappeared into his chambers and reemerged wearing a proper tunic and boots, no longer barefoot.

“I think he would like to,” her husband answered. Out in the hallway, the pair began walking away, one of Telufinwë’s scarred wrists captured in his suitor’s grasp. “Perhaps she is stubborn enough to sway his mind in the matter.”

Carefully, Istelindë laid her hand upon her husband’s, tracing his scarred knuckles. “I think she can do so.”

“I will not deny that I would be pleased to see something good come about from this mess,” Maitimo said then, hand squeezing, thumb digging into the back of her shoulder and circling against the muscle. “Maybe she will also manage to keep Telufinwë out of trouble. He has been sulking and brooding.”

Istelindë refrained from quipping _“Even more than you”_ at her poor husband, even if it was the truth. Maitimo had taken news of Lindalórë’s situation badly because he both empathized with the woman and felt as though he had failed her. But Telufinwë, she had come to find, was a whole different story.

_“He can get like this,”_ Pityafinwë had admitted to her, a bit solemn and a bit sad and a bit worried, though he tried his best to hide the latter two from her eyes. _“He hates injustice passionately. Always has. And it has always gotten him into deep, deep trouble. All in all, he inherited Amillë’s heart of gold and Atar’s impetuous streak, while I was left with Atar’s cold-hearted logic and Amillë’s quiet, sensible nature and patience.”_

_“It seems to balance,”_ she had commented then, only to see her little brother’s blazing green eyes go dark. They had dropped, looking away with shame.

_“If only,”_ he had answered. And, at the time, she had realized that she had stumbled into another one of those invisible traps of bad memories and ill fates that seemed to surround each brother as a perilous labyrinth. _“I never quite manage to balance him out completely. The rashness always wins.”_

Thinking about news of Telufinwë’s actions—Istelindë was horrified, knowing that her little brother had brutally beaten and mutilated three people and felt not a drop of remorse for his actions, but also silently vindicated knowing _why_ he had done it in the first place—she could see what Pityafinwë had meant then. That the youngest Fëanárion was a force to be reckoned with, and it would take an equally strong force to keep him under control or to divert his attention away from dangerous territory.

The very last thing they needed was for the seventh brother to go on a bloody rampage. No matter how much the theoretical perpetrators deserved to be carved into tiny pieces and fed to the stray dogs in the streets.

Turning to face her husband, she let the door click shut. “Well, we shall see. Distracting a Fëanárion is no easy task.”

To which he let out a little snort of laughter, and she relished in the feeling of his warm lips upon her own, a mostly chaste caress that lingered. “And, yet, you manage to do that very thing constantly every day. And without even trying. My dearest Princess.”

Heat flooded her cheeks. And her loins. Last night, he had not been in the mood for lovemaking. She could understand why, and she had been content to simply hold him close until he drifted off into fitful sleep. This morning, though, he seemed in a much better mood. In a much more _interested_ mood. His hand moved to her hip, riding along the curve of her waist as it went, until it settled with his long fingertips just barely brushing the top of her bottom, tickling the sensitive skin until she had to resist the urge to squirm and moan.

“Do I?” she asked instead, laying her hands upon him. Just upon his shoulders, at first. But, when no flinch or wince was forthcoming, they slid further down his chest, and the muscle rippled beneath her touch, welcoming and receptive.

“You most definitely do,” he growled against her ear. And then nipped at the pointed tip, leaving a golden flutter of desire washing suddenly down her spine and settling deep in her belly.

“Maybe I like you distracted,” she whispered in return, pressing her lips to his throat. Again. But, this time, he nearly purred at the sensation, moving to give her more space and more access rather than tucking the sensitive skin away. Tangling her fingers in the wild curls at the back of his neck, tugging lightly to the sound of his half-stifled groan, she continued to press kisses along his skin, forging upwards and meeting every little nick and scar along the way.

Until they were kissing again, each stealing the other’s breath. “Is this okay?” she asked between the long, deep bouts, gasping it out against his damp lips.

In his face, she could see the lingering shadow. He might have lost some of his hesitance to show feeling in her presence, might have wept out some of the agony that lined his spirit, but there was still darkness lingering half-hidden behind his eyes. It spoke of his frustration, pressed down under a forceful mountain of stubbornness, and guilty conscience, crushed to bits beneath his metaphorical heel. All that was covered by a sheer layer of lust, and it occurred to her that it might be a front, that he might be trying to reassure her that everything was fine by accepting her advances when it was, in fact, not. If he was not comfortable, she did not want to push.

“Yes,” he answered, though, even given a graceful way to back out. And his arms tightened where they had folded about her. “I am sorry about last night, but—”

“There is no need to be sorry, remember?” she chided lightly after breaking off his words with a light brush of her lips. “Are we not equals in this partnership? It is fine for you to wish not to engage in intercourse as long as you say something so that I know. Still, I am glad you are feeling better, my faithful Prince.”

“Only because of you,” he ground out, ardor not diminished at all. She could feel him pressed up against her belly, clearly wanting.

“Flatterer,” she accused.

To which he laughed against her hair, and his singular hand slid further down and around to cup her bottom and hold her close, pressing them together from thigh to chest. “Perhaps,” he agreed, “But does the tactic succeed, vessenya?”

“Mm… Every time.”

At the admission, the pair laughed lightly, nuzzling close. Until she leaned down at pressed a sucking kiss into his collarbone, ignoring its slightly distorted shape. The noise he made had her shivering.

“We should move unless you want to be had against the door,” he commented.

“The door… the door is fine,” she answered breathlessly.

And, really, it was not. Anyone in the hallway would be able to hear the noise they would make, servants or guests or family members alike. Yet, Istelindë could scarcely bring herself to care, in that moment, about how embarrassing that would be later. For Eru’s sake, they were married, and everyone from Alqualondë to the absolute West and back knew what they were doing behind closed doors anyway!

“Here is fine,” she repeated, heat rushing through her center and pooling low and white-hot between her legs.

One of which he began to hitch upwards towards his hip. “Whatever you say, my dearest Princess.”

And then his hand found its way under her skirts.

And she was quite certain that the next few hours were going to be quite enjoyable and distracting for them both. She was not about to let the mere possibility of some mortified eavesdroppers ruin it for them now.

“I do so say,” she demanded, giggling.

And those next few hours were most enjoyable indeed.

\---

There was still fury. Still annoyance. Still the boiling need to go out and _do._ To go out and _fix._ To go out and _revenge._

But there was also distraction.

All that volcanic roiling was buried beneath a veritable mountain. Telufinwë did not know whether to be frustrated that he was so easily side-tracked or relieved that something had come along to end the shadowy feelings that had been building and building, ready to erupt at the smallest trigger in the form of potential violent intervention.

What he _did_ know was that he should not feel nearly so thankful as he did.

What he _did_ know was that he should have closed the door the moment he saw Amaurëa’s gorgeous face gleaming in the sunlight.

What he _did_ know was that he was _weak_ against her persuasion. Against her adorable actions and unquenchable enthusiasm. Against her sweet, sweet laughter and the tender touch of her fingertips upon his face. Against the joyous smile upon her lips when he accepted her gift without a fight and displayed it proudly in his chambers.

That was how he had ended up _here,_ with her, alone in a sitting room. Really, they should have been chaperoned, but he hardly dared to even move near to her unless she initiated the contact first. Which she had, settling herself down so close that their legs were nearly touching, and the heat of her skin blazed through the fabric of his clothes with ease. There was just _her,_ tiny and lovely and seemingly breakable with her huge golden eyes and her scent of sunlight in the meadow and cloying amber clogging up his senses and slowing down his thoughts, erasing everything else that was not her in the here and now.

Burning it all away. She really was, in that sense, all too much alike to flame.

“I hope you enjoyed the flowers,” she began, “But they were not really your gift. I brought you something else, and I… I hope you like it.”

Whatever it was, it was cradled in one of her hands, slender fingers wrapped over and around to hide it from his sight as she pulled it from somewhere hidden upon her person. Even though her face was downturned, he could see the darkening flush adorning her flawless cheekbones and the nervous squirm of her legs beneath the layers of her skirt. In his bones, he could feel what was coming—could feel the accompanying deluge of both excitement and anxiety at the thought of what she was about to show him, give him, ask him—and wondered if he would have the mental fortitude to tell her “no” and send her away, and—

And it was a gold chain with a tiny ring, too small, he thought, to even fit on the smallest of his on fingers. Blinking at it, he wondered why he felt a bit lightheaded.

_I never would have imagined any woman ever accepting my suit, let alone a woman going out of her way to present the first courting gift rather than waiting for me to take the lead._ It was a very radical, very eccentric move, and it had never occurred to him to even imagine that any woman might make it. Undoubtedly, he had thought that, if he simply maintained his distance and denied himself access to the object of his desires there could _be_ no formal courtship because he refused to initiate it.

As it would happen, he had been outmaneuvered.

“I asked your brother, Am— Pityafinwë. And he said the ring would be too small for you to wear on any of your fingers, so he helped me find a chain for it,” she explained, voice bursting out in a rush of jubilance mixed with nerves, all bundled together into a single quivering package. “It was a courting gift from my father to my mother which she passed on to me, and I was hoping… I was hoping you would agree to a courtship. With me. I know it is a little sudden, but I… I wanted to declare my intentions. And get to know you better.”

By no means was a courtship a guarantee of marriage, but it still made very clear the direction she wished their relationship to progress.

And he would be lying to himself if he said, especially in the privacy of his thoughts, that he did not secretly wish and hope and pray for such a lovely ending as well. Amaurëa was dazzling in the way she captured his mind, and she made his heart skip beats and dance with ease, and it was so refreshing and so enticing, the idea of _being with someone_ who could look at the ugly marks on his face and still _want him anyway._ He had no doubt that this was an opportunity that would never come around a second time, because he doubted that he would ever find anyone alike to this woman again.

But…

“Telufinwë?” she asked, voice now more hesitant. It left his breath catching and his heart burning beneath his ribs, because the last thing he _ever wanted_ was to cause her pain. And he could see, looking down into her upturned face, the dimming of her golden eyes, and—

And he was _weak._ So, so very weak.

“Okay,” he said, even though he knew he should not. “I agree.”

Her eyes lit up brighter than Anar. And filled him up to the brim with that same light, overwhelming the dark thoughts that seethed and twisted underneath. For those few moments, bringing her joy left him floating on his own cloud of bliss. And the rest disappeared.

“Can I put it on you?” she asked then, eagerly shifting to sit on her folded knees upon the sofa cushion. Amusingly, it granted her only a few inches, and she was still so very short in comparison that it brought a fondly indulgent smile to Telufinwë’s lips. With soft green eyes and a likely dopey little grin, he nodded.

The feeling of her hand in his hair, bowing his head for her to reach, had him shivering. Carefully, she slipped the long chain over his crown, pausing to pull his wild mess of braided curls out such that the metal fell to rest against his bare skin. Half had he expected it to feel chilly on bare flesh, but it was warm from where it had been cradled in her hand, the ring falling to rest atop the fabric of his tunic, dead center at his sternum. The weight was surprisingly comforting, and he reached up with a minutely trembling hand to capture it between his fingers.

The heat and texture—the smoothness and the small ridge of bumps he knew were there, the diamonds set in their golden seats—were lost to deadened nerves. Still, he could feel its heaviness, teasingly tried to loop the band over his smallest finger and watched in amusement as it ran out of space before even reaching his second joint.

Perhaps he should have balked at wearing such a thing openly. But, as he let it fall back to his chest, he did not bother to tuck it away beneath his tunic. There was something inexplicably _satisfying_ about knowing that anyone could see it. That everyone _would_ see it.

That they would all know, eventually, that it meant she wanted him to be hers.

“Now,” she said, “As your formal suitor, I would like to ask if you would agree to spend the rest of the morning and afternoon with me. I have missed you dearly.”

She said it was that look on her face, wide-eyed and pleading with just the barest hint of a pout. Reaching out, she captured one of his hands in her own, squeezing tight and lifting it to press a kiss to his knuckles in a gesture that seemed so terribly out of place yet also seemed so right and so sweet that his insides felt as though they had melted.

It was nigh on impossible to stay angry—at her (for being so brilliant and stubborn and tempting), at his scheming twin brother (who had clearly been helping her plot behind his back), at Nelyafinwë (for forcing him to come along) or at himself (for his failure to put up a proper resistance)—when she was looking at him with such sincere and undeniable adoration. When she was holding his hand without so much as a flinch at the undeniably strange textures of his ragged skin or the hard shaking that cursed each and every one of his fingers where they rested within her grasp.

There would be time for his anger later. Right now, he was completely captured under her spell and very disinclined to attempt escape.

“What say you to that, nárinya?” she asked cheekily.

“I would… enjoy such a thing,” he choked out, the words feeling unwieldy and ungraceful upon his tongue, but they did not feel dangerous. And she seemed not to mind in the least bit the disuse of his voice, raw and trembling, instead pressing another kiss to his knuckles, putting her lips upon the mess of his scarred skin.

“Good,” she answered, “Because I have had plans for us for quite some time now. There are at least a dozen more places I want to bring you, and we cannot visit them all today, but I think I have the best place in mind for lunch. And then, after that…”

Easily, she fell into speaking, and he let her pull him upright and towards the door by his hand, still captured firmly within her own.

And, for just that short time, he forgot about Lindalórë, about his internal rage, and about the fear that constantly bubbled away in his chest. He forgot to hunch in upon himself at the half-hidden disgust in the eyes of the servants they passed who could not bear to look upon his scarred cheek and throat. He forgot about the fact that his hair was braided back messily, and his face was not twisted into a black scowl to keep gawkers at bay.

He forgot about everything but the smooth rhythm of her voice, pitch rising and falling as it flowed through her words with ease.

Pityafinwë could not have lured him out with a more brilliant distraction.

And, at the moment, he could not even bring himself to be mad. Not when the warm and tingling feeling of relief and gratefulness and tensionless contentment soothed it all away. Later, he would have time to be annoyed and resentful, to be scolding and angry, to think back on this moment—as he had many others in his life—and think that he had been an impetuous fool throwing himself headfirst into trouble.

But he doubted he would regret it. Just as he had never regretted running headfirst into the flames of his father’s wrath.

Telufinwë might hoard fear. But he did not collect regrets.

\---

They sat across from one another, and Wilwarin looked at her potential suitor with slightly narrowed eyes to combat the buzzing heat of excitement that seemed to settle itself at home beneath her skin.

She was out in public with Pityafinwë Fëanárion. A terrifying but undeniably beautiful man. Many eyes, though fearful and wary, still lingered upon his sharply-lined face and his beautifully proportioned body with hints of lust and admiration glinting like stars on a black sky. The women of Tirion, while hesitant to approach such a specimen, clearly were not beyond appraising his appearance with tentative interest.

And so many of them were as equally beautiful as he. Even if they were not ladies decorated in piles of fine jewelry and silk gowns, they were still many of them slender and willowy in form, graceful and elegant in movement, and breathtakingly lovely to look upon. Any one of them could have easily captured the attention of a red-blooded man—many of them did, in fact, have the attention of other men within the establishment who were properly enthralled with their classic beauty and did not glance twice in Wilwarin’s direction—but Pityafinwë had not so much as glanced in their way since arrival. His gaze was firmly focused straight across the table. Straight at her. Unblinking.

“You are hesitant,” he said knowingly. “Why? Have I not yet proven to you what my intentions are in this matter? Have I done something offensive to drive away your affections?”

Here was the moment when she could have excused her own behavior. When she could have said that she could not bear to be with one of his cursed, bloodstained lineage. When she could have proclaimed that the blood and death, black on his hands, was so offensive to her healing soul as to drive her away. He was, after all, a known Kinslayer.

But, while the thought of _that_ did linger in the back of her mind and had from the beginning, there was also everything _else._ The sweet words he had rained upon her when too out of his senses with dizziness to censor his tongue. The visits in which his words were kind and his smiles made her heart skip beats and her skin feel warm. The rumors spreading through the city that his family was here, in Tirion, trying to _protect_ their sister by marriage rather than the ill words trickling down from above that the Fëanárioni had kidnapped a poor, hapless woman.

Nothing he had done indicated so much as a drop of ill will towards her person or towards anyone else. The only _hint_ she had seen of such shadow in his eyes had been in the presence of one of the patients who had been attacked and mutilated on Midsummer. One of the patients they all suspected of some evildoing, though none had any proof beyond the suspicious nature of the attacker’s choice in insults carved into flesh. Whether Pityafinwë knew something they knew not about those men, or whether it had been but something Wilwarin might have imagined entirely in an effort to find reasons to look past his kinder, sweeter actions, she could not deny that it had done nothing to make her admiration or infatuation wane or abate.

So, she _could_ have used his name as an excuse to reject his suit. But…

But that was not really the heart of the matter, was it?

She did not want to reject him because she thought he was a terrible man. And she did not want him to think that that was what she thought of him either. Especially when it was swiftly becoming very far from the truth.

“I… do not think we would make a good match,” she said instead. “It is not because you have done something to insult me. I simply think we would not be compatible.”

Half did she expect him to protest. To insist or even demand. To cajole her into agreement. Any of those things, she was prepared to hear and reject, to bolster herself against his assault and justify her decision to cast aside his advances. Instead, he leaned back in his chair. “If that is your decision, I would not push further for something you do not want. But I would, perhaps… I would like to know why.”

It was the most hesitant she had ever heard his voice.

“You are…” Hesitating, she thought about her words, about how the truth made her heart sink and her shoulders hunch. “You are beautiful, Pityafinwë. Even now, many women in this very room look upon you with curiosity and admiration. You could have any one of them with ease. And they are all more beautiful than I, more willing to give up their profession than I, more perfect candidates for a wife than I. I think that you would find me disappointing and grow bored, and I want to avoid such heartache.”

“Bored,” he repeated, blinking at her as though he had never quite seen her before. “You think I would grow bored of you?”

He sounded so skeptical, so insulted and so surprised by the admission that, for a moment, she wondered if she had judged too soon. To him, the very idea that he might _grow bored of her_ seemed something he could scarcely contemplate, leaving his face set in a look somewhere between a scowl of offense and a wide-eyed look of confusion.

It was almost enough to have her take back her words. Already, her tongue formed an apology, ready to unleash it if only to make that _look_ go away. But…

But then she remembered…

_Her mother sat still in the chilly morning light, all dark in hair and in clothing rather than vibrant and colorful as the oncoming spring, and her eyes were so very sad. Wilwarin could not remember a time when this had not been the case, but it seemed worse today than she could ever remember it being before._

_“Amillë?” she called quietly._

_“Come and sit with me, yendë.”_

_Together, they were lingering upon the edge of the residential area of Tirion, well-known for housing the nobility in the most breathtaking mansions to have been erected by the Eruhíni alone since the palaces had been built for the three Kings of the Eldar. Little did Wilwarin know of this place, for she had not been raised within the whitewashed walls and majestic towers of Tirion, used to humbler and homier comforts. They had come here to visit old friends, or so her mother had stated, and now found themselves hovering near the end of a long street paved in silver cobbles whence her mother had once worked as a servant to one of the noble houses._

_For all that it was a beautiful sight, the trees swaying with early spring blooms and the grassy lawns freshly green with the warming of the seasons, it still seemed very distant and extravagant, like an entirely different world from that which she knew._

_“I used to work in that household there,” her mother told her, drawing her attention to one of the smaller abodes, though it was no less beautiful for its lack of size._

_But it was not the beautiful, silvery rooftop or the stained-glass windows or the freshly blooming flowers in the garden which drew her eyes. Instead, it was the family that was departing through the door, their voices raised just enough to echo quietly up the street. A man and a woman, obviously a married couple of great wealth, trailed after by a full-grown man and a male child, perhaps their progeny. Besides their dress, which was richer than anything Wilwarin had ever worn or desired to wear, they appeared rather normal._

_“Do you know them?” she asked, looking to her mother._

_Her mother, looking upon the small family, seemed in pain._

_“I knew him once, before he married,” her mother answered. And her voice trembled in the strangest way. Wilwarin recognized the tone, the same shake and skitter of words that escaped the lips of those with torn flesh and twisted bones, with their blood leaking out of their ragged open wounds._

_Often enough, she had been told that she had no father, and her mother did not speak of him or acknowledge him. Perhaps, Wilwarin had guessed, the man who had sired her had been one of the Exiles. Perhaps, that was the source of shame so great in her mother’s heart that the woman rejected the man with whom she had conceived her only daughter._

_Now, though, she understood._

_And her lips downturned as she looked at the backs of the couple, at the way their arms were entwined, at the way their children trailed after them and shared smiling banter. They appeared so frightfully_ happy _as they were. So normal and so perfect. So utterly carefree._

_And her mother was so, so very sad._

_And it simply was not fair._

But, Wilwarin had long since acknowledged, many things in life were not fair. All she could do was do her best to watch out for herself and to avoid the pitfalls and missteps of those who had come before her.

This particular pitfall was looming large. She could see it clearly, a beacon of light ahead.

“I _know_ you would grow bored of me,” she answered Pityafinwë’s question. “Once we have been together a handful of times, you will begin to look elsewhere. For a woman who is as beautiful as you. For a woman of status who you can marry without shaming your family name. Not someone alike to me.”

There was a clench in his jaw and a furrow to his brow. Those green eyes darkened and narrowed as they looked upon her face. The beautiful smile and softness of his lips curled inwards and flattened into a harsh line.

“What can I do to prove to you otherwise?” he asked.

And she wanted to say, “there is nothing” and turn away from his astute gaze, from his sincerity and resolve. She _should have turned away._

Instead, she looked into his beautiful eyes and felt her heart tremble. An idea shaped and took full form in her mind. A ridiculous, dangerous, stupid, impetuous and horrible idea. One that was born purely from her desiring heart and body. One which she should not for even a moment have considering indulging. One that, once it had been birthed and made itself known, could not be erased or burned away.

She should have bitten her tongue until it bled and held it in until she could reclaim her sanity and wash her hands of this mess. Instead, she spoke.

“This is my proposal,” she said, hardly believing that she was about to speak of such things in front of a man but too stubborn to back out now. “We are both in lust with one another. Let us slake our desires. Afterwards, we shall see whether or not there can be anything lasting between us beyond simple lust.”

A faint flush spread across his cheeks, but there was nothing but solemnity in his face, and he did not look away from her eyes. “There will be,” he assured her.

And she wanted to believe him. So badly.

But she could not.

“We shall see,” she replied coolly. “Do you agree, Ambarussa?”

His chin tipped upwards, and his eyes were smoky and dark in ways she had not seen yet even when he gazed upon her curved form with half-hidden want. “Are you certain that this is what you wish to do?”

The low growl of his voice had her shivering. “Yes.”

A hand reached across the table and captured one of hers, lifting it to his mouth. But, rather than breathing across her knuckles as he had before in an airy and chaste kiss, his mouth touched the throbbing pulse at the inside of her wrist. Hot and wet and leaving her feeling burned.

“Then I would carry out your every wish, Lady Wilwarin. Order me as you will.”

And who could blame her for forgetting how to breathe?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:
> 
> Fëanárioni (Q, p) = sons of Fëanáro  
> Atar (Q) = Father  
> Amillë (Q) = Mother  
> vessenya (Q) = my wife  
> Anar (Q) = the Sun  
> nárinya (Q) = my fire/flame  
> yendë (Q) = daughter  
> Eruhíni (Q, p) = children of Eru  
> Eldar (Q, p) = people of the stars (high-elves)
> 
> \---
> 
> Flower symbolism:
> 
> Lavender = you are beautiful, I admire you, peaceful sleep (used for digestive problems, sleeping/anxiety problems, as an antiseptic, antifungal, and pain reliever)  
> Rosemary = I remember you, remembrance/memory, mental strength, your presence revives me (source of vitamins, antioxidants, helps w/ indigestion, concentration)  
> Thyme = bravery, affection, courage, strength, let's do something (together) (biocide, antimicrobial, antibacterial, treating infections and hypertension)  
> Jasmine = abundance, victory, congratulations, hope, beauty, sexuality (treats sunburns/rashes, scent can be used for irritability/anxiety/depression, possible aphrodisiac)  
> Echeveria (succulent) = adaptability, versatility, striking beauty, independence, enduring and timeless love  
> Red Chrysanthemum = Will you begin a relationship with me?


	80. Of Holding Back and Letting Go

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Kanafinwë is not the angel everyone thinks he is and Aikambalotsë reaches breaking point...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: politics, thoughts of sex, lots of fantasizing about violence, dialogue-heavy, dysfunctional family, bad coping mechanisms, anger issues, attempted assault (thwarted), violence, emotional breakdown
> 
> This chapter starts out pretty politics-heavy--it had to happen at some point--and ends a bit more angsty than I had originally intended. There is an attempted assault followed by physical violence against the perp, so please read responsibly <3
> 
> Maedhros = Maitimo = Nelyafinwë = Nelyo = Russandol  
> Maglor = Makalaurë = Kanafinwë = Káno  
> Celegorm = Tyelkormo = Tyelko = Turkafinwë = Turko  
> Caranthir = Carnistir = Morifinwë = Moryo  
> Curufin = Atarinkë = Curufinwë = Curvo  
> Amrod = Ambarussa = Pityafinwë = Pityo = Minyarussa  
> Amras = Umbarto = Telufinwë = Telvo = Atyarussa  
> Finarfin = Arafinwë  
> Finrod = Artafindë  
> Aredhel = Írissë  
> Egalmoth = Aikambalotsë

_Menelya, 59 Lairë (11 July)_

\---

Truth be told, Kanafinwë might have volunteered to deal with the mess that was Court in place of his older brother, but that did not mean he derived any real pleasure from being forced through hoops and knots of pleasantries and small talk for hours on end while Nelyafinwë and Istelindë were hiding in their guest rooms doing who knew what in peace, unbothered.

Well, he was fairly certain he _did_ know what—as did most other people with common sense—and knowing was… surprisingly not as painful as he had expected.

He wondered what the man chitchatting him up would think if he knew that Kanafinwë’s mind was currently running off on a wild tangent, wondering if his brother and sister-in-law were holed up in their rooms making love at this very moment. Probably, he would be inclined to believe the worst possible scenario—one already presented on the night of Midsummer by that drunken imbecile who had decided to unwisely run his mouth in public—that all the brothers participated in such acts with their sister-in-law.

To the best of his knowledge, none of the others had had even an inkling of an interest in such pursuits. Even he, himself, seeing how _good_ Istelindë was for his brother and how _happy_ they were together, found his infatuation slowly fading.

Not that his enchantment was entirely diminished. There was still the lick of jealousy that occasionally soured his tongue at seeing her wrapped up in his brother’s arms, or the momentary reverie at glimpsing her in the fading daylight and suddenly thinking that she looked beautiful, like a pearl set in silver. But they were fewer and farther between, slowly tapering away into fondness at the sight of her holding his brother’s hand, into contentedness at seeing her draw laughter to Nelyafinwë’s lips, into relief when his older brother seemed to become more open and affectionate not just to his wife but to his younger brothers as well. When something—some _one_ —Kanafinwë had believed to be lost started to reemerge from the ashes of destruction at long, long last.

He hoped her love and devotion towards Nelyafinwë was enough to help his older brother with this newest trial. His mind was inevitably distracted not by thoughts of Istelindë in situations a brother-in-law should not be imagining his sister-in-law in, but rather with worry that Nelyafinwë might be fencing himself off from his wife, that she was unable to reach the stubborn, pig-headed man, and with hope that they really _were_ just spending the morning being happily _together_ and not something more disconsolate or sinister.

“My Prince?” the man in front of him called, interrupting the spiraling cascade of thoughts with a diffident voice.

Kanafinwë shook his head. “Just a momentary distraction, meldo.”

Whether the man believed that excuse or not became swiftly irrelevant. Because, at that moment, Uncle Arafinwë chose to approach. The King was resplendent and eye-catching as always, with his eldest son on one side, Artafindë looking rather strained and fatigued beneath his blithe smile and sparkling blue eyes, and the enemy on the other, green-eyed with a perfect mask of anxiously worried father.

Kanafinwë would have dearly liked to carve that face off Hendumaika. It would have been a long, bloody, messy affair full of screaming and pleading for mercy, and it would have been wholly satisfying.

Instead, he offered his best smile, though it made his spirit burn. “Greetings, your Majesty.”

“Nephew,” Arafinwë answered, reaching out to embrace his half-brother’s second-born without hesitation, as though they had not met in private just that morning, “It gladdens my heart to see you again! Though, I would that the tidings which have drawn you here were less grim.”

Silvery eyes flickered momentarily in the direction of the Head of the House of Helyanwë, unblinking and mercurial, and he wondered at his uncle’s tiny flinch when they swirled back around to stare into sapphire blue. “I would that they were as well. Alas, I think it is rather important to clear up these matters as quickly as possible. Do you not agree?”

Naturally, even as his words faded, the entirety of Court was watching and waiting for the King’s reply, quiet enough to hear the ting of a pin upon the tile floor.

“I think,” Arafinwë then said, with his smile widening upon his face, “That we should proceed now that both parties are present. Then we can get this whole matter sorted. What say you do that, meldo? Nephew?” He put a hand on each man’s shoulder, squeezing as if they were all the best of friends.

As if either of them were of status to protest the King’s desires.

“Ah,” Helyanwë finally said, “But what of Prince Nelyafinwë? I do see that the oldest son of Fëanáro is nowhere to be found even at this late afternoon hour. Should he not be here to defend his own family?”

As they walked, Kanafinwë offered the man a smile sharper than any blade, and he hoped that the momentary flash of fear he caught in emerald green _stung._ He hoped the phantom of Fëanáro in his eyes kept the man up at night, sweating and unsettled, with visions of bloodshed. “My dearest sister, Istelindë, is indisposed,” he explained in a sickly-sweet tone. “Anyone would be overwrought, what with how abruptly such accusations have fallen upon her husband and brothers-in-law. Her husband is seeing to her, as a loving and doting spouse ought.”

There was a bit of a murmur, the voices of Court indistinct and curious in the background, whispering and gossiping already. For all that the couple was clearly besotted with one another to Kanafinwë’s gaze—he and his brothers spent many days watching the pair flirting and cuddling and laughing, not to mention sneaking off to copulate at every opportunity, and it was obvious that their marriage was more than a thing of convenience now even had it started as such—to an outsider, it might not be so easy to see or acknowledge that a Fëanárion even _could_ be a loving husband. They were generally considered to be heartless fiends.

In truth, of course, it was more that Istelindë was being a loving and doting wife than the other way around. But they needed not to know such intimate details.

Helyanwë seemed to accept this excuse with narrowed eyes and a thin-lipped smile. After all, who was he to refute those words, no matter how suspicious he clearly was of the eldest Fëanárion’s conspicuous absence.

Meanwhile, Arafinwë squeezed his shoulder tighter still. “They really are very sweet together, dear Nelyafinwë and Istelindë. Rarely have I seen a young couple more in love!”

Kanafinwë let out a huff and tried not to roll his eyes at the man’s usual antics, trying to lighten the atmosphere with false joviality and overstated fondness. His uncle played the doting older relative well, acting as if Nelyafinwë—and Istelindë, for that matter—were truly anything remotely resembling “young” even by Eldarin standards.

The hand on his shoulder patted gently then, and he almost looked over at the King in surprise. It was strange how the reassuring touch made him feel better, how the presence at his shoulder left him feeling grounded. Unspoken support—kind eyes silently speaking kind words—was not something he was generally accustomed to having or expecting in times of strife.

For once, though, his extended family—the line of Indis—was on his side. What an alien world this had become.

Like water about stone, the crowd parted to allow the King and his guests through. For the first time, as he ascended the steps to sit in the ostentatious throne of the King of the Noldor, Arafinwë managed to look every inch a man of regal bearing and breeding, like a transcendent being of wisdom with a slender crown of sapphire and his deep blue robes flowing about his feet. Seating himself with a flourish, the King looked down upon his people and left them all feeling small. Quietly did Eärwen sit at his side, all silver and white with her face caught in a stoic mask, and Artafindë made himself home at his father’s other side, blue eyes unblinking and flat smile far more strained than his father’s own seemingly unbothered expression.

“Now, meldor,” the King said, voice carrying throughout the whole room and ringing up unto the golden eaves overhead, “Bring your complaints and your defense before my eyes.”

Immediately, Helyanwë stepped forward, robes swishing dramatically about his legs as he raised his hands and lifted his chin. “It pains me to lay such accusations as I have, your Majesty, but I felt there was no other choice in the matter! I could not believe that my daughter, who has lived in my house contentedly for centuries since her husband’s departure, would willingly _run away from home_ like an airheaded adolescent girl. Quickly did I come to the conclusion that she might have been, shall we say, forcibly departed.”

More murmurs spread about the room. Kanafinwë, for his part, thought the whole thing sounded flimsy at best. Besides the fact that he doubted Lindalórë had been living in anything even remotely resembling _contentedness_ since the departure of her husband and son into Exile, running away from home seemed exactly like something the headstrong and stubborn woman would do at the drop of a hat.

After all, they _were_ speaking of a close personal friend of Írissë Anairwen.

And then there was the matter of motivation of the apparent perpetrators.

“And for what reason, might I ask, would any of my brothers—beyond Curufinwë—have any interest in _abducting_ Lady Lindalórë?” Kanafinwë asked, calm and steady. As much as he would have liked to be harsh and sharp with the man to match the roiling in his chest, growling out his fury at such accusations being laid by Helyanwë and being accepted by the Court with frightening ease, he instead kept his voice low and crooning, a melodic counterpart to the raucous loudness of his foe. And, with the sound of his voice layered in hints of Power, he watched as the people nearest by almost melted at the sound, their eyes glazing over as they fell to the spell in his words.

“I am quite certain that an alliance with such an influential House is nothing but a boon to the House of Fëanáro,” commented the Lord lightly, and his mouth twitched in displeasure. He would have noticed the effect Kanafinwë’s voice had on their observers, for he must have had to resist its call of his own accord.

At those words, the second-born could do nothing but scoff faintly in barely disguised disgust. “Our family has never needed to rely upon the reputation of others to get by,” he responded. “Truth be told, I should think that you do not have a reason for which we would do such a thing because there _is_ no reason we would do such a thing, and certainly not one so flimsy as desperation to maintain an alliance we have lived without for centuries.”

“And you would not do it for your brother?” Helyanwë asked, taking a different approach then. “You would not do it for the sake of his happiness?”

 _I would have,_ Kanafinwë silently admitted. There were few things he would _not_ do for the sake of his baby brothers. By the Void, he had _murdered children_ for the sake of his younger brothers! Razed cities! Gone to war! Kidnapping a reluctant woman would hardly reach the top of the list of despicable acts under his name!

But he had not done so. And neither had any of the others. The accusations were, therefore, entirely unappreciated.

“Do you think us so sentimental?” he asked quietly, seemingly unruffled even though his blood was boiling in his veins. “In one breath you cast us as irredeemable monsters, and the next you decide we are willing to go to such lengths out of brotherly loyalty and love.”

“It was you who stated yourself that your brother is hiding away from the public _consoling his dear wife._ Those hardly seem the actions of a heartless, cold-blooded murderer,” the Lord countered, though his voice was of a harsher make than the gentle and whispery tones of the second-born Fëanárion and seemed to startle some of the onlookers out of their haze. “Besides that, there are some who are not quite convinced that the sudden disappearance and subsequent marriage of Istelindë of Alqualondë to the ostracized Noldorin Prince Nelyafinwë was not a very calculated political move meant to invite your family back into the Elite social circles, or that the marriage was broached willingly by both parties. What better way to worm your way back in with the decent folk than to acquire a sweet and friendly face to soften your appearance before the public eye, to force an innocent woman into a life married to a callous murderer for your own gain?”

It was desperately offensive. Especially given that the couple loved each other so dearly and so blatantly. Kanafinwë glanced towards his uncle, who was still smiling, though it was beginning to look a bit wooden.

“I am not privy to the reasons for my brother’s marriage,” Kanafinwë admitted, “And it remains a private matter between Nelyafinwë and Istelindë. But I have no doubt that they love one another dearly, no matter what their motives for sudden marriage might have been.”

“Do you really expect us to believe—?”

“Enough of that,” Arafinwë interrupted quietly, leading to both men looking up into his watching gaze. “We are not here to debate Nelyafinwë’s marriage in his absence. I have spoken to Istelindë on the matter already, and we are getting off-topic besides. Do you have any _evidence_ of my nephews committing the act of abduction of your daughter, or do you not, Lord Hendumaika?”

The scolding was faint, but Kanafinwë was happy for the interruption. His temper was already growing thin with the prevaricating.

“Not as such,” Helyanwë forced out, “But they were suspiciously _present_ on the day of her disappearance. Curufinwë himself might not have been in Tirion, but there were several others unaccounted for.”

Blue eyes shifted back to Kanafinwë. “Well, nephew, should I be concerned?”

“Nelyafinwë has not visited Tirion since Midsummer. My only visit was a mere two days ago on business, and it was I who brought back the ill news of these accusations to my family. I give humble commentary on vocal performances over at the School of Music, which was my only reason for trudging through the rain and mud all the way to the city. Turkafinwë’s whereabouts are unknown, even to us, and—”

“What do you mean, unknown?” Helyanwë interrupted.

Sourly, Kanafinwë looked over at the Lord and thought about how, if his younger brother, the impetuous and crazed third son, had just _stayed put this one damned time_ then he would not be here, explaining that his family habitually _lost_ one of their number. It looked awful and sounded ridiculous. And it took all his effort not to hiss through his clenched teeth, instead sending the man a thin smile when he saw a glimmer of dark pleasure looking back from vibrant green.

“Turkafinwë is a free spirit. He often wanders off on his own for days on end. It has been a habit of his since childhood.”

“So, you know not where he is?” Several people in the room shifted, and there was the slightest ring of triumph in Helyanwë’s slimy voice. Kanafinwë dearly wished, in that moment, that he could just have reached over and snapped the man’s neck like a twig and been done with the whole matter. Once upon a time, in the midst of war and death and Exile, no one would have so much as _blinked,_ let alone protested.

“No,” he admitted, struggling to keep his voice level through the clench of his jaw, “But I cannot imagine Turkafinwë going out of his way to kidnap his brother’s wife, either. He prefers to be away from people.”

“Perhaps. But he is well known to be closest with Curufinwë. Constant companions, if stories are to be believed,” Helyanwë pointed out sharply, teeth flickering white behind his lips. “Once again, I would ask, would he not have done his brother a _favor_ as such?”

At least at that, Kanafinwë had to laugh, because it was just such a _ridiculous_ statement. And, to his great amusement, the ring of his short burst of laughter had the people in the room further softening, the tension of their suspicion and excitement washing right out of their muscles helplessly at the harmonic sound. “Turkafinwë is the most abrasive, self-centered—pardon my language— _asshole_ that I have ever met. He does not _do favors for anyone,_ least of all his family. If you want a favor from Turkafinwë, you must barter up to and including your very soul to get it, for he does nothing except when it benefits himself or eases his boredom. As our dear Crown Prince would know.”

Indeed, Artafindë’s face went white as a sheet. No doubt, he remembered his own trials with the pair of Fëanárioni well, knew how dangerous the pair could be when one stood as their enemy. Especially the older of the two. A shame that Kanafinwë needed to dredge up so many undoubtedly unpleasant memories for his dear cousin and ally, but…

Well, he was not so softhearted as to feel bad about it. Not truly.

All eyes in the room took in the forbidding expression on their normally smiling and kind-hearted Prince’s face. “I would not dispute Kanafinwë’s point. Turkafinwë—and Curufinwë, for that matter—do nothing if not for their own gain. And I cannot see Turkafinwë gaining anything from such an endeavor except, perhaps, amusement in watching us all run about like headless chickens as we search in vain. As he is not here to witness the spectacle, I rather think he would not have bothered.”

“But you cannot rule it out,” Helyanwë insisted. “He could be doing it to get into Curufinwë’s favor, or to use to call in a debt at a later date.”

Again, Kanafinwë scoffed. “I would agree that Turkafinwë would never do something purely for the gain of someone not himself, but Curufinwë is another matter entirely. No bribery is needed to motivate him into helping his brothers. Especially the favored third. Turkafinwë already has Curufinwë’s loyalty without such manipulation.”

Skeptical eyes stared from all directions, but Kanafinwë refused to back down in his stance, no matter how strange his claims might sound to those who knew naught about his brothers. Rather he would that the public did not smear the name of the fifth brother who, though his methods might be cruel in teaching, often went out of his way to look after and protect his siblings. Curufinwë would—and had—caused trouble for himself out of no other motive than helping Turkafinwë win over Írissë’s family and secure her affections, and he had done so unasked and for no reason other than that he wanted his older brother happy.

 _What a romantic he truly is beneath all that bright-eyed bluster and scorn,_ Kanafinwë could not help but think, wryly fond through his own dislike.

“Does that not strike you as a bit biased?” the Lord asked then, mouth curled into a scoff. “Perhaps you see your brothers through a bit of a rosy tint?”

“Do not make me laugh,” Kanafinwë responded, crossing his arms and fixing the man with a haughty stare. “I may love my brothers—even the most onerous and obnoxious of the lot—but I am far from blind to their faults. Who do you think they practice their sharp tongues and callous ways upon but for their own siblings? Loving my family does not require that I always, or ever, like them, nor that I find no fault in their behavior or character.”

“So, you admit, then, that they _could_ be capable,” Helyanwë insisted.

“We are not here for _could be,”_ Arafinwë interrupted once again, voice taking on a forbidding tone. “Turkafinwë has not been seen for how long, Kanafinwë?”

“Not for two weeks at least,” the second-born admitted with a sigh. “It is not nearly the longest period of time he has vanished, but longer than usual.”

“And the rest of you?” the King pressed on.

“Morifinwë _was_ in Tirion for much of the past days,” Kanafinwë continued on, “But he was staying at an inn and making daily visits to the household of the Crown Prince. He has been courting a woman from Valmar, a Lady of Ingwë’s Court, and has been seeking advice in their ways from Lady Amarië. He departed to see the object of his affections the day after Lindalórë’s purported abduction and remains in Valmar. I sincerely doubt he was hiding her under his tunic on his way there. Besides, he departed midmorning in broad daylight, and someone would have seen anything suspicious and reported it thusly.”

Green eyes blinked at him, lashes lowered. “He could have assisted in her abduction the night before. Or passed her on to someone else.”

“Or he could have had nothing at all to do with the matter!” Kanafinwë felt his temper snap just a touch. “Morifinwë—”

“He was not involved.” This was spoken not by the Crown Prince but by his bride. Amarië was not at her husband’s side, but lingering nearby to the throne, wrapped in shimmering white, loose and flowing around her slender form and decorated with iridescent green and blue designs to complement the emerald and sapphire set about her throat. “Morifinwë stayed in our house as a guest that night.”

All eyes were upon her and upon her husband, who coughed delicately into his fist. “Indeed, he was our guest.” The admission was not so grudgingly made as Kanafinwë would have thought. In fact, both husband and wife seemed rather pointed in their words, as though they took offense on Morifinwë’s behalf at the accusations being put forward. It was rather novel, and the second-born felt his own curiosity burgeoning, that members of the House of Arafinwë other than the King would come to his brother’s aid willingly without being asked or bribed. 

But that curiosity would have to be saved for another time.

“He could have snuck out and come back,” Helyanwë insisted, “Or—”

“He did not,” Artafindë interrupted, thoroughly slicing through that round of hypothesizing. “I watched him closely. One does not take Kinslayers into their home lightly, but he did no harm the whole night, nor did he depart and return.”

The barest moment of frustration crossed Helyanwë’s face. Clearly, the man had not expected any of the brothers to have such a solid alibi as _staying in the household of the Crown Prince_ for the night of this supposed abduction. No one dared to question Artafindë, most courtiers balking in the face of the man’s reputation as a just, honorable and honest sovereign. Personally, Kanafinwë thought that Artafindë’s reputation was a bit overblown by all the ridiculous legends and stories in which he featured, but the Fëanárion kept his opinions about the matter to himself, biting his tongue.

“If that is so, then what of the last three?” Arafinwë asked.

Kanafinwë parted his lips to continue speaking only to find himself interrupted.

“I can confirm that Curufinwë Fëanárion was—and still is—far from Tirion at the time of these happenings.” Another person stepped forward, and Kanafinwë was pleased to see that the Lord of the House of Helyanwë’s lips thinned until they almost disappeared when _his own son_ stepped forward to give testimony _against_ his accusations. Indeed, Aikambalotsë’s face was set in stone, jaw locked and eyes staring straight up at the King and not at his displeased father. “I would also like to add that we—being myself, Curufinwë and the Nolofinwioni currently in search of Írissë of the House of Finwë—are almost certain that Turkafinwë is with her and has been, for some time, helping her evade us.”

It was a bold statement to make. Not one that would do any favors for Írissë’s reputation. But, then, if the woman had been worried about her reputation, she might have taken more care to keep her original affair secret, Kanafinwë thought with a touch of bitterness.

If Arafinwë was bothered by his niece’s dirty laundry being aired in a public forum as such, he pretended otherwise, though his wife’s gaze momentarily darkened into a glare as she looked down her nose at Aikambalotsë Helyanwen. “And what of the last two?” the King asked, moving on from that moment of awkward discomfort. “The twins?”

“Telufinwë had not been to Tirion anytime around when Lindalórë disappeared,” Kanafinwë said, voice cool and low and calm, sweeping through the agitated crowd—still muttering about Írissë and her lover with greedy looks in their eyes, hungry for scandal—and soothing them back into silence. “Pityafinwë accompanied Istelindë to Tirion that day, but they left the city well in advance of night.”

“They could have smuggled her out,” Helyanwë then accused.

“There would have been dozens of witnesses in the city. Someone would have seen them dragging her kicking and screaming down the street in broad daylight and stepped forward.” 

“He could just as easily have had Lady Istelindë wait outside the city until nightfall and gone back to take Lindalórë,” the older man argued, hands gesticulating sharply through the air, alive with his irritation at the way the debate was progressing.

It took everything Kanafinwë had not to sneer down his nose at the man now desperately grabbing at any potential scenario he could concoct to pass blame for his daughter’s disappearance onto the Fëanárioni. “They arrived home in advance of nightfall,” he answered softly instead, “So that would be rather impossible, think you not?”

“And we have no one’s word but yours to confirm that.” Helyanwë _did_ sneer, his visage turning ugly and harsh. “You could just as easily be lying and none of us could confirm or deny your account.”

The murmurs about the room grew in volume. And, for his part, the second son bit back the urge to snarl out his offense. The House of Fëanáro was many things, but it had never been populated with liars. Would that he could take up a blade and cut out Helyanwë’s tongue for such a slight! Certainly, were his father still around, Fëanáro would have threatened much worse for the maligning of his name!

Instead, Kanafinwë first gave the Lord an arch look, not dignifying the newest accusation with a response, and then turned to the King. “Your Majesty, I would maintain that none of my brothers—or myself—was in any position to abduct _anyone_ that night, and these accusations are merely a coward’s way out of admitting that the line of Helyanwë is struggling with internal strife that caused Lady Lindalórë to flee from her family.”

“That is ridiculous! Our family has been perfectly harmonious up until Curufinwë Fëanárion decided to show his face again!” Indeed, Helyanwë was not pleased at all with the questioning being turned back upon his own family, seemingly outraged that someone might suggest something so mundane and unacceptable as internal strife within his House.

“Atar,” Aikambalotsë interrupted, drawing all eyes again and silencing his father’s protests. “Enough. Enough is enough.”

Everyone went quiet. Onlookers and combatants alike.

Kanafinwë looked on in surprise as the younger Helyanwë put a stop to the arguing. Even Arafinwë raised a brow, the only sign of surprise on his features. Helyanwë did not seem to happy with his son’s intervention, fury flashing across his eyes and his face, breaking through the worried façade.

_Clearly, the House of Helyanwë is not so united as Hendumaika would like for the people of Court to believe. And Aikambalotsë wants to make it clear that he and his father are not standing shoulder to shoulder in the matter._

It was bold and dangerous. Kanafinwë would never have suggested something so blatant. Not that he had been asked for his opinion.

“Is there a problem, Aikambalotsë?” Arafinwë asked calmly.

“No,” the younger Helyanwë said, voice low and steady but face hard and eyes flashing with his own lightning fast rage. “No. I simply do not believe in casting blame without evidence, and we have nothing but speculation.”

Slowly, Kanafinwë let out a long breath. Around him, he could sense the disappointment of the Court at such an anticlimactic ending to the unfolding drama, but he was glad for it all the same. Now, Helyanwë was not going to continue his argument, not unless he wanted the entirety of the Court to witness the discord within his family, the existence of which he had vehemently denied. Even Hendumaika would not go ahead and start an argument with his oldest child in front of so many witnesses. Bad enough that they were already having a solemn staring match whilst standing attendant at the foot of the King’s throne.

“Well, Hendumaika, meldo, have you anything more to add?” Arafinwë asked after allowing a few long moments of silence.

Both pairs of identical green eyes turned to look upon the King. “I should think not,” the older Helyanwë answered. “It is as Aikambalotsë has said. We have but speculation. No evidence and no witnesses.”

The King upon his throne let out a long sigh, shoulders rounding. Suddenly, it was no longer a distant star of a sovereign sitting over their heads passing judgment, but a normal man, no more or less spectacular than any other. At that, the tension fully drained from Kanafinwë’s shoulders, for he knew the official questioning was over and done with. “Meldo,” the King said, “I know this must be difficult—to worry about one’s child is a pain that many here understand well enough, my wife and I included—but pointing fingers and casting blame where it is not due is not the answer to your suffering.”

The statement was meant to be a reassurance, and Kanafinwë felt his breath catch at how _genuine_ those words seemed leaving his uncle’s lips when the entire family knew that Hendumaika was as far from a worried father as a man could be. A heartless traitor to his own kin, more like. But never would anyone have guessed that Arafinwë had any clue given the way he smiled with benevolence down upon his enemy.

“Of course. Your words are wise, your Majesty,” Helyanwë agreed, though Kanafinwë could see that his jaw was tightly clenched beneath his softening expression, showcasing just the barest hint of frustration to those looking just a bit too close. “Forgive me. As you know, a man is never in his best state of mind when his family is in jeopardy.”

“No, I would not imagine he would be,” Arafinwë soothed. “Please, meldo, let us put these accusations behind us such that we can work together to find a solution. I am certain that my nephews would be willing to cooperate in the search for Lady Lindalórë.”

“Naturally, we would be happy to assist,” Kanafinwë offered, voice almost purring. “Our family would be willing to offer our services in searching for—”

“No.”

Head snapping around, Kanafinwë met blazing green eyes. Not those belonging to the father, but those belonging to the son. They stared him down, burning and wild. Enough so that the second brother felt his breath catch in his lungs, hitched hard.

“I do not want any of you anywhere near to my sister. You bring nothing but pain and misfortune down upon all you touch.”

It was spat, like fire and poison, from Aikambalotsë’s lips. The look on his face… The look in his eyes… Kanafinwë had seen it a thousand times before. Staring out at him from the faces of dying strangers. Staring out at him from broken mirrors and shining silver eyes. If anything could kill his voice, suck the air straight from his lungs and leave him gasping, it was _that look_ in those verdant eyes.

“We will stay away if that is what you wish,” the second-born brother replied. “We have no desire to cause any trouble or pain. For you or for your sister. But she is one of us—a Fëanáriel, part of our family—and our help is still freely offered. All you need do is say the word.”

“Well, I will not have to,” Aikambalotsë snarled out.

“Now, now, that is quite enough,” the King intervened, holding up his hands, as though by doing so he might conjure a wall between the enemy lines to hold their hissing and snarling at bay. “I think that is enough for tonight, do you all not agree? Let us all convene later as friends. Or, at the very least, allies.”

“I will not ally with _them,”_ the younger Helyanwë hissed out. And then, with little more than a shallow bow in the direction of his King, he departed the room in a hurry, pushing at least three men aside with his shoulder along the way.

There was just the barest hint of exasperation upon Arafinwë’s face as he watched his loyal subject depart in a flurry of anger and hurt. “Grief makes strangers of us all,” the King said magnanimously. “I feel the need to retire now after all this fuss. Today has been long and difficult for all involved.”

As though anyone was going to try and stop him. Standing, Arafinwë held out a hand to his wife to lift her from her chair and then swept down from his perch as two magnificent glowing beings in gold and silver. Lingering behind was their eldest son, who went to his wife rather than following his retreating parents.

As he passed, Arafinwë laid a hand upon Kanafinwë’s shoulder. “Come along, nephew. I want a word with you in private.”

“I live to serve,” the second-born replied flatly, the lyrical cadence fleeing from his voice so suddenly that many nearby people started with surprise at hearing his true voice after being so lulled by just a whisper of Power in his tone. With a last glance back at Artafindë, now wrapping his arms tightly around his glorious golden wife and clinging as though he desired to never let her go, the Fëanárion trailed after his aunt and uncle.

Relieved to be away from the watching eyes and wagging tongues of courtiers, Kanafinwë breathed out a long sigh as soon as they were out in the halls. The staring eyes of so many onlookers would always be unsettling to his warrior’s instincts.

Except, he still felt it. Someone staring.

It was only then, out of the corner of his eye, that he saw a glimpse of someone at the end of the hall. Green eyes, burning and fiery, bored straight through him, spear-like and hot upon his skin.

But not maliciously. There was anger there, even hatred, but not directed towards the Fëanárion who had paused midstride and stood now frozen in the center of the hall. Aikambalotsë Helyanwen merely inclined his head cordially and ducked away.

Leaving Kanafinwë in the hall, falling behind his aunt and uncle who had not even noticed their unexpected guest, wondering exactly what was really going on within the House of Helyanwë.

Hopefully, he was about to get some answers.

Without saying anything, he followed the King and Queen in the opposite direction.

\---

 _Quite a show,_ Arafinwë could not help but think as he collapsed at his desk, drained after playing the benevolent and unbiased ruler pretending he had no idea what sort of evil happenings were ongoing under his very nose. His nephew sat gingerly across from him and waited in silence.

The King sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose.

Normally, he would not allow such a loss of decorum, especially before the eyes of a Fëanárion—he had enough experience with Fëanáro’s particular tendency to take advantage of weaknesses to know better—but he could not bring himself to care at the moment. Dealing with this whole mess for days on end was doing nothing to quell the constant headache now pounding at the back of his skull, nor the anxious twitching that besieged his muscles. This, on top of all the other preparations crowding his mind. In less than a week they would be having a visit from the Crown Prince of the Teleri—he would have to ask Istelindë if she wished to be present for that or if she wished to be excused to avoid interaction with her estranged family—and then there was but a few weeks until the next Festival, and preparations for that were already slower than he would have liked, and—

“Uncle Arafinwë?”

He sighed again, shoving all those crowding thoughts away. When he looked up at his nephew’s somber face, he felt old and tired. It was a feeling he had not tasted for many centuries. Not since the first tenuous years of his kingship when he had been new to his position and things had felt terribly uncertain in the wake of the Darkening and what horrors had followed.

“I was not expecting things to go so smoothly,” he commented. “Aikambalotsë made no mention to anyone of interfering in the matter at hand so publicly.”

“So, that was not planned, then?” Kanafinwë’s eyes narrowed.

“No.” Arafinwë’s lips thinned. It was not so much that he minded the assistance—having the heir to the House of Helyanwë on their side, as his eldest had reported to him, was a boon for certain—but unpredictability was not something that Arafinwë favored in his allies or his plans. His preference was to leave impetuousness and recklessness to his older brothers and keep all the levelheadedness and careful planning for himself.

“Is he truly so upset with us?” his nephew then asked, voice taking on an odd undertone of curiosity rather than worry. “Will he interfere when we attempt to have Lindalórë removed from the city.”

“No, I do not believe he will try to prevent Lindalórë from fleeing to the protection of your family. Though, it was quite the convincing little tirade. I imagine he may have done it to throw off suspicion, though he does seem quite upset...” If anything, Aikambalotsë was likely upset with _everything_ about this situation, and who could blame him for that? “But you are here to cement plans for Lindalórë’s escape, not to hear about family drama and personal grudges.”

Kanafinwë met his eyes, blue to silvery-white. “That is so.”

“Let us get started, then,” the King said. And he was certain that Kanafinwë could hear the fatigue in his voice.

The second son of Fëanáro offered him a sympathetic look. All liquid silver eyes and soft lines about the mouth. It was oddly disorienting given the passing similarity between Kanafinwë’s features and his father’s visage.

_Well, that is certainly not an expression I have ever seen Fëanáro wear._

It left him feeling odd. A little discomfited and a little pleased. Who would have ever thought to see a Fëanárion commiserating with a son of Indis?

What a strange afternoon this was turning out to be.

\---

“What was the meaning of that nonsense in the throne room? What in the name of the Valar has come over you, yondo?”

The very moment that his father stepped through the door to the small study, walking in upon Aikambalotsë with a glass of liquor in hand and a dark look upon his face as he gazed into the hearth-fire, the older man set into the younger with all haste. Looking over Hendumaika’s features, uncharacteristically harsh with his outrage at having his own son publicly break ranks and negate his words, the son felt nothing more or less than vindictive and petty pleasure.

_Good. He deserves to have his feathers ruffled, to know that things will not go his way without a fight._

It came to his mind that, perhaps, he had acted a little rashly in the midst of his frustration. In his mind’s eye, he had planned to play the part of the dutiful son for just a little while longer, trying to minimize suspicion upon his own person for as long as he might manage whilst weaving together a net with which to capture his sire quietly in the background of the political disruption. But, seeing his father’s falsely contrite face as he acted the concerned parent before all those eyes… Seeing him pretend to care about his daughter and her wellbeing when he had allowed—even encouraged—her harm… Seeing him outright deny what had happened within the family’s mansions that night…

Thinking of Lindalórë and how exhausted and shocked and grieved she appeared the last time they had spoken… Thinking of Yavannië and Míriel crying when they were told that they could leave and never return to the house where they had been tormented…

What Hendumaika and Calmacil had done was unforgivable, and Aikambalotsë had not been able to sit still and listen to the lies hiss sibilantly between his father’s teeth for even a moment longer! It was not just the simple denial that anything had happened, the simple denial of involvement in the matter, but to try to then foist the blame off unto an innocent party—for, in this matter at least, the Fëanárioni _were_ innocent—only stoked the fire in Aikambalotsë’s blood until he could hold his tongue no longer.

Stepping in was probably foolish. But it was too late to back down now. In snarling insults upon the Fëanárion and his kin, Aikambalotsë might have negated some of the damage, made it look to watchers as though he were no more pleased with his brother-in-law’s family than he was with his father. However, it would be clear now to his father that he was not about to fall obediently in line and let things unfold as the older man had planned.

Unpredictability. Probably Hendumaika’s least favorite trait in a person. Probably the reason that he most despised his own son.

“We had a plan! Straightforward and simple! Do you know what you have done?” For once, his father’s voice was raised as he stalked forward, as he crowded into his son’s personal space and spat out his fury in Aikambalotsë’s smirking face. “Weeks of work are set back! And, now, your ridiculous sister will have her husband’s family to run to and hide with!”

Aikambalotsë scoffed. “I certainly do not plan to let _you_ have her. It has become increasingly clear that you cannot be trusted with her.”

For the first time in his life, Aikambalotsë was struck by his own parent. It was almost a shock to feel the sting of it across his cheek. Barely hard enough was it to force his head to turn, but he still knew that his pale skin would bear a red print within the hour, and perhaps even a bruise on the morrow.

Mutinously, he turned to glare back into infuriated green eyes. And he absolutely refused to let the spiteful smile, small and taunting, fade from his lips.

“I am the Head of this House,” his father snarled, “And you _owe me_ your obedience.”

“I owe you nothing,” Aikambalotsë snapped out. “You have proven yourself incompetent, incapable of handling your own duties to this House and to your family as a responsible Lord ought to do. I have no respect for a man who sees to nothing and no one above himself and his own avarice.”

The second slap he saw coming well in advance, and he grabbed his father’s wrist to halt the blow before it struck his throbbing cheek. Holding the delicate joint firmly within his hand, he resisted the urge to squeeze until it popped and then twist the dislocated limb until the man shrieked in agony. He had done it before on the field of battle, done it so easily that the motion would be second nature, unfolding in an instant, the perpetrator so accustomed to the feeling of his prey’s body jolting and shuddering in pain that he would not even flinch at the cracking noise of bone popping out or the sound of screaming in his ears.

 _Tempting as physical violence is,_ he thought, _there is greater humiliation to be passed upon this man than physical harm._

Roughly, seething with his own impatience and frustration, he tossed the hand aside. “I will make sure that you—and anyone else who means her harm—stays far, far away from my sister. Even if I have to spill blood to make it so. That much I can promise you, Atar.”

“You would threaten me with violence?” the older man asked at Aikambalotsë’s back as the younger man abandoned his half-finished drink and made for the door. “Think you that you could get away with such a thing as Kinslaying in these hallowed lands? That you would not be thrown from the gates of the Pelóri to starve?”

“If I were,” Aikambalotsë said without turning around, though he paused with the wood of the doorframe beneath his palm, smooth and cool, “At least my sister would be out of your reach.”

“You never used to be so sentimental,” his father said then, voice mocking. “Caring about your sister. Caring about a couple of worthless servants. What has become of you, that you would choose them over your own father, over your own birthright and wealth? What happened to the son I raised?”

“He learned his lesson,” Aikambalotsë said, thinking of the long years of Exile. Of the people who had looked to him for guidance and protection in the darkest days when the future was a dire, endless battleground with no hope for salvation or rescue in sight. Those people were the very same that he had later watched slaughtered, splayed across the grass in a rain of blood and entrails at his feet, destroyed by his own arrogance when they had trusted him with their very lives. “He learned his lesson, and he grew up.”

 _As you clearly never did,_ he could not help but think.

“If anything, you have become more childish,” the older man replied, and his voice shuddered over Aikambalotsë’s skin like cold slime. The taunt did not even get beneath his skin for how petulant it sounded to his ears.

“If anything, I have learned to look beyond myself,” he answered, “As you clearly never have and clearly never will.”

With that, he pushed past the door and slammed it in his wake.

Not willing to wait around for his father to stumble out into the hall raining obscenities and insults upon his person, he set off instead for his own chambers. From this point on, he supposed he would have to take more care about keeping his rooms locked at all times. Sleeping with the same lightness as he did in those long days upon the road between Ondolindë and the sea would be a hassle, but he needed to rouse at even the lightest tread upon his floorboards, for he would not put it past his father—or his father’s lackey, rather—to come for him in the dead of night.

 _I almost wish they would,_ he thought viciously through the sting of hurt arching through his chest. A sting he wished he did not feel. Movements harsh and quick, he ascended the stairs two and a time. _Then I would have an excuse to take my sword to their guts._

It was only as he reached the top of the stairs that he heard it. A soft sound, like a voice but muffled, coming from nearby. He followed the faint noise further into the darkness, to a seemingly inconspicuous door that led to nowhere but a small storage space used by the help.

_The… the cleaning closet…?_

Three more steps and he slammed the door open, half expecting (and dreading) that which lay in wait on the other side and half wishing (desperately) that he could be anywhere else but here, in any situation other than this, with any life other than his own.

Because Víressë was on the other side of the door, hand over her mouth as the man at her back tried to keep her quiet and still where she was trapped within the vice grip of his arms. And all Aikambalotsë could think of was the knife hidden in his sleeve and how the man’s overly ostentatious tunic covered in too much gold and too many gems would be forever stained with blood if he drew it and slashed across the bastard’s throat.

Before he could stop to think of consequences and repercussions, the blade was in his hand and at the man’s throat as a silent threat. Víressë was crying against the wall of the small storage closet, clothes and hair in disarray for reasons Aikambalotsë wished he did not know, and Calmacil was dragged by his hair towards the stairs, blubbering and limp with the threat of death hovering about his jugular.

Maybe, Aikambalotsë thought viciously, he should cast the man down over the balcony to die upon the foyer tile below. Bathe the marble in the man’s red, red blood.

Breath caught in his afunctional lungs, he could not comprehend the words that the piece of shit shouted at him in blind panic. Only that the man struggled pathetically in his grip, eyes wide—so, so wide and ringed with bright, bright white—in terror more than outrage. When he reached the top of the stairs, he was fully prepared, heart pounding beneath his ribs, to cast his enemy down the steps in the hopes of broken bones and death on the marble below.

A hand stopped him. Small and slender. Both so breakable and unbreakable.

All was still. His knife rested motionless at Calmacil’s throat, though his prey was nearly collapsed limply onto the floor like an animal playing dead before the gaze of its killer in the hopes of going unnoticed. Turning his head, he saw first Víressë, still down the hall, watching and looking entirely terrified of the events unfolding before her eyes.

And then he saw his mother. Right beside him. Watching with her blank face.

“Release him, yondonya,” she told him quietly. Her hand on his arm squeezed.

“He deserves it,” Aikambalotsë hissed out, looking back down at the shivering coward held still beneath the threat of his knife. Seeing the lines of sweat in fabric, the shimmer of tears on ruddy cheeks, the shake of knees that had gone weak. “I will not have him doing whatever he pleases in this house. Not for a moment longer!”

“Then send him away,” she soothed. “But he is not worth the consequences of painting your hands in the blood of kin.”

It was upon the tip of his tongue to argue. His muscles shivered and groaned with the desire to see this man suffering, be it with crushed bones at the bottom of a flight of stairs or slit open from throat to groin beneath his blade. He was so very close to making certain that Calmacil never touched anyone ever again.

But, then, he looked down to the bottom of the stairs, to the foyer below. And his father was staring back from the shadows, waiting for him to make a foolhardy move.

With a deep breath, he pulled back from the killing blow. Such a thing he dared not perform with witnesses, not now that his mind had somewhat cleared from the red haze of rage. “Get thee gone,” he hissed instead, shoving the man down onto the carpeted floor at the top of the stairs. “I wish not to see your disgusting face again.”

“I think such an order is not yours to make,” the rat commented, gaining back some of his bravado now that his neck was no longer beneath a knife.

Idiotic of him, really, to think that the loss of the imminent threat of death made him safe.

Aikambalotsë replied to the small bit of backtalk by punching said rat in the face. The sound of flesh upon flesh, the crack beneath his knuckles as he hit the nose on point, was momentarily satisfying. Pain shot through his hand, leaving it aching in the aftermath, as his victim was knocked back onto his ass on the floor just a little too close to the stairs for comfort.

Calmacil, perhaps showcasing the little bit of sense he possessed, scrambled down the steps and out of reach, only pausing when he had Hendumaika between him and the obviously homicidal Aikambalotsë. “My Lord?”

Even then, even after being physically attacked and threatened with death, he was waiting for the Lord of the House to confirm or deny the order to retreat, thinking himself safe so long as his big, bad ally was between him and potential retaliation for his heinous crimes. Aikambalotsë gritted his teeth as the hate flared and corroded at his remaining control.

Truly, Calmacil was lucky that he was already out of reach.

“Go,” Hendumaika confirmed. “Perhaps it is for the best that we give my son some time to cool his temper.”

The man’s voice was flat and unforgiving. For a long moment, Calmacil looked as though he might protest, outraged at Hendumaika taking his son’s side. But then thought better of it and merely wiped at the blood dripping from his nose, shooting one last acidic glare in the direction of Aikambalotsë and the two women at the top of the staircase before bolting out the front door and onto the moonlit street beyond.

Just as soon as the man disappeared, the son tore himself free of his mother’s grasp and stormed away from his father’s staring eyes.

Away from the woman who birthed him. Away from the man who raised him.

Away from all the things in his life which had suddenly spiraled out of control, which had coalesced into chaotic birth. Of the betrayal that made his breath hitch. And the heartache he wished he could erase. And the hatred that burned through it all. And the feeling of overwhelming failure at its core.

He wanted to be alone with it all where no eyes could see him falling apart at the seams.

Without fanfare, he burst through the door to his chambers and slammed the door shut loud enough to startle his own heart into leaping. And then he put his back to the cool wood and slid down to sit like an upset child curled up upon the floor.

He was perfectly alone. Exactly as he desired.

No one was there to see him bury his face against his knees.

No one was there to see him cry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:
> 
> meldo (Q) = friend  
> meldor (Q, p) = friends  
> Anairwen (Q) = daughter of Anairë  
> Fëanárioni (Q, p) = sons of Fëanáro  
> Nolofinwioni (Q, p) = sons of Nolofinwë  
> Atar (Q) = Father  
> Fëanáriel (Q) = daughter of Fëanáro  
> yondo (Q) = son  
> yondonya (Q) = my son  
> Ondolindë (Q) = Gondolin


End file.
